“We have everything here at the Waystone,” Kvothe said, making an offhand gesture to the empty room. “Excepting any customers, of course.” He brought an earthenware jug up from underneath the bar, then set it on the bar with a hollow sound. He sighed before calling out, “Bast! Bring up some cider, would you?”
An indistinct reply echoed from a doorway at the back of the room.
“Bast,” Kvothe chided, seemingly too quiet to be heard.
“Shag down here and get it yourself, you hack!” the voice shouted up from the basement. “I’m in the middle of something.”
“Hired help?” Chronicler asked.
Kvothe leaned his elbows on the bar and smiled indulgently.
After a moment, the sound of someone climbing a set of wooden stairs in hard-soled boots echoed from the doorway. Bast stepped into the room, muttering under his breath.
He was dressed simply: black long-sleeved shirt tucked into black pants; black pants tucked into soft black boots. His face was sharp and delicate, almost beautiful, with striking blue eyes.
He carried a jug to the bar, walking with a strange and not unpleasant grace. “One customer?” he said reproachfully. “You couldn’t get it yourself? You pulled me away from Celum Tinture. You’ve been harping on me to read it for nearly a month now.”
“Bast, do you know what they do to students at the University who eavesdrop on their teachers?” Kvothe asked archly.
Bast put a hand on his chest and began to protest his innocence.
“Bast…” Kvothe gave him a stern look.
Bast closed his mouth and for a moment looked as if he was about to try and offer some explanation, then his shoulders slumped. “How did you know?”
Kvothe chuckled. “You’ve been avoiding that book for a mortal age. Either you had suddenly become an exceptionally dedicated student, or you were doing something incriminating.”
“What do they do to students at the University who eavesdrop?” Bast asked curiously.
“I haven’t the slightest idea. I was never caught. I think making you sit and listen to the rest of my story should be punishment enough. But I forget myself,” Kvothe said, gesturing to the common room. “We are neglecting our guest.”
Chronicler seemed anything but bored. As soon as Bast entered the room, Chronicler began to watch him curiously. As the conversation continued, Chronicler’s expression had grown by degrees more puzzled and more intent.
In fairness, something ought to be said about Bast. At first glance, he looked to be an average, if attractive, young man. But there was something different about him. For instance, he wore soft black leather boots. At least, if you looked at him that’s what you saw. But if you happened to catch a glimpse of him from the corner of your eye, and if he were standing in the right type of shadow, you might see something else entirely.
And if you had the right sort of mind, the sort of mind that actually sees what it looks at, you might notice that his eyes were odd. If your mind had the rare talent of not being fooled by its own expectations, you might notice something else about them, something strange and wonderful.
Because of this, Chronicler had been staring at Kvothe’s young student, trying to decide what was different about him. By the time their conversation was through, Chronicler’s gaze would be considered intense at the very least, and rude by most. When Bast finally turned from the bar, Chronicler’s eyes widened perceptibly, and the color drained from his already pale face.
Chronicler reached inside his shirt and tugged something from around his neck. He set it on the table at arm’s length, between himself and Bast. All this was done in half a second, and his eyes never left the dark-haired young man at the bar. Chronicler’s face was calm as he pressed the metal disk firmly onto the table with two fingers.
“Iron,” he said. His voice sounding with strange resonance, as if it were an order to be obeyed.
Bast doubled over as if punched in the stomach, baring his teeth and making a noise halfway between a growl and a scream. Moving with an unnatural, sinuous speed, he drew one hand back to the side of his head and tensed himself to spring.
It all happened in the time it takes to draw a sharp breath. Still, somehow, Kvothe’s long-fingered hand caught Bast’s wrist. Unaware or uncaring, Bast leaped toward Chronicler only to be brought up short, as if Kvothe’s hand were a shackle. Bast struggled furiously to free himself, but Kvothe stood behind the bar, arm outstretched, motionless as steel or stone.
