The Wise Man's Fear

by Patrick Rothfuss

  Realization thundered into me. The leader of the bandits. The graceful man in chain mail. Cinder. He was the one who had spoken to me when I was a child. The man with the terrible smile and the sword like winter ice.

  “Pity he got away,” the Cthaeh continued. “Still, you must admit you’ve had quite a piece of luck. I’d say it was a twice-in-a-lifetime-opportunity meeting up with him again. Pity you wasted it. Don’t feel bad you didn’t recognize him. They have a lot of experience hiding those telltale signs. Not your fault at all. It’s been a long time. Years. Besides, you’ve been busy: currying favor, rolling around in the cushions with some piksie, sating your base desires.”

  Three green butterflies twitched all at once. Their wings looked like leaves as they spun to the ground.

  “Speaking of desires, what would your Denna think? My my. Imagine her, seeing you here. You and the piksie all tangled up, at it like rabbits. He beats her, you know. Her patron. Not all the time, but often. Sometimes in a temper, but mostly it’s a game to him. How far can he go before she cries? How far can he push before she tries to leave and he has to lure her back again? It’s nothing grotesque, mind you. No burns. Nothing that will leave a scar. Not yet.

  “Two days ago he used his walking stick. That was new. Welts the size of your thumb under her clothes. Bruises down to the bone. She’s trembling on the floor with blood in her mouth and you know what she thinks before the black? You. She thinks of you. You thought of her too, I’m guessing. In between the swimming and strawberries and the rest.”

  The Cthaeh made a sound like a sigh. “Poor girl, she’s tied to him so tight. Thinks that’s all she’s good for. Wouldn’t leave him even if you asked. Which you won’t. You, so careful. So scared of startling her away. And well you should be too. She’s a runner, that one. Now that she’s left Severen, how can you hope to find her?

  “It is a shame you left without a word, you know. She was just beginning to trust you before that. Before you got angry. Before you ran off. Just like every other man in her life. Just like every other man. Lusting after her, full of sweet words, then just walking away. Leaving her alone. Good thing she’s used to it by now, isn’t it? Otherwise you might have hurt her. Otherwise you just might have broken that poor girl’s heart.”

  It was all too much. I turned and ran, pelting madly back the way I had come. Back to the quiet twilight of Felurian’s clearing. Away. Away. Away.

  And as I ran I could hear Cthaeh speaking behind me. Its dry, quiet voice followed me longer than I would have thought possible. “Come back. Come back. I’ve more to say. I’ve so much more to tell you, won’t you stay?”

  It was hours before I came back to Felurian’s clearing. I’m not sure how I found my way. I only remember being surprised at the sight of her pavilion through the trees. The sight of it slowed the mad spinning of my thoughts until I could begin to think again.

  I went to the pool and took a long, deep drink, splashing water on my face to clear my head and hide the signs of tears. After a moment or two of quiet reflection, I stood and walked to the pavilion. It was only then that I noticed a curious lack of butterflies. There were usually at least a handful flitting around, but now there were none.

  Felurian was there, but the sight of her only unsettled me further. It was the only time I had ever seen her look less than perfectly beautiful. She lay among the cushions, drawn and weary. As if I had been gone for days instead of hours, and she had not eaten or slept all the while.

  She lifted her head tiredly when she heard me approach. “it is done,” she said, but when she looked at me her eyes widened with surprise.

  I looked down and saw that I was bramble-torn and bloody. I was spattered with mud and grass stained along my entire left side. I must have fallen during my mindless flight away from the Cthaeh.

  Felurian sat upright. “what has come of you?”

  I brushed absently at a bit of dried blood on my elbow. “I might ask the same of you.” My voice sounded thick and coarse, as if I had been shouting. When I looked up I saw real concern in her eyes. “I went walking Dayward. I found something in a tree. It called itself a Cthaeh.”

  Felurian went motionless when I spoke its name. “the Cthaeh? did you speak?”

  I nodded.

  “did you ask of it?” But before I could answer she gave a quiet, despairing cry and rushed to me. She began to run her hands over my body, as if searching for wounds. After a minute of this she took my face in her hands and looked into my eyes as if frightened of what she might find there. “are you well?”

  Her concern brought a faint smile to my lips. I began to assure her that I was fine—then I remembered the things the Cthaeh had said. I remembered the fires and the man with ink-black eyes. I thought of Denna sprawled on the floor with a mouthful of blood. Tears came to my eyes and I choked. I turned away and shook my head, eyes clenched shut and unable to speak.

  She stroked the back of my neck and said, “all is well. the hurt will go. it has not bit you, and your eyes are clear, so all is well.”

  I pulled away from her enough to look her in the face. “My eyes?”

  “the things the Cthaeh says can leave men broken in their heads. but I would see if it were so. you are still my kvothe, still my sweet poet.” She leaned forward, oddly hesitant, then gave me a gentle kiss on my forehead.

  “It lies to men and drives them mad?”

  She shook her head slowly, “the Cthaeh does not lie. it has the gift of seeing, but it only tells things to hurt men. only a dennerling would speak to the Cthaeh.” She touched the side of my neck to soften her words.

  I nodded, knowing it to be the truth. And I began to cry.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FIVE

  Interlude—A Certain Sweetness

  KVOTHE MOTIONED FOR CHRONICLER to stop writing. “Are you all right, Bast?” He gave his student a look of concern. “You look like you’ve swallowed a lump of iron.”

  Bast did look stricken. His face was pale, almost waxy. His normally cheerful expression was aghast. “Reshi,” he said, his voice as dry as autumn leaves. “You never told me you spoke with the Cthaeh.”

  “There’s a lot of things I’ve never told you, Bast,” Kvothe said flippantly. “That’s why you find the sordid details of my life so enthralling.”

