The Wise Man's Fear

by Patrick Rothfuss

But I couldn’t have been more stunned if she had written a hymn praising the Duke of Gibea. The shock was simply too much for me. I felt raw as reused parchment, as if every note of her song had been another flick of a knife, scraping until I was entirely blank and wordless.

  I looked down dumbly at my hands. They still held the half-formed circle of green grass I’d been weaving when the song began. It was a broad, flat plait already beginning to curve into the shape of a ring.

  Still looking down, I heard the rustle of Denna’s skirts as she moved. I needed to say something. I’d already waited too long. There was too much silence in the air.

  “The city’s name wasn’t Mirinitel,” I said without looking up. It was not the worst thing I could have said. But it wasn’t the right thing to say.

  There was a pause. “What?”

  “Not Mirinitel,” I repeated. “The city Lanre burned was Myr Tariniel. Sorry to tell you that. Changing a name is hard work. It will wreck the meter in a third of your verses.” I was surprised at how quiet my voice was, how flat and dead it sounded in my own ears.

  I heard her draw a surprised breath. “You’ve heard the story before?”

  I looked up at Denna, her expression excited. I nodded, still feeling oddly blank. Empty. Hollow as a dried gourd. “What made you pick this for a song?” I asked her.

  It wasn’t the right thing to say either. I can’t help but feel that if I’d said the right thing at that moment, everything would have turned out differently. But even now, after years of thinking, I can’t imagine what I could have said that might have made things right.

  Her excitement faded slightly. “I found a version of it in an old book when I was doing genealogical research for my patron,” she said. “Hardly anyone remembers it, so it’s perfect for a song. It’s not like the world needs another story about Oren Velciter. I’ll never make my mark repeating what other musicians have already hashed over a hundred times before.”

  Denna gave me a curious look. “I thought I was going to be able to surprise you with something new. I never would have guessed you’d heard of Lanre.”

  “I heard it years ago,” I said numbly. “From an old storyteller in Tarbean.”

  “If I had half your luck . . .” Denna shook her head in dismay. “I had to piece it together out of a hundred little scraps.” She made a conciliatory gesture. “Me and my patron, I should say. He’s helped.”

  “Your patron,” I said. I felt a spark of emotion when she mentioned him. Hollow as I was, it was surprising how quickly the bitterness spread through my gut, as if someone had kindled a fire inside me.

  Denna nodded. “He fancies himself a bit of a historian,” she said. “I think he’s angling for a court appointment. He wouldn’t be the first to ingratiate himself by shining a light on someone’s long-lost heroic ancestor. Or maybe he’s trying to invent a heroic ancestor for himself. That would explain the research we’ve been doing in old genealogies.”

  She hesitated for a moment, biting her lips. “The truth is,” she said, as if confessing something. “I half suspect the song is for Alveron himself. Master Ash has implied he’s had dealings with the Maer.” She gave a mischievous grin. “Who knows? Running in the circles you do, you might have already met my patron and not even known it.”

  My mind flickered over the hundreds of nobles and courtiers I’d met in passing over the last month, but it was hard to focus on their faces. The fire in my gut was spreading until my whole chest was full of it.

  “But enough of this,” Denna said, waving her hands impatiently. She pushed her harp away and folded her legs to sit cross-legged on the grass. “You’re teasing me. What did you think of it?”

  I looked down at my hands and idly fingered the flat braid of green grass I’d woven. It was smooth and cool between my fingers. I couldn’t remember how I’d planned to join the ends together to form a ring.

  “I know it’s got some rough patches,” I heard Denna say, her voice brimming with nervous excitement. “I’ll have to fix that name you mentioned, if you’re sure it’s the right one. The beginning is rough, and the seventh verse is a shambles, I know. I need to expand the battles and his relationship with Lyra. The ending needs tightening. But overall, what did you think?”

  Once she smoothed it out, it would be brilliant. As good a song as my parents might have written, but that just made it worse.