“Stop!” Kvothe’s voice struck the air like a commandment, and in the stillness that followed, his words were sharp and angry. “I will have no fighting among my friends. I have lost enough without that.” His eyes caught Chronicler. “Undo that, or I will break it.”
Chronicler paused, shaken. Then his mouth moved silently, and with a slight tremor he drew his hand away from the circle of dull metal that lay upon the table.
Tension poured out of Bast, and for a moment he hung limply as a rag doll from the wrist Kvothe still held, standing behind the bar. Shakily, Bast managed to find his feet and lean against the bar. Kvothe gave him a long, searching look, then released his wrist.
Bast slumped onto the stool without taking his eyes from Chronicler. He moved gingerly, like a man with a tender wound.
And he had changed. The eyes that watched Chronicler were still a striking ocean blue, but now they showed themselves to be all one color, like gems or deep forest pools, and his soft leather boots had been replaced with graceful cloven hooves.
Kvothe motioned Chronicler forward imperiously, then turned to grab two thick glasses and a bottle seemingly at random. He set the glasses down as Bast and Chronicler eyed each other uneasily.
“Now,” Kvothe said angrily, “you’ve both acted understandably, but that does not by any means mean that either of you has behaved well. So, we might as well start over altogether.”
He drew a deep breath. “Bast, let me introduce you to Devan Lochees, also known as Chronicler. By all accounts a great teller, rememberer, and recorder of stories. In addition, unless I have suddenly lost all my wit, an accomplished member of the Arcanum, at least Re’lar, and one of perhaps two score people in the world who knows the name of iron.
“However,” Kvothe continued, “in spite of these accolades he seems to be a bit innocent of the ways of the world. As demonstrated by his plentiful lack of wit in making a near-suicidal attack on what I guess is the first of the folk he has ever had the luck to see.”
Chronicler stood impassively throughout the introduction, watching Bast as if he were a snake.
“Chronicler, I would like you to meet Bastas, son of Remmen, Prince of Twilight and the Telwyth Mael. The brightest, which is to say the only student I’ve had the misfortune to teach. Glamourer, bartender, and, not last, my friend.
“Who, over the course of a hundred and fifty years of life, not to mention nearly two years of my personal tutelage, has managed to avoid learning a few important facts. The first being this: attacking a member of the Arcanum skilled enough to make a binding of iron is foolish.”
“He attacked me!” said Bast hotly.
Kvothe looked at him coolly. “I didn’t say it was unjustified. I said it was foolish.”
“I would have won.”
“Very likely. But you would have been hurt, and he would be hurt or dead. Do you remember that I had introduced him as my guest?”
Bast was silent. His expression remained belligerent.
“Now,” said Kvothe with a brittle cheerfulness. “You’ve been introduced.”
“Pleased,” Bast said icily.
“Likewise,” Chronicler returned.
“There is no reason for you two to be anything other than friends,” Kvothe continued, an edge creeping into his voice. “And that is not how friends greet each other.”
Bast and Chronicler stared at each other, neither moved.
Kvothe’s voice grew quiet, “If you do not stop this foolishness, you may both leave now. One of you
will be left with a slim sliver of story, and the other can search out a new teacher. If there is one thing I will not abide, it is the folly of a willful pride.”
Something about the low intensity of Kvothe’s voice broke the stare between them. And when they turned to look at him it seemed that someone very different was standing behind the bar. The jovial innkeeper was gone, and in his place stood someone dark and fierce.
He’s so young, Chronicler marveled. He can’t be more than twenty-five. Why didn’t I see it before? He could break me in his hands like a kindling stick. How did I ever mistake him for an innkeeper, even for a moment?
Then he saw Kvothe’s eyes. They had deepened to a green so dark they were nearly black. This is who I came to see, Chronicler thought to himself, this is the man who counseled kings and walked old roads with nothing but his wit to guide him. This is the man whose name has become both praise and curse at the University.
Kvothe stared at Chronicler and Bast in turn; neither could meet his eye for very long. After an awkward pause, Bast extended his hand. Chronicler hesitated for a bare moment before reaching out quickly, as if he were sticking his hand into a fire.
