Patrick Rothfuss - The Name of the Wind

“I just don’t understand what you see in her,” Sim said carefully. “I know she’s charming. Fascinating and all of that. But she seems rather,” he hesitated, “cruel.”

I nodded. “She is.”

Simmon watched me expectantly, finally said, “What? No defense for her?”

“No. Cruel is a good word for her. But I think you are saying cruel and thinking something else. Denna is not wicked, or mean, or spiteful. She is cruel.”

Sim was quiet for a long while before responding. “I think she might be some of those other things, and cruel as well.”

Good, honest, gentle Sim. He could never bring himself to say bad things about another person, just imply them. Even that was hard for him.

He looked up at me. “I talked with Sovoy. He’s still not over her. He really loved her, you know. Treated her like a princess. He would have done anything for her. But she left him anyway, no explanation.”

“Denna is a wild thing,” I explained. “Like a hind or a summer storm. If a storm blows down your house, or breaks a tree, you don’t say the storm was mean. It was cruel. It acted according to its nature and something unfortunately was hurt. The same is true of Denna.”

“What’s a hind?”

“A deer.”

“I thought that was a hart?”

“A hind is a female deer. A wild deer. Do you know how much good it does you to chase a wild thing? None. It works against you. It startles the hind away. All you can do is stay gently where you are, and hope in time that the hind will come to you.”

Sim nodded, but I could tell he didn’t really understand.

“Did you know they used to call this place the Questioning Hall?” I said, pointedly changing the subject. “Students would write questions on slips of paper and let the wind blow them around. You would get different answers depending on the way the paper left the square.” I gestured to the gaps between the grey buildings Elodin had shown to me. “Yes. No. Maybe. Elsewhere. Soon.”

The belling tower struck and Simmon sighed, sensing it was pointless to pursue the conversation further. “Are we playing corners tonight?”

I nodded. After he was gone I reached into my cloak and pulled out the note Denna had left in my window. I read it again, slowly. Then carefully tore away the bottom of the page where she had signed it.

I folded the narrow strip of paper with Denna’s name, twisted it, and let the courtyard’s ever-present wind tug it out of my hand to spin among the few remaining autumn leaves.

It danced along the cobblestones. It circled and spun, making patterns too wild and varied for me to understand. But though I waited until the sky grew dark, the wind never took it away. When I left, my question was still wandering in the House of the Wind, giving no answers, hinting at many. Yes. No. Maybe. Elsewhere. Soon.

Lastly, there was my ongoing feud with Ambrose. I walked on pins and needles every day, waiting for him to take his revenge. But the months passed and nothing happened. Eventually, I came to the conclusion that he had finally learned his lesson and was keeping a safe distance from me.

I was wrong, of course. Perfectly and completely wrong. Ambrose had merely learned to bide his time. He did manage to get his revenge, and when it came, I was caught flatfooted and forced to leave the University.

But that, as they say, is a story for another day.

“That should do for now, I imagine,” Kvothe said, gesturing for Chronicler to lay down his pen. “We have all the groundwork now. A foundation of story to build upon.”

Kvothe came to his feet and rolled his shoulders, stretching his back. “Tomorrow we’ll have some of my favorite stories. My journey to Alveron’s court. Learning to fight from the Adem. Felurian . . .” He picked up a clean linen cloth and turned to Chronicler. “Is there anything you need before you turn in for the night?”

Chronicler shook his head, knowing a polite dismissal when he heard one. “Thank you, no. I’ll be fine.” He gathered everything into his flat leather satchel and made his way upstairs to his rooms.

“You too, Bast,” Kvothe said. “I’ll take care of the cleaning up.” He made a shooing motion to forestall his student’s protest. “Go on. I need time to think about tomorrow’s story. These things don’t plan themselves you know.”

Shrugging, Bast headed up the stairs as well, his footsteps sounding hard on the wooden stairs.

Kvothe went about his nightly ritual. He shoveled ashes out of the huge stone fireplace and brought in wood for tomorrow’s fire. He went outside to extinguish the lamps beside the Waystone’s sign, only to find that he’d forgotten to light them earlier that evening. He locked the inn, and after a moment’s consideration, left the key in the door so Chronicler could let himself out if he woke early in the morning.

Then he swept the floor, washed the tables, and rubbed down the bar, moving with a methodical efficiency. Last came the polishing of the bottles.

As he went through the motions his eyes were far away, remembering. He did not hum or whistle. He did not sing.

In his room, Chronicler moved about restlessly, tired but too full of anxious energy to let sleep take him. He removed the finished pages from his satchel and stowed them safely in the heavy wooden chest of drawers. Then he cleaned all his pen’s nibs and set them out to dry. He carefully removed the bandage on his shoulder, threw the foul-smelling thing in the chamber pot, and replaced the lid before washing his shoulder clean in the hand basin.

Yawning, he went to the window and looked out at the little town, but there was nothing to see. No lights, no movement. He opened the window a crack, letting in the fresh autumn air. Drawing the curtains, Chronicler undressed for bed, lying his clothes over the back of a chair. Last of all he removed the simple iron wheel from around his neck and laid it on the nightstand.

Turning down his bed, Chronicler was surprised to see the sheets had been changed sometime during the day. The linen was crisp and smelled pleasantly of lavender.

After a moment’s hesitation, Chronicler moved to the door of his room and locked it. He laid the key on the nightstand, then frowned and picked up the stylized iron wheel and put it back around his neck before snuffing the lamp and crawling into bed.

For the better part of an hour, Chronicler lay sleepless in his sweet-smelling bed, rolling restlessly from side to side. Finally he sighed and threw off the covers. He relit the lamp with a sulfur match and climbed back out of bed. Then he walked over to the heavy chest of drawers beside the window and pushed at it. It wouldn’t budge at first, but when he put his back into it, he managed to slide it slowly across the smooth wooden floor.

After a minute the weighty piece of furniture was pressed against the door of his room. Then he climbed back into bed, rolled down the lamp, and quickly fell into a deep and peaceful sleep.

It was pitch black in the room when Chronicler woke with something soft pressing against his face. He thrashed wildly, more a reflex than an attempt to get away. His startled shout was muffled by the hand clamped firmly over his mouth.

After his initial panic, Chronicler went quiet and limp. Breathing hard through his nose, he lay there, eyes wide in the darkness.

“It’s just me,” Bast whispered without removing his hand.

Chronicler said something muffled.

“We need to talk.” Kneeling beside the bed, Bast looked down at the dark shape Chronicler made, twisted in his blankets. “I’m going to light the lamp and you’re not going to make any loud noises. Alright?”