  My hands were shaking, and I was amazed at how hard it was to make them stop. I looked away from them, up at Denna. Her nervous excitement faded when she saw my face.

  “You’re going to have to rework more than just the name.” I tried to keep my voice calm. “Lanre wasn’t a hero.”

  She looked at me oddly, as if she couldn’t tell if I was making a joke. “What?”

  “You’ve got the whole thing wrong,” I said. “Lanre was a monster. A traitor. You need to change it.”

  Denna tossed back her head and laughed. When I didn’t join her, she cocked her head, puzzled. “You’re serious?”

  I nodded.

  Denna’s face went stiff. Her eyes narrowed and her mouth made a thin line. “You have to be kidding.” Her mouth worked silently for a moment, then she shook her head. “It wouldn’t make any sense. The whole story falls apart if Lanre isn’t the hero.”

  “It’s not about what makes a good story,” I said. “It’s about what’s true.”

  “True?” She looked at me incredulously. “This is just some old folk story. None of the places are real. None of the people are real. You might as well get offended at me for coming up with a new verse for ‘Tinker Tanner.’ ”

  I could feel words rising in my throat, hot as a chimney fire. I swallowed down hard against them. “Some stories are just stories,” I agreed. “But not this one. It’s not your fault. There’s no way you could have—”

  “Oh well, thank you,” she said bitingly. “I’m so glad this isn’t my fault.”

  “Fine,” I said sharply. “It is your fault. You should have done more research.”

  “What do you know about the research I did?” she demanded. “You haven’t the slightest idea! I’ve been all over the world digging up pieces of this story!”

  It was the same thing my father had done. He’d started writing a song about Lanre, but his research led him to the Chandrian. He’d spent years chasing down half-forgotten stories and digging up rumors. He wanted his song to tell the truth about them, and they had killed my entire troupe to put an end to it.

  I looked down at the grass and thought about the secret I had kept for so long. I thought of the smell of blood and burning hair. I thought of rust and blue fire and the broken bodies of my parents. How could I explain something so huge and horrible? Where would I even begin? I could feel the secret deep inside me, huge and heavy as a stone.

  “In the version of the story I heard,” I said, touching the far edge of the secret. “Lanre became one of the Chandrian. You should be careful. Some stories are dangerous.”

  Denna stared at me for a long moment. “The Chandrian?” she said incredulously. Then she laughed. It was not her usual delighted laugh. This was sharp and full of derision. “What kind of a child are you?”

  I knew exactly how childish it made me sound. I felt myself flush hot with embarrassment, my whole body suddenly prickling with sweat. I opened my mouth to speak, and it felt like cracking open the door of a furnace.“I’m like a child?” I spat. “What do you know about anything, you stupid . . .” I almost bit off the end of my tongue to keep from shouting the word whore.

  “You think you know everything, don’t you?” she demanded. “You’ve been to the University so you think the rest of us are—”

  “Quit looking for excuses to be upset and listen to me!” I snapped. The words poured out of me like molten iron. “You’re having a snit like a spoiled little girl!”

  “Don’t you dare.” She jabbed a finger at me. “Don’t talk to me like I’m some sort of witless farm girl. I know things they don’t teach at you
r precious University! Secret things! I’m not an idiot!”

  “You’re acting like an idiot!” I shouted so loudly the words hurt my throat. “You won’t shut up long enough to listen to me! I’m trying to help you!”

  Denna sat in the center of a chilly silence. Her eyes were hard and flat. “That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?” she said coldly. Her fingers moved in her hair, every flick of her fingers stiff with irritation. She untied her braids, smoothed them out, then absentmindedly retied them in a different pattern. “You hate that I won’t take your help. You can’t stand that I won’t let you fix every little thing in my life, is that it?”

  “Well maybe someone needs to fix your life,” I snapped. “You’ve made a fair mess of it so far, haven’t you?”

  She continued to sit very still, her eyes furious. “What makes you think you know anything about my life?”

