Patrick Rothfuss - The Name of the Wind

At least one of the courtyards had been completely isolated and could only be accessed by climbing though a window. Rumor had it that there were some rooms bricked off entirely, some with students still inside. Their ghosts were rumored to walk the halls at night, bewailing their fate and complaining about the food in the Mess.

My first class was held in Mains. Luckily, I had been warned by my bunk-mates that Mains was difficult to navigate, so despite getting lost, I still arrived with time to spare.

When I finally found the room for my first class, I was surprised to find it resembled a small theater. Seats rose in tiered semicircles around a small raised stage. In larger cities my troupe had performed in places not unlike this one. The thought relaxed me as I found a seat in the back.

I was a jangling mass of excitement as I watched other students slowly trickle into the room. Everyone was older than me by at least a few years. I reviewed the first thirty sympathetic bindings in my head as the theater filled with anxious students. There were perhaps fifty of us in all, making the room about three-quarters full. Some had pen and paper with hardbacks to write on. Some had wax tablets. I hadn’t brought anything, but that didn’t worry me overmuch. I’ve always had an excellent memory.

Master Hemme entered the room and made his way onto the stage to stand behind a large stone worktable. He looked impressive in his dark master’s robes, and it was bare seconds before the whispering, shuffling theater of students hushed to silence.

“So you want to be arcanists?” he said. “You want magic like you’ve heard about in bedtime stories. You’ve listened to songs about Taborlin the Great. Roaring sheets of fire, magic rings, invisible cloaks, swords that never go dull, potions to make you fly.” He shook his head, disgusted. “Well, if that’s what you’re looking for, you can leave now, because you won’t find it here. It doesn’t exist.”

At this point a student came in, realized he was late, and moved quickly into a vacant seat. Hemme spotted him though. “Hello, glad you chose to attend. What is your name?”

“Gel,” the boy said nervously. “I’m sorry. I had a bit of a hard time . . .”

“Gel,” Hemme interrupted. “Why are you here?”

Gel gaped for a moment before managing to say, “For Principles of Sympathy?”

“I do not appreciate tardiness in my class. For tomorrow, you may prepare a report on the development of the sympathy clock, its differences from the previous, more arbitrary clocks that used harmonic motion, and its effect on the accurate treatment of time.”

The boy twisted in his seat. “Yes, sir.”

Hemme seemed satisfied with the reaction. “Very well. What is sympathy, then?”

Another boy hurried in clutching a hardback. He was young, by which I mean he looked to be no more than two years older than me. Hemme stopped him before he could make it into a seat. “Hello there,” he said in an over-courteous tone. “And you are?”

“Basil, sir,” the boy stood awkwardly in the aisle. I recognized him. I had spied on his admissions interview.

“Basil, you wouldn’t happen to be from Yll, would you?” Hemme asked, smiling sharply.

“No, sir.”

“Ahhh,” Hemme said, feigning disappointment. “I had heard that Yllish tribes use the sun to tell time, and as such, have no true concept of punctuality. However, as you are not Yllish, I can see no excuse for being late. Can you?”

Basil’s mouth worked silently for a moment, as if to make some excuse, then apparently decided better of it. “No, sir.”

“Good. For tomorrow, you can prepare a report on Yll’s lunar calendar compared to the more accurate, civilized Aturan calendar that you should be familiar with by now. Be seated.”

Basil slunk wordlessly into a nearby seat like a whipped dog.

Hemme gave up all pretext of lecture and lay in wait for the next tardy student. Thus it was that the hall was tensely silent when she stepped hesitantly into the room.

It was a young woman of about eighteen. A rarity of sorts. The ratio of men to women in the University is about ten to one.

Hemme’s manner softened when she entered the room. He moved quickly up the steps to greet her. “Ah, my dear. I am suddenly pleased that we have not yet begun today’s discussion.” He took her by the elbow and led her down a few of the steps to the first available seat.

She was obviously embarrassed by the attention. “I’m sorry, Master Hemme. Mains is bigger than I’d guessed.”

“No worry,” Hemme said in a kindly fashion. “You’re here and that’s what matters.” He solicitously helped her arrange her paper and ink before returning to the stage.

Once there, it seemed as if he might actually lecture. But before he began he looked back to the girl. “I’m sorry miss.” She was the only woman in the room. “Poor manners on my part. What is your name?”

“Ria.”

“Ria, is that short for Rian?”

“Yes, it is,” she smiled.

“Rian, would you please cross your legs?”

The request was made with such an earnest tone that not even a titter escaped the class. Looking puzzled, Rian crossed her legs.

“Now that the gates of hell are closed,” Hemme said in his normal, rougher tones. “We can begin.”

And so he did, ignoring her for the rest of the lecture. Which, as I see it, was an inadvertent kindness.

It was a long two and a half hours. I listened attentively, always hoping that he would come to something I hadn’t learned from Abenthy. But there was nothing. I quickly realized that while Hemme was discussing the principles of sympathy, he was doing it at a very, very basic level. This class was a colossal waste of my time.

After Hemme dismissed the class I ran down the stairs and caught him just as he was leaving through a lower door. “Master Hemme?”

He turned to face me. “Oh yes, our boy prodigy. I wasn’t aware you were in my class. I didn’t go too fast for you, did I?”

I knew better than to answer that honestly. “You covered the basics very clearly, sir. The principles you mentioned today will lay a good foundation for the other students in the class.” Diplomacy is a large part of being a trouper.

He puffed up a bit at my perceived compliment, then looked more closely at me. “ Other students?” He asked.

“I’m afraid I’m already familiar with the basics, sir. I know the three laws and the fourteen corollaries. As well as the first ninety—”

“Yes, yes. I see,” he cut me off. “I’m rather busy right at the moment. We can speak of this tomorrow, before class.” He turned and walked briskly away.

Half a loaf being better than none, I shrugged and headed for the Archives. If I wasn’t going to learn anything from Hemme’s lectures, I might as well start educating myself.

This time when I entered the Archives there was a young woman sitting behind the desk. She was strikingly beautiful with long, dark hair and clear, bright eyes. A notable improvement over Ambrose to be sure.

She smiled as I approached the desk. “What’s your name?”

“Kvothe,” I said. “Son of Arliden.”

She nodded and began to page through the ledger.

“What’s yours?” I asked to fill the silence.

“Fela,” she said without looking up. Then nodded to herself and tapped the ledger. “There you are, go on in.”

There were two sets of double doors leading out of the antechamber, one marked stacks and the other tomes. Not knowing the difference between the two, I headed to the ones labeled stacks. That was what I wanted. Stacks of books. Great heaps of books. Shelf after endless shelf of books.

I had my hands on the handles of the doors before Fela’s voice stopped me. “I’m sorry. It’s your first time in here, isn’t it?”