Patrick Rothfuss - The Name of the Wind

Judging by the masters’ expressions, this was news to them. Somewhere deep in the Heart of Stone, I relaxed, glad that the master’s irritation was based on Hemme’s angrily abridged version of the truth.

“You gave a demonstration before the class?” the Chancellor asked before I could continue. He glanced at Hemme, then back to me.

I played innocent. “Just a simple one. Is that unusual?”

“It is a little odd,” he said, looking at Hemme. I could sense his anger again, but this time it didn’t seem to be directed at me.

“I thought it might be the way you proved your knowledge of the material and moved to a more advanced class,” I said innocently. Another lie, but again, plausible.

Elxa Dal spoke up, “What did the demonstration involve?”

“A wax doll, a hair from Hemme’s head, and a candle. I would have picked a different example, but my materials were limited. I thought that might be another part of the test, making do with what you were given.” I shrugged again. “I couldn’t think of any other way to demonstrate all three laws with the materials on hand.”

The Chancellor looked at Hemme. “Is what the boy says true?”

Hemme opened his mouth as if he would deny it, then apparently remembered that an entire classroom full of students had witnessed the exchange. He said nothing.

“Damn it, Hemme,” Elxa Dal burst out. “You let the boy make a simulacra of you, then bring him here on malfeasance?” He spluttered. “You deserve worse than you got.”

“E’lir Kvothe could not have hurt him with just a candle,” Kilvin muttered. He gave his fingers a puzzled look, as if he were working something out in his head. “Not with hair and wax. Maybe blood and clay . . .”

“Order.” The Chancellor’s voice was too quiet to be called a shout, but it carried the same authority. He shot looks at Elxa Dal and Kilvin. “Kvothe, answer Master Kilvin’s question.”

“I made a second binding between the candle and a brazier to illustrate the Law of Conservation.”

Kilvin didn’t look up from his hands. “Wax and hair?” He grumbled as if not entirely satisfied with my explanation.

I gave a half-puzzled, half-embarrassed look and said, “I don’t understand it myself, sir. I should have gotten ten percent transference at best. It shouldn’t have been enough to blister Master Hemme, let alone burn him.”

I turned to Hemme. “I really didn’t mean any harm, sir,” I said in my best distraught voice. “It was just supposed to be a bit of a hotfoot to make you jump. The fire hadn’t been going more than five minutes, and I didn’t imagine that a fresh fire at ten percent could hurt you.” I even wrung my hands a little, every bit the distraught student. It was a good performance. My father would have been proud.

“Well, it did,” Hemme said bitterly. “And where is the damn mommet anyway? I demand you return it at once!”

“I’m afraid I can’t, sir. I destroyed it. It was too dangerous to leave lying around.”

Hemme gave me a shrewd look. “It’s of no real concern,” he muttered.

The Chancellor took up the reins again. “This changes things considerably. Hemme, do you still set grievance against Kvothe?”

Hemme glared and said nothing.

“I move to strike both grievances,” Arwyl said. The physicker’s old voice coming as a bit of a surprise. “If Hemme set him in front of the class, he gave permission. And it isn’t malfeasance if you give him your hair and watch him stick it on the mommet’s head.”

“I expected him to have more control over what he was doing,” Hemme said, shooting a venomous look at me.

“It’s not malfeasance,” Arwyl said doggedly, glaring at Hemme from behind his spectacles, the grandfatherly lines on his face forming a fierce scowl.

“It would fall under reckless use of sympathy,” Lorren interjected coolly.

“Is that a motion to strike the previous two grievances and replace them with reckless use of sympathy?” asked the Chancellor, trying to regain a semblance of formality.

“Aye,” said Arwyl, still glaring fearsomely at Hemme through his spectacles.

“All for the motion?” The Chancellor said,

There was a chorus of ayes from everyone but Hemme.

“Against?”

Hemme remained silent.

“Master Archivist, what is the discipline for reckless use of sympathy?”

“If one is injured by reckless use of sympathy, the offending student will be whipped, singly no more than seven times across the back.” I wondered what book Master Lorren was reciting from.

“Number of lashes sought?”

Hemme looked at the other masters’ faces, realizing the tide had turned against him. “My foot is blistered halfway to my knee,” he gritted. “Three lashes.”

The Chancellor cleared his throat. “Does any master oppose this action?”

“Aye,” Elxa Dal and Kilvin said together.

“Who wishes to suspend the discipline? Vote by show of hands.”

Elxa Dal, Kilvin, and Arwyl raised their hands at once, followed by the Chancellor. Mandrag kept his hand down, as did Lorren, Brandeur, and Hemme. Elodin grinned at me cheerily, but did not raise his hand. I kicked myself for my recent trip to the Archives and the bad impression it made on Lorren. If not for that he might have tipped things in my favor.

“Four and a half in favor of suspending punishment,” the Chancellor said after a pause. “The discipline stands: three lashes to be served tomorrow, the third of Equis, at noon.”

As I was deep into the Heart of Stone, all I felt was a slight analytical curiosity about what it would be like to be publicly whipped. All the masters showed signs of preparing to stand and leave, but before things could be called to a close I spoke up, “Chancellor?”

He took a deep breath and let it out in a gush. “Yes?”

“During my admission, you said that my admittance to the Arcanum was granted, contingent upon proof that I had mastered the basic principles of sympathy.” I quoted him nearly word for word. “Does this constitute proof?”

Both Hemme and the Chancellor opened their mouths to say something. Hemme was louder. “Look here, you little cocker!”

“Hemme!” the Chancellor snapped. Then he turned to me, “I’m afraid proof of mastery requires more than a simple sympathetic binding.”

“A double binding,” Kilvin corrected gruffly.

Elodin spoke, seeming to startle everyone at the table. “I can think of students currently enrolled in the Arcanum who would be hard pressed to complete a double binding, let alone draw enough heat to ‘blister a man’s foot to the knee.’ ” I had forgotten how Elodin’s light voice moved through the deep places in your chest when he spoke. He smiled happily at me again.

There was a moment of quiet reflection.

“True enough,” admitted Elxa Dal, giving me a close look.

The Chancellor looked down at the empty table for a minute. Then he shrugged, looked up, and gave a surprisingly jaunty smile. “All in favor of admitting first-term student Kvothe’s reckless use of sympathy as proof of mastery of the basic principles of sympathy vote by show of hands.”

Kilvin and Elxa Dal raised their hands together. Arwyl added his a moment later. Elodin waved. After a pause, the Chancellor raised his hand as well, saying “Five and a half in favor of Kvothe’s admission to the Arcanum. Motion passed. Meeting dismissed. Tehlu shelter us, fools and children all.” He said the last very softly as he rested his forehead against the heel of his hand.

Hemme stormed out of the room with Brandeur in tow. Once they were through the door I heard Brandeur ask, “Weren’t you wearing a gram?”

“No, I wasn’t.” Hemme snapped. “And don’t take that tone with me, as if this were my fault. You might as well blame someone stabbed in an alley for not wearing armor.”