The Wise Man's Fear

by Patrick Rothfuss

  “The boy who told me this was hardly as old as Kvothe here,” Dedan said. “And if you’d heard him talk you’d have seen he wasn’t the sort who could invent such a tale.” The mercenary tapped his temple meaningfully. “But listen and judge for yourself if it’s worth believing.”

  As I’ve said, Dedan had a good tongue in his head, and a sharper wit than you’d guess, when he decided to use it. Unfortunately, this was one of the times that the former was working and the latter was not.

  “For time out of mind, men have been wary of this stretch of woods. Not for fear of lawless men or becoming lost.” He shook his head. “No. They say the fair folk make their homes here.

  “Cloven-hoofed pucks that dance when the moon is full. Dark things with long fingers that steal babes from cribs. Many’s the woman, old wife or new, who leaves out bread and milk at night. And many’s the man who makes well sure he builds his house with all his doors in a row.

  “Some might call these folk superstitious, but they know the truth. The safest thing is to avoid the Fae, but barring that, you want to keep in their good graces.

  “This is a story of Felurian. Lady of Twilight. Lady of the First Quiet. Felurian, who is death to men. But a glad death, and one they go to willingly.”

  Tempi drew a breath. It was a small motion, but it was eye-catching as he’d continued his habit of sitting perfectly still through the evening’s stories. Now this made better sense to me. He was being quiet.

  “Felurian,” Tempi asked. “Death to men. She is—” he paused. “She is sentin?” He lifted his hands in front of himself and made a sort of gripping gesture. He eyed us expectantly. Then, seeing we didn’t understand, he touched his sword where it lay at his side.

  I understood. “No,” I said. “She’s not one of the Adem.”

  Tempi shook his head and pointed at Marten’s bow.

  I shook my head. “No. She’s not a fighter at all. She . . .” I trailed off, unable to think of how I would explain how Felurian killed men, especially if we were forced to resort to gestures. Desperate, I looked to Dedan for help.

  Dedan didn’t hesitate. “Sex,” he said frankly. “Do you know sex?”

  Tempi blinked, then threw back his head and laughed. Dedan looked as if he were trying to decide whether or not to be offended. After a moment Tempi caught his breath. “Yes,” he said simply. “Yes. I know sex.”

  Dedan smiled. “That’s how she kills men.”

  For a moment, Tempi looked more blank than usual, then a slow horror spread across his face. No, not horror, it was raw disgust and revulsion, made all the worse by the fact that his face was usually so blank. His hand clenched into several unfamiliar gestures at his side. “How?” he choked out the word.

  Dedan started to say something, then stopped. Then he started to make a gesture and stopped that as well, looking self-consciously at Hespe.

  Hespe chuckled low in her throat and turned to Tempi. She thought for a moment, then made a gesture as if holding someone in her arms, kissing them. Then she began to tap her chest rhythmically, mimicking a heartbeat. She beat faster and faster, then stopped, clenching her hand into a fist and making her eyes wide. She tensed her whole body, then went limp, lolling her head to one side.

  Dedan laughed and clapped at her performance. “That’s it. But sometimes . . .” He tapped his temple, then snapped his fingers, crossing his eyes and sticking out his tongue. “Crazy.”

  Tempi relaxed. “Oh,” he said, plainly relieved. “Good. Yes.”

  Dedan nodded and settled back into his story. “Right. Felurian. Fondest desire of all men. Beauty beyond compare.” For Tempi’s benefit, he made a gesture as if he were brushing out long hair.

  “Twenty years ago, this boy’s father and uncle were out hunting in this very stretch of forest as the sun began to set. They stayed out later than they should, then decided to make their way home by cutting straight through the forest instead of using the road like sensible folk.

  “They hadn’t been walking very long when they heard singing in the distance. They made their way toward it, thinking they were close to the road, but instead they found themselves at the edge of a small clearing. And there stood Felurian singing softly to herself:Cae-Lanion Luhial

  di mari Felanua

  Kreata Tu ciar

  tu alaran di

  Dirella. Amauen.

