Patrick Rothfuss - The Name of the Wind

I didn’t know what he meant by that, but I didn’t want to advertise my ignorance to everyone in the room. “They can wait until I’m done.” I took another bite of stew.

Simmon returned to his seat and poked idly at his food. Truth be told, I wasn’t really hungry anymore, but it galled me to be pulled away from a meal after all the times I’d been hungry in Tarbean.

When Simmon and I finally got to our feet, the normal clamor in the Mess quieted as folk watched us leave. They knew where I was headed.

Outside, Simmon put his hands in his pockets and headed roughly in the direction of Hollows. “All kidding aside, you’re in a good bit of trouble, you know.”

“I was hoping Hemme would be embarrassed and keep quiet about it,” I admitted. “Do they expel many students?” I tried to make it sound like a joke.

“There hasn’t been anyone this term,” Sim said with his shy, blue-eyed smile. “But it’s only the second day of classes. You might set some sort of record.”

“This isn’t funny,” I said, but found myself wearing a grin regardless. Simmon could always make me smile, no matter what was going on.

Sim led the way, and we reached Hollows far too soon for my liking. Simmon raised a hand in a hesitant farewell as I opened the door and made my way inside.

I was met by Jamison. He oversaw everything that wasn’t under direct control of the masters: the kitchens, the laundry, the stables, the stockrooms. He was nervous and birdlike. A man with the body of a sparrow and the eyes of a hawk.

Jamison escorted me into a large windowless room with a familiar crescent-shaped table. The Chancellor sat at the center, as he had during admissions. The only real difference was that this table was not elevated, and the seated masters were close to eye level with me.

The eyes I met were not friendly. Jamison escorted me to the front of the crescent table. Seeing it from this angle made me understand the references to being “on the horns.” Jamison retreated to a smaller table of his own, dipping a pen.

The Chancellor steepled his fingers and spoke without preamble. “On the fourth of Caitelyn, Hemme called the masters together.” Jamison’s pen scratched across a piece of paper, occasionally dipping back into the inkwell at the top of the desk. The Chancellor continued formally, “Are all the masters present?”

“Master Physicker,” said Arwyl.

“Master Archivist,” said Lorren, his face impassive as ever.

“Master Arithmetician,” Brandeur said, cracking his knuckles absently.

“Master Artificer,” grumbled Kilvin without looking up from the tabletop.

“Master Alchemist,” said Mandrag.

“Master Rhetorician,” Hemme’s face was fierce and red.

“Master Sympathist,” said Elxa Dal.

“Master Namer.” Elodin actually smiled at me. Not just a perfunctory curling of the lips, but a warm, toothy grin. I drew a bit of a shaky breath, relieved that at least one person present didn’t seem eager to hang me up by my thumbs.

“And Master Linguist,” said the Chancellor. “All eight . . .” He frowned. “Sorry. Strike that. Аll nine masters are present. Present your grievance, Master Hemme.”

Hemme did not hesitate. “Today, first-term student Kvothe, not of the Arcanum, did perform sympathetic bindings on me with malicious intent.”

“Two grievances are recorded against Kvothe by Master Hemme,” the Chancellor said sternly, not taking his eyes away from me. “First grievance, unauthorized use of sympathy. What is the proper discipline for this, Master Archivist?”

“For unauthorized use of sympathy leading to injury, the offending student will be bound and whipped a number of times, not less than two nor more than ten, singly, across the back.” Lorren said it as if reading off directions for a recipe.

“Number of lashes sought?” The Chancellor looked at Hemme.

Hemme paused to consider. “Five.”

I felt the blood drain from my face and I forced myself to take a slow, deep breath through my nose to calm myself.

“Does any master object to this?” The Chancellor looked around the table, but all mouths were silent, all eyes were stern. “The second grievance: malfeasance. Master Archivist?”

“Four to fifteen single lashes and expulsion from the University,” Lorren said in a level voice.

“Lashes sought?

Hemme stared directly at me. “Eight.”

Thirteen lashes and expulsion. A cold sweat swept over me and I felt nausea in the pit of my stomach. I had known fear before. In Tarbean it was never far away. Fear kept you alive. But I had never before felt such a desperate helplessness. A fear not just for my body being hurt, but for my entire life being ruined. I began to get light-headed.

“Do you understand these grievances set against you?” The Chancellor asked sternly.

I took a deep breath. “Not exactly, sir.” I hated the way my voiced sounded, tremulous and weak.

The Chancellor held up a hand and Jamison lifted his pen from the paper. “It is against the laws of the University for a student who is not a member of the Arcanum to use sympathy without permission from a master.”

His expression darkened. “And it is always, always , expressly forbidden to cause harm with sympathy, especially to a master. A few hundred years ago arcanists were hunted down and burned for things of that sort. We do not tolerate that sort of behavior here.”

I heard a hard edge creep into the Chancellor’s voice, only then did I sense how truly angry he was. He took a deep breath. “Now, do you understand?”

I nodded shakily.

He made another motion to Jamison, who set his pen back to the paper. “Do you, Kvothe, understand these grievances set against you?”

“Yes, sir.” I said, as steadily as I could. Everything seemed too bright, and my legs were trembling slightly. I tried to force them to be still, but it only seemed to make them shake all the more.

“Do you have anything to say in your defense?” the Chancellor asked curtly.

I just wanted to leave. I felt the stares of the masters bearing down on me. My hands were wet and cold. I probably would have shaken my head and slunk from the room had the Chancellor not spoken again.

“Well?” The Chancellor repeated testily. “No defense?”

The words struck a chord in me. They were the same words that Ben had used a hundred times as he drilled me endlessly in argument. His words came back, admonishing me: What? No defense? Any student of mine must be able to defend his ideas against an attack. No matter how you spend your life, your wit will defend you more often than a sword. Keep it sharp!

I took another deep breath, closed my eyes and concentrated. After a long moment, I felt the cool impassivity of the Heart of Stone surround me. My trembling stopped.

I opened my eyes and heard my own voice say, “I had permission for my use of sympathy, sir.”

The Chancellor gave me a long, hard look before saying, “What?”

I held the Heart of Stone around me like a calming mantle. “I had permission from Master Hemme, both express and implied.”

The masters stirred in their seats, puzzled.

The Chancellor looked far from pleased. “Explain yourself.”

“I approached Master Hemme after his first lecture and told him I was already familiar with the concepts he had discussed. He told me we would discuss it the next day.

“When he arrived for class the next day, he announced that I would be giving the lecture in order to demonstrate the principles of sympathy. After observing what materials were available, I gave the class the first demonstration my master gave me.” Not true, of course. As I’ve already mentioned, my first lesson involved a handful of iron drabs. It was a lie, but a plausible lie.