Patrick Rothfuss - The Name of the Wind

“It would be something of a tragedy if it stopped there,” I admitted. “But it depends on how you look at it, really. I prefer to think of it as a story that’s waiting for an appropriately uplifting sequel.”

A carriage trundled by on the road and Lentaren stepped out of the way, incidentally brushing up against Denna as he moved. She took hold of his arm absentmindedly. “I don’t generally go in for serial stories,” she said, her expression momentarily serious and unreadable. Then she shrugged and gave me a hint of a wry smile. “But I’ve certainly changed my mind about these things before. Maybe you’ll convince me otherwise.”

I gestured to the lute case I carried slung over my shoulder. “I still play at Anker’s most nights if you’d like to stop in. . . .”

“I will.” Denna sighed and looked up at Lentaren. “We’re already late, aren’t we?”

He squinted up at the sun and nodded. “We are. But we can still catch them if we hurry.”

She turned back to me. “I’m sorry, we have a riding appointment.”

“I would never dream of keeping you,” I said, graciously stepping to one side, out of their way.

Lentaren and I nodded politely to each other. “I’ll come find you before too long,” she said, turning to face me as they walked past.

“Go on.” I nodded in the direction they’d been heading. “Don’t let me keep you.”

They turned to go. I watched them walk through the cobbled streets of Imre. Together.

Wil and Sim were waiting for me by the time I arrived. They had already claimed a bench with a good view of the fountain in front of the Eolian. Water flared up around statuary nymphs being chased by a satyr.

I laid my lute case down beside the bench and absentmindedly flipped open the lid, thinking my lute might enjoy the feel of a little sun on its strings. If you aren’t a musician, I don’t expect you to understand.

Wil handed me an apple as I took a seat next to them. The wind brushed though the square and I watched the spray from the fountain move like gauzy curtains in the wind. A few red maple leaves danced circles on the cobblestones. I watched them as they skipped and twirled, tracing strange, complicated patterns in the empty air.

“I’m guessing you finally found Denna?” Wilem asked after a while.

I nodded without looking away from the leaves. I didn’t really feel like explaining.

“I can tell because you’re quiet,” he said.

“Didn’t go well?” Sim asked gently.

“Didn’t turn out the way I’d hoped,” I said.

They nodded sagely and there was another moment of silence.

“I was thinking about what you told us,” Wil said. “What your Denna said. There is a hole in her story.”

Sim and I looked at him, curious.

“She said she was looking for her patron,” Wilem pointed out. “She was traveling with you to look for him. But later she said she knew he was safe because he—” Wil hesitated significantly, “—met with her as she was heading back to the burning farm. It does not fit. Why would she hunt for him if she knew he was safe?”

I hadn’t considered that. Before I could think of a response, Simmon shook his head. “She was just making an excuse to spend time with him,” he said as if it were plain as day.

Wilem frowned a little.

Sim looked back and forth between us, plainly surprised he had to explain himself. “It’s obvious she has a thing for you,” he said, and began counting on his fingers. “She finds you at Anker’s. She comes to get you that night at Eolian when we’re drinking. She makes up an excuse to wander around the middle of nowhere with you for a couple of days. . . .”

“Sim,” I said, exasperated. “If she was interested I’d be able to find her more than once in a month of searching.”

“That’s a logical fallacy,” Sim pointed out eagerly. “False cause. All that proves is that you’re lousy at finding her, or that she’s hard to find. Not that she’s not interested.”

“In fact,” Wilem pointed out, taking up Simmon’s side, “since she finds you more often, it seems likely that she must spend a fair amount of time looking for you. You are not easy to track down. That indicates interest.”

I thought about the note she had left me, and for a moment I entertained the thought that Sim might be right. I felt a faint hope flicker in my chest, remembering that night we lay atop the greystone.

Then I remembered that Derma had been delirious out of her mind that night. And I remembered Denna on Lentaren’s arm. I thought of tall, handsome, wealthy Lentaren and all the other countless men who had something worthwhile to offer her. Something more than a good singing voice and manly bravado.

“You know I’m right!” Simmon pushed his hair out of his eyes, laughing boyishly. “You can’t argue your way out of this one! She’s obviously stupid for you. And you’re just plain stupid, so it’s a great match.”

I sighed. “Sim, I’m happy to have her as a friend. She’s a delightful person and I’m glad to spend time with her. That’s all there is.” I forced the proper amount of jovial unconcern into my voice so Sim would take me at my word and drop the subject for the time being.

Sim looked at me for a moment, then shrugged it off. “If that’s the case,” he said, gesturing with his piece of chicken, “Fela talks about you all the time. Thinks you’re a hell of a guy. Plus the whole saving her life thing. I’m pretty sure you have a chance there.”

I shrugged, watching the patterns the wind made in the fountain’s spray.

“You know what we should . . .” Sim stopped midthought, staring past me, his expression going suddenly blank.

I turned to see what he was looking at and saw my lute case, empty. My lute was gone. I looked around wildly, ready to spring to my feet and dash off searching for it. But there was no need—a few feet away stood Ambrose and a few of his friends. He held my lute loosely in one hand.

“Oh, merciful Tehlu,” Simmon muttered behind me. Then at a normal volume he said, “Give it back, Ambrose.”

“Quiet, E’lir,” Ambrose snapped. “This is none of your concern.”

I got to my feet, keeping my eyes on him, on my lute. I had come to think of Ambrose as taller than me, but when I stood I saw that we were eye level with each other. Ambrose seemed a bit surprised as well.

“Give it to me,” I said, and stretched out my hand. I was surprised to see that it wasn’t shaking. I was shaking inside: half fear, half fury.

Two parts of me tried to speak at the same time. The first part cried, Please don’t do anything to it. Not again. Don’t break it. Please give it back. Don’t hold it by the neck like that. The other half of me was chanting, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, like spitting out mouthfuls of blood.

I took a step forward. “Give it to me.” My voice sounded odd to my own ears, emotionless and flat. Flat as my outstretched palm. I had stopped shaking inside.

He paused for a moment, caught unaware by something in my tone. I could sense his unease—I wasn’t acting the way he had expected. Behind me, I could hear Wilem and Simmon hold their breath. Behind Ambrose, his friends paused, suddenly unsure.

Ambrose smiled and cocked an eyebrow. “But I’ve written a song for you, and it needs to be accompanied.” He gripped the lute roughly and dragged his fingers across the strings with no thought for rhythm or tune. People stopped to watch as he sang:

Quite a few passersby had stopped to watch by this point, smiling and laughing at Ambrose’s little show. Encouraged, Ambrose made a sweeping bow.