  Loesi an delan

  tu nia vor ruhlan

  Felurian thae.”

  Though Dedan made rough work of the tune, I shivered at the sound of it. The melody was eerie, compelling, and utterly unfamiliar. I didn’t recognize the language, either. Not a bit of it.

  Dedan nodded as he saw my reaction. “More than anything, that song gives the boy’s story the ring of truth. I can’t put a bit of sense to those words, but they stuck right in my head even though he only sang it once.

  “So the two brothers are huddled at the edge of the clearing. And thanks to the moon they could see like it was noon instead of night. She wan’t wearing a stitch, and though her hair was almost to her waist, it were real obvious she was as naked as the moon.”

  I have always enjoyed stories about Felurian, but as I glanced at Hespe my anticipation cooled. She was watching Dedan, and as he spoke, her eyes narrowed.

  Dedan failed to see this. “She was tall with long graceful legs. Her waist was slender, her hips curved as if begging for the touch of a hand. Her stomach was perfect and smooth, like a flawless piece of birch bark, and the dimple of her navel seemed made for kissing.”

  Hespe’s eyes were dangerous slits by this point. But even more telling was her mouth, which had formed a thin, straight line. A word of advice to you. Should you ever see that look on a woman’s face, leave off talking at once and sit on both your hands. It may not mend matters, but it will at least keep you from making them any worse.

  Unfortunately Dedan continued, his thick hands gesturing in the firelight. “Her breasts were full and round, like peaches waiting to be taken from the tree. Even the jealous moon which steals the color from all things couldn’t hide the rosy—”

  Hespe made a disgusted noise and pushed herself to her feet. “I’ll just leave then,” she said. Her voice held such a chill even Dedan couldn’t miss it.

  “What?” He looked up to her, still holding his hands in front of himself, frozen in the act of cupping an imagined pair of breasts.

  She stormed away, muttering under her breath.

  Dedan let his hands drop heavily into his lap. His expression moved from confused to injured to angry in the space of a breath. After a second he got to his feet, roughly brushing bits of leaf and twig from his pants and muttering to himself. Gathering up his blankets, he started toward the other side of our little clearing.

  “Did it end with both brothers chasing after her, and the boy’s father falling behind?” I asked.

  Dedan looked back at me. “You’ve already heard it then. You could have stopped me if you didn’t—”

  “I’m just guessing,” I said quickly. “I hate not hearing the ending of a story.”

  “Father put his foot in a rabbit hole,” Dedan said shortly. “Sprained his ankle. Nobody saw the uncle again.” He stalked out of the circle of firelight, his expression grim.

  I cast an imploring look at Marten, who shook his head. “No,” he said softly. “I won’t have any part of it. Not for the world. Trying to help right now would be like trying to put out a fire with my hands. Painful, and with no real results.”

  Tempi began to make up his bed. Marten made a circular gesture with one finger and gave me a questioning look, asking if I wanted the first watch. I nodded, and he gathered up his bedroll, saying, “Attractive as some things are, you have to weigh your risks. How badly do you want it, how badly are you willing to be burned?”

  I spread the fire and soon the deep dark of night settled into the clearing. I lay on my back, looked at the stars, and thought of Denna.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

  Bar
barians

  THE NEXT DAY, TEMPI and I moved camp while Dedan and Hespe walked back to Crosson for supplies. Marten scouted out an isolated piece of flat ground close to water. Then we packed and moved everything, dug the privy, built the firepit, and generally got everything settled.

  Tempi was willing to talk as we worked, but I was nervous. I had offended him by asking about the Lethani early on, so I knew to avoid that subject. But if he was upset by a simple question about singing, how could I begin to guess what might offend him?

  Again, his blank expression and refusal to make eye contact were the main problems. How could I make intelligent conversation with a person when I had no idea how he felt? It was like trying to walk blindfolded through an unfamiliar house.

  So I took the safer road and simply asked for more words as we worked. Objects, for the most part, as we were both too busy with our hands to pantomime.