  “I know you’re so afraid of anyone getting close that you can’t stay in the same bed four days in a row,” I said, hardly knowing what I was saying anymore. Angry words poured out of me like blood from a wound. “I know you live your whole life burning bridges behind you. I know you solve your problems by running—”

  “What makes you think your advice is worth one thin sliver of a damn, anyway?” Denna burst out. “Half a year ago you had one foot in the gutter. Hair all shaggy and only three raggedy shirts. There isn’t a noble in a hundred miles of Imre that would piss on you if you were on fire. You had to run a thousand miles to have a chance of a patron.”

  My face burned with shame at her mention of my three shirts, and I felt my temper flare hot again. “You’re right of course,” I said scathingly. “You’re much better off. I’m sure your patron would be perfectly happy to piss on you—”

  “Now we get to the heart of it,” she said, throwing her hands up in the air. “You don’t like my patron because you could get me a better one. You don’t like my song because it’s different from the one you know.” She reached for her harp case, her movements stiff and angry. “You’re just like all the rest.”

  “I’m trying to help you!”

  “You’re trying to fix me,” Denna said crisply as she put away her harp. “You’re trying to buy me. To arrange my life. You want to keep me like I’m your pet. Like I’m your faithful dog.”

  “I’d never think of you as a dog,” I said, giving her a bright and brittle smile. “A dog knows how to listen. A dog has sense enough not to bite a hand that’s trying to help.”

  Our conversation spiraled downward from there.

  At this point in the story I’m tempted to lie. To say I spoke these things in an uncontrollable rage. That I was overwhelmed with grief at the memory of my murdered family. I’m tempted to say I tasted plum and nutmeg. Then I would have some excuse. . . .

  But they were my words. In the end, I was the one who said those things. Only me.

  Denna responded in kind, hurt and furious and sharp-tongued as myself. We were both proud and angry and filled with the unshakable certainty of youth. We said things we never would have said otherwise, and when we left, we did not leave together.

  My temper was hot and bitter as a bar of molten iron. It seared at me as I walked all the way back to Severen. It burned as I made my way through the city and waited for the freight lifts. It smoldered as I stalked through the Maer’s estates and slammed the door to my rooms behind me.

  It was only hours later that I cooled enough to regret my words. I thought of what I might have said to Denna. I thought of telling her of how my troupe was killed, about the Chandrian.

  I decided I would write her a letter. I would explain it all, no matter how foolish or unbelievable it seemed. I brought out pen and ink and laid a sheet of fine white paper on the writing desk.

  I dipped the pen and tried to think of where I could begin.

  My parents had been killed when I was eleven. It was an event so huge and horrifying it had driven me nearly mad. In the years since, I had never told a soul of those events. I had never so much as whispered them in an empty room. It was a secret I had clutched so tightly for so long that when I dared think of it, it lay so heavy in my chest that I could barely breathe.

  I dipped the pen again, but no words came. I opened a bottle of wine, thinking it might loosen the secret inside me. Give me some fingerhold I could use to pry it up. I drank until the room spun and the nib of the pen was crusted with dry ink.

  Hours later the blank sheet still stared at me, and I beat my fist against the desk in fury and frustration, striking it so hard my hand bled. That is how heavy a secret can become. It can make blood flow easier than ink.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

  Rumors

  THE DAY AFTER I fought with Denna, I woke late in the afternoon, feeling miserable for all the obvious reasons. I ate and bathed, but pride kept me from heading down to Severen-Low to look for Denna. I sent a ring to Bredon, but the runner returned with the news that he was still away from the estate.

  So I opened a bottle of wine and began to leaf through the pile of stories that had been slowly accumulating in my room. The majority of these were scandalous, spiteful things. But their petty meanness suited my mood and helped distract me from my own misery.

  Thus I learned the previous Compte Banbride hadn’t died of consumption, but of syphilis contracted from an amorous stable hand. Lord Veston was addicted to Denner resin, and money intended for the maintenance of the king’s road was paying for his habit.