Nothing happened, both of them seemed moderately surprised.
“Amazing, isn’t it?” Kvothe addressed them bitingly. “Five fingers and flesh with blood beneath. One could almost believe that on the other end of that hand lay a person of some sort.”
Guilt crept into the expressions of the two men. They let go of each other’s hands.
Kvothe poured something from the green bottle into the glasses. This simple gesture changed him. He seemed to fade back into himself, until there was little left of the dark-eyed man who’d stood behind the bar a moment ago. Chronicler felt a pang of loss as he stared at the innkeeper with one hand hidden in a linen rag.
“Now.” Kvothe pushed the glasses toward them. “Take these drinks, sit at that table, and talk. When I come back, I don’t want to find either one of you dead or the building on fire. Fair?”
Bast gave an embarrassed smile as Chronicler picked up the glasses and moved back to the table. Bast followed him and almost sat down before returning to grab the bottle too.
“Not too much of that,” Kvothe cautioned as he stepped into the back room. “I don’t want you giggling through my story.”
The two at the table began a tense, halting conversation as Kvothe moved into the kitchen. Several minutes later he emerged, bringing out cheese and a loaf of dark bread, cold chicken and sausage, butter and honey.
They moved to a larger table as Kvothe brought the platters out, bustling about and looking every bit the innkeeper. Chronicler watched him covertly, finding it hard to believe that this man humming to himself and cutting sausage could be the same person who had stood behind the bar just minutes ago, dark-eyed and terrible.
As Chronicler gathered his paper and quills, Kvothe studied the angle of the sun through the window, a pensive look on his face. Eventually he turned to Bast. “How much did you manage to overhear?”
“Most of it, Reshi,” Bast smiled. “I have good ears.”
“That’s good. We don’t have time to backtrack.” He drew a deep breath. “Let’s get back to it then. Brace yourselves, the story takes a turn now. Downward. Darker. Clouds on the horizon.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Name of the Wind
WINTER IS A SLOW time of year for a traveling troupe, but Abenthy put it to good use and finally got around to teaching me sympathy in earnest. However, as is often the case, especially for children, the anticipation proved much more exciting than the reality.
It would be wrong to say that I was disappointed with sympathy. But honestly, I was disappointed. It was not what I expected magic to be.
It was useful. There was no denying that. Ben used sympathy to make light for our shows. Sympathy could start a fire without flint or lift a heavy weight without cumbersome ropes and pulleys.
But the first time I’d seen him, Ben had somehow called the wind. That was no mere sympathy. That was storybook magic. That was the secret I wanted more than anything.
Spring thaw was well behind us and the troupe was riding through the forests and fields of the western Commonwealth. I was riding along, as per normal, in the front of Ben’s wagon. Summer was just deciding to make itself known again and everything was green and growing.
Things had been quiet for about an hour. Ben was drowsing with the reins held loosely in one hand when the wagon hit a stone and jarred us both out of our respective reveries.
Ben pulled himself more upright in his seat, and addressed me in a tone I had grown to think of as Have-I-Got-a-Puzzle-for-You. “How would you bring a kettle of water to a boil?”
Looking around I saw a large boulder by the side of the road. I pointed.
“That stone should be warm from sitting in the sun. I’d bind it to the water in the kettle, and use the heat in the stone to bring the water to boil.”
“Stone to water isn’t very efficient,” Ben chided me. “Only about one part in fifteen would end up warming the water.”
“It would work.”
“I’ll grant you that. But it’s sloppy. You can do better, E’lir.”
He then proceeded to shout at Alpha and Beta, a sign that he was in a genuine good mood. They took it as calmly as ever, in spite of the fact that he accused them of things I’m sure no donkey has ever willingly done, especially not Beta, who possessed impeccable moral character.
Stopping midtirade, he asked, “How would you bring down that bird?” He gestured to a hawk riding the air above a wheat field to the side of the road.
