Patrick Rothfuss - The Name of the Wind

“We should all take precautions.” Brandeur said, placatingly. “You know as well as—” Their voices were cut off with the sound of a door closing.

Kilvin stood and shrugged his shoulders, stretching. Looking over to where I stood, he scratched his bushy beard with both hands, a thoughtful look on his face, then strode over to where I stood. “Do you have your sygaldry yet, E’lir Kvothe?”

I looked at him blankly. “Do you mean runes, sir? I’m afraid not.”

Kilvin ran his hands through his beard, thoughtfully. “Do not bother with the Basic Artificing class you have signed for. Instead you will come to my workroom tomorrow. Noon.”

“I’m afraid I have another appointment at noon, Master Kilvin.”

“Hmmm. Yes.” He frowned. “First bell, then.”

“I’m afraid the boy will be having an appointment with my folk shortly after the whipping, Kilvin,” Arwyl said with a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “Have someone bring you to the Medica afterward, son. We’ll stitch you back together.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Arwyl nodded and made his way out of the room.

Kilvin watched him go, then turned to look at me. “My workshop. Day after tomorrow. Noon.” The tone of his voice implied that it wasn’t really a question.

“I would be honored, Master Kilvin.”

He grunted in response and left with Elxa Dal.

That left me alone with the still-seated Chancellor. We stared at each other while the sound of footsteps faded in the hallway. I brought myself back up out of the Heart of Stone and felt a tangle of anticipation and fear at everything that had just happened.

“I’m sorry to be so much trouble so soon, sir.” I offered hesitantly.

“Oh?” he said. His expression considerably less stern now that we were alone. “How long had you intended to wait?”

“At least a span, sir.” My brush with disaster had left me feeling giddy with relief. I felt an irrepressible grin bubble onto my face.

“At least a span,” he muttered. The Chancellor put his face into his hands and rubbed, then looked up and surprised me with a wry smile. I realized he wasn’t particularly old when his face wasn’t locked in a stern expression. Probably only on the far side of forty. “You don’t look like someone who knows he’s going to be whipped tomorrow,” he observed.

I pushed the thought aside. “I imagine I’ll heal, sir.” He gave me an odd look, it took me a while to recognize it as the one I’d grown accustomed to in the troupe. He opened his mouth to speak, but I jumped on the words before he could say them. “I’m not as young as I look, sir. I know it. I just wish other people knew it, too.”

“I imagine they will before too long.” He gave me a long look before pushing himself up from the table. He held out a hand. “Welcome to the Arcanum.”

I shook his hand solemnly and we parted ways. I worked my way outside and was surprised to see that it was full night. I breathed in a lungful of sweet spring air and felt my grin resurface.

Then someone touched me on the shoulder. I jumped fully two feet into the air and narrowly avoided falling on Simmon in the howling, scratching, biting blur that had been my only method of defense in Tarbean.

He took a step back, startled by the expression on my face.

I tried to slow my pounding heart. “Simmon. I’m sorry. I’m just . . . try to make a little noise around me. I startle easily.”

“Me too,” he murmured shakily, wiping a hand across his forehead. “I can’t really blame you, though. Riding the horns will do that to the best of us. How did things go?”

“I’m to be whipped and admitted to the Arcanum.”

He looked at me curiously, trying to see if I was making a joke. “I’m sorry? Congratulations?” He made a shy smile at me. “Do I buy you a bandage or a beer?”

I smiled back. “Both.”

By the time I got back to the fourth floor of the Mews, rumor of my non-expulsion and admission into the Arcanum had spread ahead of me. I was greeted by a smattering of applause from my bunkmates. Hemme was not well loved. Some of my bunkmates offered awed congratulations while Basil made a special point of coming forward to shake my hand.

I had just climbed up to a sitting position on my bunk and was explaining to Basil the difference between a single whip and a six-tail when the third-floor steward came looking for me. He instructed me to pack up my things, explaining that Arcanum students were located in the west wing.

Everything I owned still fit neatly into my travelsack, so it was no great chore. As the steward led me away there was a chorus of good-byes from my fellow first-term students.

The west wing bunks were similar to those I had left behind. It was still rows of narrow beds, but here they weren’t stacked two high. Each bed had a small wardrobe and desk in addition to a trunk. Nothing fancy, but definitely a step up.

The biggest difference was in the attitudes of my bunkmates. There were scowls and glares, though for the most part I was pointedly ignored. It was a chilly reception, especially in light of the welcome I had just received from my non-Arcanum bunkmates.

It was easy to understand why. Most students attend the University for several terms before being admitted into the Arcanum. Everyone here had worked their way up through the ranks the hard way I hadn’t.

Only about three quarters of the bunks were full. I picked one in the back corner, away from the others. I hung my one extra shirt and my cloak in the wardrobe and put my travelsack in the trunk at the foot of my bed.

I lay down and stared at the ceiling. My bunk lay outside the light of the other student’s candles and sympathy lamps. I was finally a member of the Arcanum, in some ways exactly where I had always wanted to be.

The next morning I woke early, washed up, and grabbed a bite to eat at the Mess. Then, because I had nothing to do before my whipping at noon, I strolled the University aimlessly. I wandered through a few apothecaries and bottle shops, admired the well-kept lawns and gardens.

Eventually I came to rest on a stone bench in a wide courtyard. Too anxious to think of doing anything productive, I simply sat and enjoyed the weather, watching the wind tumble a few scraps of wastepaper along the cobblestones.

It wasn’t too long before Wilem strolled over and sat himself next to me without an invitation. His characteristic Cealdish dark hair and eyes made him seem older than Simmon and me, but he still had the slightly awkward look of a boy who wasn’t quite used to being man-sized yet.

“Nervous?” he asked with the harsh burr a Siaru accent makes.

“Trying not to think about it, actually,” I said.

Wilem grunted. We were both quiet for a minute while we watched the students walk past. A few of them paused in their conversations to point at me.

I quickly grew tired of their attention. “Are you doing anything right now?”

“Sitting,” he said simply. “Breathing.”

“Clever. I can see why you’re in the Arcanum. Are you busy for the next hour or so?”

He shrugged and looked at me expectantly.

“Would you show me where Master Arwyl is? He told me to stop by . . . after.”

“Certainly,” he said, pointing to one of the courtyard’s outlets. “Medica is on the other side of Archives.”

We made our way around the massive windowless block that was the Archives. Wilem pointed. “That is Medica.” It was a large, oddly-shaped building. It looked like a taller, less rambling version of Mains.

“Bigger than I’d thought it would be,” I mused. “All for teaching medicine?”

He shook his head. “They do much business in tending the sick. They never turn anyone away because they can’t pay.”