  Best of all, Tempi got to practice his Aturan while I built up my Ademic vocabulary. I noticed the more mistakes I made in his language, the more comfortable he grew in his own attempts at expressing himself.

  This meant, of course, that I made many mistakes. In fact, I was occasionally so thickheaded that Tempi was forced to explain himself several times in several different ways. All in Aturan of course.

  We finished setting up camp around noon. Marten left to go hunting and Tempi stretched and began to move through his slow dance. He did it twice in a row, and I began to suspect he was somewhat bored himself. By the time he finished he was covered in a sheen of sweat and told me he was going to bathe.

  With the camp to myself, I melted down the tinker’s candles to make two small wax simulacra. I’d been wanting to do this for days, but even at the University creating a mommet was questionable behavior. Here in Vintas . . . suffice to say I thought it best to be discreet.

  It wasn’t elegant work. Tallow isn’t nearly as convenient as sympathy wax, but even the crudest mommet can be a devastating thing. Once I had them tucked into my travelsack, I felt much better prepared.

  I was cleaning the last of the tallow off my fingers when Tempi returned from his bath, naked as a new baby. Years of stage training allowed me to keep a calm expression, but just barely.

  After spreading his wet clothing over a nearby branch to dry, Tempi walked over to me without showing the least embarrassment or modesty.

  He held out his right hand, thumb and forefinger pinched together. “What is this?” He spread his fingers slightly for me to see.

  I looked closely, glad to have something to focus my attention on. “That’s a tick.”

  This close, I couldn’t help but notice his scars again, faint lines crossing his arms and chest. I could read scars from my time in the Medica, and his didn’t show the wide, puckered pink that would indicate a deep wound cutting through the layers of skin, fat, and muscle underneath. These were shallow wounds. Dozens of them. I couldn’t help but wonder how long he had been a mercenary to have scars so old. He didn’t look much older than twenty.

  Oblivious to my scrutiny, Tempi stared at the thing between his fingers. “It bites. On me. Bites and stays.” His expression was blank as always, but his tone was tinged with disgust. His left hand fidgeted.

  “There are no ticks in Ademre?”

  “No.” He made a point of trying to pinch it between his fingers. “It not break.”

  I gestured, showing him how to crush it between his fingernails, which he did with a certain amount of relish. He threw it away and stalked back to his bedroll. Then, still naked, he proceeded to pull out all of his clothing and give it a vigorous shaking.

  I kept my eyes averted, knowing deep down in my heart that this would be the moment Dedan and Hespe would return from Crosson.

  Thankfully they didn’t. After a quarter hour or so, Tempi put on a pair of dry pants, carefully inspecting them first.

  Shirtless, he walked back to where I sat. “I hate tick,” he declared.

  When he spoke, his left hand made a sharp gesture, as if he were brushing crumbs off the front of his shirt near his hip. Except he wasn’t wearing a shirt, and there was nothing on his bare skin to brush away. What’s more, I realized he’d made the same gesture earlier.

  In fact, now that I thought of it, I’d seen him make that gesture a half-dozen times in the last several days, though never so violently.

  I had a sudden suspicion. “Tempi? What does this mean?” I mimicked the brushing away gesture.

  He nodded. “It is this.” He scrunched his face up in an exaggerated expression of disgust.

  My mind went spinning back over the last span of days, thinking of how many times I had seen Tempi fidgeting restlessly while we talked. I reeled at the thought of it.

  “Tempi,” I asked. “Is all of this?” I made a gesture to my face, then smiled, frowned, rolled my eyes. “Does all this happen with hands in Ademic?”

  He nodded and made a gesture at the same time.

  “That!” I pointed at his hand. “What is that?”

  He hesitated, then gave a forced, awkward-looking smile.

  I copied the gesture, splaying my hand slightly and pressing my thumb to the inside of my middle finger.

  “No,” he said. “Other hand. Left.”

  “Why?”

  He reached out and thumped on my chest, just left of the breastbone: Tum-tump. Tum-tump. Then he ran a finger down to my left hand. I nodded to show I understood. It was closest to the heart. He held up his right hand and made a fist. “This hand is strong.” He held up his left. “This hand is clever.”

