Patrick Rothfuss - The Name of the Wind

“That is good. I hate to think of our long acquaintance coming to an end.”

“As do I.”

“Refresh me again as to our relationship, Cinder,” the shadowed man said, a deep sliver of anger running through his patient tone.

“I . . . I am in your service. . . .” Cinder made a placating gesture.

“You are a tool in my hand,” the shadowed man interrupted gently. “Nothing more.”

A hint of defiance touched Cinder’s expression. He paused. “I wo—”

The soft voice went as hard as a rod of Ramston steel. “Ferula.”

Cinder’s quicksilver grace disappeared. He staggered, his body suddenly rigid with pain.

“You are a tool in my hand,” the cool voice repeated. “Say it.”

Cinder’s jaw clenched angrily for a moment, then he convulsed and cried out, sounding more like a wounded animal than a man. “I am a tool in your hand,” he gasped.

“Lord Haliax.”

“I am a tool in your hand, Lord Haliax,” Cinder amended as he crumpled, trembling, to his knees.

“Who knows the inner turnings of your name, Cinder?” The words were spoken with a slow patience, like a schoolmaster reciting a forgotten lesson.

Cinder wrapped shaking arms around his midsection and hunched over, closing his eyes. “You, Lord Haliax.”

“Who keeps you safe from the Amyr? The singers? The Sithe? From all that would harm you in the world?” Haliax asked with calm politeness, as if genuinely curious as to what the answer might be.

“You, Lord Haliax.” Cinder’s voice was a quiet shred of pain.

“And whose purpose do you serve?”

“Your purpose, Lord Haliax.” The words were choked out. “Yours. None other.” The tension left the air and Cinder’s body suddenly went slack. He fell forward onto his hands and beads of sweat fell from his face to patter on the ground like rain. His white hair hung limp around his face. “Thank you, lord,” he gasped out earnestly. “I will not forget again.”

“You will. You are too fond of your little cruelties. All of you.” Haliax’s hooded face swept back and forth to look at each of the figures sitting around the fire. They stirred uncomfortably. “ I am glad I decided to accompany you today. You are straying, indulging in whimsy. Some of you seem to have forgotten what it is we seek, what we wish to achieve.” The others sitting around the fire stirred uneasily.

The hood turned back to Cinder. “But you have my forgiveness. Perhaps if not for these remindings, it would be I who would forget.” There was an edge to the last of his words. “Now, finish what—” His cool voice trailed away as his shadowed hood slowly tilted to look toward the sky. There was an expectant silence.

Those sitting around the fire grew perfectly still, their expressions intent. In unison they tilted their heads as if looking at the same point in the twilit sky. As if trying to catch the scent of something on the wind.

A feeling of being watched pulled at my attention. I felt a tenseness, a subtle change in the texture of the air. I focused on it, glad for the distraction, glad for anything that might keep me from thinking clearly for just a few more seconds.

“They come,” Haliax said quietly. He stood, and shadow seemed to boil outward from him like a dark fog. “Quickly. To me.”

The others rose from their seats around the fire. Cinder scrambled to his feet and staggered a half dozen steps toward the fire.

Haliax spread his arms and the shadow surrounding him bloomed like a flower unfolding. Then, each of the others turned with a studied ease and took a step toward Haliax, into the shadow surrounding him. But as their feet came down they slowed, and gently, as if they were made of sand with wind blowing across them, they faded away. Only Cinder looked back, a hint of anger in his nightmare eyes.

Then they were gone.

I will not burden you with what followed. How I ran from body to body, frantially feeling for the signs of life as Ben had taught me. My futile attempt at digging a grave. How I scrabbled in the dirt until my fingers were bloody and raw. How I found my parents. . . .

It was in the darkest hours of the night when I found our wagon. Our horse had dragged it nearly a hundred yards down the road before he died. It seemed so normal inside, so tidy and calm. I was struck by how much the back of the wagon smelled like the two of them.

I lit every lamp and candle in the wagon. The light was no comfort, but it was the honest gold of real fire, untinged with blue. I took down my father’s lute case. I lay in my parent’s bed with the lute beside me. My mother’s pillow smelled of her hair, of an embrace. I did not mean to sleep, but sleep took me.

I woke coughing with everything in flames around me. It had been the candles, of course. Still numb with shock, I gathered a few things into a bag. I was slow and aimless, unafraid as I pulled Ben’s book from under my burning mattress. What horror could a simple fire hold for me now?

I put my father’s lute into its case. It felt like I was stealing, but I couldn’t think of anything else that would remind me of them. Both their hands had brushed its wood a thousand thousand times.

Then I left. I walked into the forest and kept going until dawn began to brighten the eastern edges of the sky. As the birds began to sing I stopped and set down my bag. I brought out my father’s lute and clutched it to my body. Then I began to play.

My fingers hurt, but I played anyway. I played until my fingers bled on the strings. I played until the sun shone through the trees. I played until my arms ached. I played, trying not to remember, until I fell asleep.

Kvothe held out a hand to Chronicler, then turned to his student, frowning. “Stop looking at me like that, Bast.”

Bast looked close to tears. “Oh, Reshi,” he choked out. “I had no idea.”

Kvothe gestured as if cutting the air with the side of his hand. “There’s no reason you should, Bast, and no reason to make an issue out of it.”

“But Reshi . . .”

Kvothe gave his student a severe look. “What, Bast? Should I weep and tear my hair? Curse Tehlu and his angels? Beat my chest? No. That is low drama.” His expression softened somewhat. “I appreciate your concern, but this is just a piece of the story, not even the worst piece, and I am not telling it to garner sympathy.”

Kvothe pushed his chair back from the table and came to his feet. “Besides, all of this happened long ago.” He made a dismissive gesture. “Time is the great healer, and so on.”

He rubbed his hands together. “Now, I’m going to bring in enough wood to get us though the night. There’ll be a chill if I’m any judge of weather. You can get a couple loaves ready to bake while I’m out, and try to collect yourself. I refuse to tell the rest of this story with you making blubbery cow eyes at me.”

With that, Kvothe walked behind the bar and out through the kitchen toward the back door of the inn.

Bast scrubbed roughly at his eyes, then watched his master go. “He’s fine so long as he’s busy,” Bast said softly.

“I beg your pardon?” Chronicler said reflexively. He shifted awkwardly in his seat, as if he wanted to get to his feet, but couldn’t think of a polite way to excuse himself.

Bast gave a warm smile, his eyes a human blue again. “I was so excited when I heard who you were, that he was going to tell his story. His mood’s been so dark lately, and there’s nothing to shake him out of it, nothing to do but sit and brood. I’m sure that remembering the good times will . . .” Bast grimaced. “I’m not saying this very well. I’m sorry for earlier. I wasn’t thinking straight.”