Patrick Rothfuss - The Name of the Wind

“Sure do.” Elodin crouched down and began to unlace his shoes. “Where did they stash Whin this time?”

She flipped a few pages in the ledger. “Second floor east. 247.”

Elodin stood back up and set his shoes on the desk. “Keep an eye on these, would you?” She gave him an uncertain smile and nodded.

I choked down another mouthful of questions. “It seems like the University goes to an awful lot of expense here,” I commented.

Elodin ignored me and turned to climb a wide marble staircase in his stocking feet. Then we entered a long, white hallway lined with wooden doors. For the first time I could hear the sounds I had expected in a place like this. Moans, weeping, incessant chattering, screaming, all very faint.

Elodin ran for a few steps, then stopped, his stocking feet gliding across the smooth marble floor, his master’s robes streaming out behind him. He repeated this: a few quick steps, then a long slide with his arms held out to the sides for balance.

I continued to pace along beside him. “I’d think the masters would find other, more academic uses for the University’s funds.”

Elodin didn’t look at me. Step. Step step step. “You’re trying to get me to answer questions you’re not asking.” Slide. “It’s not going to work.”

“You’re trying to trick me into asking questions,” I pointed out. “It seems only fair.”

Step step step. Slide. “So why the hell are you bothering with me, anyway?” Elodin asked. “Kilvin likes you well enough. Why not hitch your star to his wagon?”

“I think you know things I can’t learn anywhere else.”

“Things like what?”

“Things I’ve wanted to know since I first saw someone call the wind.”

“Name of the wind, was it?” Elodin raised his eyebrows. Step. Step. Step-step-step. “That’s tricky.” Sliiiiiide. “What makes you think I know anything about calling the wind?”

“Process of elimination,” I said. “None of the other masters do that sort of thing, so it must be your bailiwick.”

“By your logic I should also be in charge of Solinade dances, needlework, and horse thieving.”

We came to the end of the hall. Midslide, Elodin nearly bowled over a huge, broad-shouldered man carrying a hardback. “Beg your pardon, sir,” he said, though it obviously wasn’t his fault.

“Timothy,” Elodin pointed a long finger at him. “Come with us.”

Elodin led the way through several shorter hallways, eventually coming to a heavy wooden door with a sliding panel at eye level. Elodin opened it and peered through. “How’s he been?”

“Quiet,” the hulking man said. “I don’t think he’s slept much.”

Elodin tried the latch, then turned to the broad-shouldered man, his face going grim. “You locked him in?”

The man stood a full head taller than Elodin and probably weighed twice as much, but the blood drained from his face as the shoeless master glared at him. “Not me, Master Elodin. It’s . . .”

Elodin cut him off with a sharp gesture. “Unlock it.”

Timothy fumbled with a ring of keys.

Elodin continued to stare him down. “Alder Whin is not to be confined. He may come and go as he pleases. Nothing is to be put in his food unless he specifically asks for it. I am holding you responsible for this, Timothy Generoy,” Elodin poked him in the chest with a long finger. “If I find out that Whin has been sedated or restrained I’ll ride you naked through the streets of Imre like a little pink pony.” He glared. “Go.”

The fellow left as quickly as he could manage without actually breaking into a run.

Elodin turned to me. “You can come in, but don’t make any noises or sudden movements. Don’t talk unless he talks to you. If you do talk, keep your voice low. Understand?”

I nodded and he opened the door.

The room wasn’t what I’d expected. Tall windows let the daylight in, revealing a sizable bed and a table with chairs. The walls, ceiling, and floor were all padded with thick white cloth, muffling even the faint noises from the hallway. The blankets had been pulled off the bed and a thin man of about thirty was bundled up in them, huddled against the wall.

Elodin closed the door and the mousy man flinched a little. “Whin?” he said softly, moving closer. “What happened?”

Alder Whin looked up owlishly. A thin stick of a man, he was bare-chested under the blanket, his hair in wild disarray, his eyes round and wide. He spoke softly, his voice cracking a little. “I was fine. I was doing fine. But all the people talking, dogs, cobblestones . . . I just can’t be around that right now.”

Whin pressed himself against the wall and the blanket fell off his bony shoulder. I was startled to see a lead guilder around his neck. This man was a full-fledged arcanist.

Elodin nodded. “Why are you on the floor?”

Whin looked over at the bed, panic in his eyes. “I’ll fall,” he said softly, his voice somewhere between horror and embarrassment. “And there are springs and slats. Nails.”

“How are you now?” Elodin asked gently. “Would you like to come back with me?”

“Nooooo.” Whin gave a hopeless, despairing cry, screwing his eyes closed and pulling the blanket closer around himself. His thin, reedy voice made his plea more heart-wrenching than if he’d howled it.

“It’s fine. You can stay,” Elodin said softly. “I’ll be back to visit.”

Whin opened his eyes at this, looking agitated. “Don’t bring thunder,” he said urgently. He reached one thin hand out of his blanket and clutched at Elodin’s shirt. “But I do need a catwhistle and bluedown, and bones too.” His tone was urgent. “Tentbones.”

“I’ll bring them,” Elodin reassured him, gesturing for me to back out of the room. I did.

Elodin closed the door behind us, his expression grim. “Whin knew what he was getting into when he became my giller.” He turned and began to walk down the hall. “You don’t. You don’t know anything about the University. About the risks involved. You think this place is a faerie land, a playground. It’s not.”

“That’s right,” I snapped. “It’s a playground and all the other children are jealous because I got to play ‘get whipped bloody and banned from the Archives’ and they didn’t.”

Elodin stopped walking and turned to look at me. “Fine. Prove me wrong. Prove that you’ve thought this through. Why does a University with under fifteen hundred students need an asylum the size of the royal palace?”

My mind raced. “Most students are from well-to-do families,” I said. “They’ve led easy lives. When forced to . . .”

“Wrong,” Elodin said dismissively turning to walk down the hall. “It is because of what we study. Because of the way we train our minds to move.”

“So ciphering and grammar make people crazy,” I said, taking care to phrase it as a statement.

Elodin stopped walking and wrenched open the nearest door. Panicked screaming burst out into the hallway. “. . . IN ME! THEY’RE IN ME! THEY’RE IN ME! THEY’RE IN ME!” Through the open door I could see a young man thrashing against the leather restraints that bound him to the bed at wrist, waist, neck, and ankle.

“Trigonometry and diagrammed logic don’t do this,” Elodin said, looking me in the eye.

“THEY’RE IN ME! THEY’RE IN ME! THEY’RE IN—” The screaming continued in an unbroken chant, like the endless, mindless barking of a dog at night. “—ME! THEY’RE IN ME! THEY’RE IN ME! THEY’RE—”

Elodin closed the door. Though I could still hear the screaming faintly through the thick door, the near-silence was stunning. “Do you know why they call this place the Rookery?” Elodin asked.