  It made sense. That is why most lutists chord with the left hand and strum with their right. The left hand is more nimble, as a rule.

  I made the gesture with my left hand, fingers splayed. Tempi shook his head. “That is this.” He quirked half of his mouth up into a smirk.

  The expression seemed so out of place on his face that it was all I could do to keep from gawking. I looked more closely at his hand and adjusted the position of my fingers slightly.

  He nodded approval. His face was expressionless, but for the first time I understood why.

  In the hours that followed, I learned that Ademic hand gestures did not actually represent facial expressions. It was nothing so simple as that. For example a smile can mean you’re amused, happy, grateful, or satisfied. You can smile to comfort someone. You can smile because you’re content or because you’re in love. A grimace or a grin look similar to a smile, but they mean entirely different things.

  Imagine trying to teach someone how to smile. Imagine trying to describe what different smiles mean and when, precisely, to use them in conversation. It’s harder than learning to walk.

  Suddenly so many things made sense. Of course Tempi wouldn’t look me in the eye. There was nothing to be gained by looking at the face of the person you were talking to. You listen to the voice, but you watch the hand.

  I spent the next several hours attempting to learn the basics, but it was maddeningly difficult. Words are fairly simple things. You can point to a stone. You can act out running or jumping. But have you ever tried to pantomime compliance? Respect? Sarcasm? I doubt even my father could have accomplished such a thing.

  Because of this my progress was frustratingly slow, but I couldn’t help but be fascinated. It was like suddenly being given a second tongue.

  And it was a secret thing, of sorts. I have always had a weakness for secrets.

  It took three hours to learn a handful of gestures, if you’ll pardon the pun. My progress felt glacial, but when I finally learned the hand-speak for “understatement” I felt a glow of pride that can barely be described.

  I think Tempi felt it too. “Good,” he said with a flattening of the hand I was fairly certain indicated approval. He rolled his shoulders and got to his feet, stretching. He glanced at the sun through the branches overhead. “Food now?”

  “Soon.” There was one question that had been bothering me. “Tempi, why make all this work?” I asked. “A smi
le is easy. Why smile with your hands?”

  “With hands is easy too. Better. More . . .” He made a slightly modified version of the shirt-brushing gesture he’d used earlier. Not disgust, irritation? “What is the word for people living together. Roads. Right things.” He ran his thumb along his collarbone, was that frustration? “What is word for good together living? Nobody shits in the well.”

  I laughed. “Civilization?”

  He nodded, splaying his fingers: amusement. “Yes,” he said. “Speaking with hands is civilization.”

  “But smiling is natural,” I protested. “Everyone smiles.”

  “Natural is not civilization,” Tempi said. “Cooking meat is civilization. Washing off stink is civilization.”

  “So in Ademre you always smile with hands?” I wished I knew the gesture for dismay.

  “No. Smiling with face good with family. Good with some friend.”

  “Why only family?”

  Tempi repeated his thumb-on-collarbone gesture again. “When you make this.” He pressed his palm to the side of his face and blew air into it, making a great flatulent noise. “That is natural, but you do not make it near others. Rude. With family . . .” He shrugged. Amusement. “. . . civilization not important. More natural with family.”

  “What about laughing?” I asked. “I have seen you laugh.” I made a ha-ha sound so he knew what I was talking about.

  He shrugged. “Laughing is.”

  I waited for a moment, but he didn’t seem inclined to continue. I tried again. “Why not laugh with hands?”

  Tempi shook his head. “No. Laugh is different.” He stepped close and used two fingers to tap my chest over my heart. “Smile?” He ran his finger down my left arm. “Angry?” He tapped my heart again. He made a scared expression, a confused one, and poked his lip out in a ridiculous pout. Each time he tapped my chest.

  “But laugh?” He pressed the flat of his hand against my stomach. “Here lives laugh.” He ran his finger straight up to my mouth and spread his fingers. “Push back laugh is not good. Not healthy.”