“I probably wouldn’t. It’s done nothing to me.”
“Hypothetically.”
“I’m saying that, hypothetically, I wouldn’t do it.”
Ben chuckled. “Point made, E’lir. Precisely how wouldn’t you do it? Details please.”
“I’d get Teren to shoot it down.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “Good, good. However, it is a matter between you and the bird. That hawk,” he gestured indignantly, “has said something uncouth about your mother.”
“Ah. Then my honor demands I defend her good name myself.”
“Indeed it does.”
“Do I have a feather?”
“No.”
“Tehlu hold and—” I bit off the rest of what I was going to say at his disapproving look. “You never make it easy, do you?”
“It’s an annoying habit I picked up from a student who was too clever for his own good.” He smiled. “What could you do even if you had a feather?”
“I’d bind it to the bird and lather it with lye soap.”
Ben furrowed his brow, such as it was. “What kind of binding?”
“Chemical. Probably second catalytic.”
A thoughtful pause. “Second catalytic…” He scratched at his chin. “To dissolve the oil that makes the feather smooth?”
I nodded.
He looked up at the bird. “I’ve never thought of that,” he said with a kind of quiet admiration. I took it as a compliment.
“Nevertheless,” he looked back to me, “you have no feather. How do you bring it down?”
I thought for several minutes, but couldn’t think of anything. I decided to try and turn this into a different sort of lesson.
“I would,” I said casually, “simply call the wind, and make it strike the bird from the sky.”
Ben gave me a calculating look that told me he knew exactly what I was up to. “And how would you do that, E’lir?”
I sensed he might be ready to finally tell me the secret he had been keeping all through the winter months. At the same time I was struck with an idea.
I drew in a deep breath and spoke the words to bind the air in my lungs to the air outside. I fixed the Alar firmly in my mind, put my thumb and forefinger in front of my pursed lips, and blew between them.
There was a light puff of wind at my back that tousled my hair and caused the tar
paulin covering the wagon to pull taut for a moment. It might have been nothing more than a coincidence, but nevertheless, I felt an exultant smile overflow my face. For a second I did nothing but grin like a maniac at Ben, his face dull with disbelief.
Then I felt something squeeze my chest, as if I was deep underwater.
I tried to draw a breath but couldn’t. Mildly confused, I kept trying. It felt as if I’d just fallen flat on my back and had the air driven from me.
All in a rush I realized what I had done. My body exploded into a cold sweat and I grabbed frantically at Ben’s shirt, pointing at my chest, my neck, my open mouth.
Ben’s face turned from shocked to ashen as he looked at me.
I realized how still everything was. Not a blade of grass was stirring. Even the sound of the wagon seemed muted, as if far off in the distance.
Terror screamed through my mind, drowning out any thought. I began to claw at my throat, ripping my shirt open. My heart thundered through the ringing in my ears. Pain stabbed through my straining chest as I gaped for air.
Moving more quickly than I had ever seen before, Ben grabbed me by the tatters of my shirt and sprang from the seat of the wagon. Landing in the grass by the side of the road, he dashed me to the ground with such a force that, if I’d had any air in my lungs, it would have been driven out of me.
Tears streaked my face as I thrashed blindly. I knew that I was going to die. My eyes felt hot and red. I raked madly at the earth with hands that were numb and cold as ice.
I was aware of someone shouting, but it seemed very far away. Ben kneeled above me, but the sky was getting dim behind him. He seemed almost distracted, as if he were listening to something I couldn’t hear.
Then he looked at me, all I remember were his eyes, they seemed far away and filled with a terrible power, dispassionate and cold.
He looked at me. His mouth moved. He called the wind.
A leaf in lightning, I shook. And the thunderclap was black.
The next thing I remember was Ben helping me to my feet. I was dimly aware of the other wagons stopping and curious faces peering at us. My mother came away from our wagon and Ben met her halfway, chuckling and saying something reassuring. I couldn’t make out the words as I was focused on breathing deep, in and out.