  Baron Jakis had paid several officials to avoid scandal when his youngest daughter was discovered in a brothel. There were two versions of that story, one where she was selling, and another where she was buying. I filed that information away for future use.

  I’d started a second bottle of wine by the time I read that young Netalia Lackless had run away with a troupe of traveling performers. Her parents had disowned her, of course, leaving Meluan the only heir to the Lackless lands. That explained Meluan’s hatred of the Ruh, and made me doubly glad I hadn’t made my Edema blood public here in Severen.

  There were three separate stories of how the Duke of Cormisant flew into rages while in his cups, beating whoever happened to be nearby, including his wife, his son, and several dinner guests. There was a brief speculative account of how the king and queen held depraved orgies in their private gardens, hidden from the eyes of the royal court.

  Even Bredon made an appearance. He was said to conduct pagan rituals in the secluded woods outside his northern estates. They were described with such extravagant and meticulous detail that I wondered if they weren’t copied directly from the pages of some old Aturan romance.

  I read well into the evening, and was only halfway through the stack of stories when I finished the bottle of wine. I was just about to send a runner for another when I heard the soft hush of air from the other room that announced Alveron’s entrance into my chambers through his secret passage.

  I pretended to look surprised when he entered the room. “Good afternoon, your grace,” I said as I came to my feet.

  “Sit if you wish,” he said shortly.

  I remained standing out of deference, as I’d learned it was better to err on the side of formality with the Maer. “How are things progressing with your lady?” I asked. From Stapes’ excited gossip, I knew matters were rapidly coming to a close.

  “We pledged a formal troth today,” he said distractedly. “Signed papers and all. It’s done.”

  “If you’ll forgive me for saying so, your grace, you don’t seem very pleased.”

  He gave a sour smile. “I suppose you’ve heard about the trouble on the roads of late?”

  “Only rumors, your grace.”

  He snorted. “Rumors I have been trying to keep quiet. Someone has been waylaying my tax collectors on the north road.”

  That was serious. “Collectors, your grace?” I asked, stressing the plural. “How much have they managed to take?”

  The Maer gave me a stern look that let me know the impro
priety of my question. “Enough. More than enough. This is the fourth I’ve had go missing. Over half of my northern taxes taken by highwaymen.” He gave me a serious look. “The Lackless lands are in the north, you know.”

  “You think the Lacklesses are waylaying your collectors?”

  He gave me a stunned look. “What? No, no. It’s bandits in the Eld.”

  I blushed a little in embarrassment. “Have you sent out patrols, your grace?”

  “Of course I’ve sent out patrols,” he snapped. “I’ve sent a dozen. They haven’t found so much as a campfire.” He paused and looked at me. “I suspect someone in my guard is in league with them.” His expression was grave.

  “I assume your grace has given your collectors escorts?”

  “Two apiece,” he said. “Do you know how much it costs to replace a dozen guardsmen? Armor, weapons, horses?” He sighed. “On top of it all, only part of the stolen taxes are mine, the rest belong to the king.”

  I nodded an understanding. “I don’t imagine he’s very pleased.”

  Alveron waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, Roderic will have his money regardless. He holds me personally responsible for his tithe. So I am forced to send the collectors around again to gather his majesty’s share a second time.”

  “I don’t imagine that sits very well with most people,” I said.

  “It does not.” He sat in an overstuffed chair and rubbed his face tiredly. “I’m at my wit’s end over the matter. How will it look to Meluan if I cannot keep my own roads safe?

  I took a seat as well, facing him. “What of Dagon?” I asked. “Couldn’t he find them?”

  Alveron gave a short, humorless bark of a laugh. “Oh, Dagon would find them. He’d have their heads on poles inside ten days.”

  “Then why not send him?” I asked, puzzled.

  “Because Dagon is a man of straight lines. He would raze a dozen villages and set fire to a thousand acres of the Eld to find them.” He shook his head seriously. “Even if I thought him suited to this task, he is tracking down Caudicus at the moment. Besides, I believe there may be magic at work in the Eld, and that is outside Dagon’s ken.”