  Bast gave a sickly smile, shoulders sagging with relief. “You didn’t really, then. Talk with it, I mean? It’s something you just added to make things a little more colorful?”

  “Please, Bast,” Kvothe said, obviously offended. “My story has quite enough color without my adding to it.”

  “Don’t lie to me!” Bast shouted suddenly, coming halfway out of his seat with the force of it. “Don’t you lie to me about this! Don’t you dare!” Bast struck the table with one hand, toppling his mug and sending Chronicler’s inkwell skittering across the table.

  Quick as blinking, Chronicler snatched up the half-covered sheet of paper and pushed his chair back from the table with his feet, saving the sheet from the sudden spray of ink and beer.

  Bast leaned forward, his face livid as he stabbed a finger at Kvothe. “I don’t care what other shit you spin into gold here! But you don’t lie about this, Reshi! Not to me!”

  Kvothe gestured to where Chronicler sat, holding the pristine sheet of paper in the air with both hands. “Bast,” he said. “This is my chance to tell the full and honest story of my life. Everything is—”

  Bast closed his eyes and pounded the table like a child in the grip of a tantrum. “Shut up. Shut up! SHUT UP!”

  Bast pointed at Chronicler. “I don’t give a fiddler’s fuck what you tell him, Reshi. He’ll write what I say or I’ll eat his heart in the market square!” He turned the finger back to the innkeeper and shook it furiously. “But you’ll tell me the truth and you’ll tell me now!”

  Kvothe looked up at his student, the amusement bleeding out of his face. “Bast, we both know I’m not above the occasional embellishment. But this story is different. This is
my chance to get the truth of matters recorded. It’s the truth behind the stories.”

  The dark young man hunched forward in his chair and covered his eyes with one hand.

  Kvothe looked at him, his face full of concern. “Are you alright?”

  Bast shook his head, still covering his eyes.

  “Bast,” Kvothe said gently. “Your hand is bleeding.” He waited a long moment before asking, “Bast, what’s the matter?”

  “That’s just it!” Bast burst out, throwing his arms wide, his voice high and hysterical. “I think I finally understand what the matter is!”

  Bast laughed then, but it was loud and strained, and choked off into something that sounded like a sob. He looked up at the rafters of the taproom, his eyes bright. He blinked, as if fighting back tears.

  Kvothe leaned forward to lay his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Bast, please . . .”

  “It’s just that you know so many things,” Bast said. “You know all sorts of things you’re not supposed to. You know about the Berentaltha. You know about the white sisters and the laughing-way. How can you not know about the Cthaeh? It’s . . . it’s a monster.”

  Kvothe relaxed visibly. “Good Lord, Bast, is that all? You had me all in a sweat. I’ve faced down things far worse than—”

  “There isn’t anything worse than the Cthaeh!” Bast shouted, bringing his clenched fist down on the tabletop again. This time there was the sharp sound of tearing wood as one of the thick timbers bowed and cracked. “Reshi, shut up and listen. Really listen.” Bast looked down for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “You know who the Sithe are?”

  Kvothe shrugged. “They’re a faction among the Fae. Powerful, with good intentions—”

  Bast waved his hands. “You don’t understand them if you use the term ‘good intentions.’ But if any of the Fae can be said to work for the good, it’s them. Their oldest and most important charge is to keep the Cthaeh from having any contact with anyone. With anyone.”

  “I didn’t see any guards,” Kvothe said in the tones a man might use to soothe a skittish animal.

  Bast ran his hands through his hair, leaving it in disarray. “I can’t for all the salt in me guess how you slipped past them, Reshi. If anyone manages to come in contact with the Cthaeh, the Sithe kill them. They kill them from a half-mile off with their long horn bows. Then they leave the body to rot. If a crow so much as lands on the body, they kill it too.”

  Chronicler cleared his throat gently, then spoke up. “If what you’re saying is true,” he asked, “why would anyone go to the Cthaeh?”

  Bast looked for a moment as if he would snap at the scribe, then gave a bitter sigh instead. “In all fairness, my people are not known for making good decisions,” he said. “Every Fae girl and boy knows the Cthaeh’s nature, but there’s always someone eager to seek it out. Folk go to it for answers or a glimpse of the future. Or they hope to come away with a flower.”

  “A flower?” Kvothe asked.

  Bast gave him another startled look. “The Rhinna?” Not seeing any recognition in the innkeeper’s face he shook his head in dismay. “The flowers are a panacea, Reshi. They can heal any illness. Cure any poison. Mend any wound.”

  Kvothe raised his eyebrows at that. “Ah,” he said, looking down at his folded hands on the tabletop. “I see. I can understand how that might draw a person in, though they knew better.”

  The innkeeper looked up. “I have to admit I don’t see the trouble,” he said apologetically. “I’ve seen monsters, Bast. The Cthaeh falls short of that.”

  “That was the wrong word for me to use, Reshi,” Bast admitted. “But I can’t think of a better one. If there was a word that meant poisonous and hateful and contagious, I’d use that.”

  Bast drew a deep breath and leaned forward in his chair. “Reshi, the Cthaeh can see the future. Not in some vague, oracular way. It sees all the future. Clearly. Perfectly. Everything that can possibly come to pass, branching out endlessly from the current moment.”

  Kvothe raised an eyebrow. “It can, can it?”

  “It can,” Bast said gravely. “And it is purely, perfectly malicious. This isn’t a problem for the most part, as it can’t leave the tree. But when someone comes to visit ...”

  Kvothe’s eyes went distant as he nodded to himself. “If it knows the future perfectly,” he said slowly, “then it must know exactly how a person will react to anything it says.”

  Bast nodded. “And it is vicious, Reshi.”

  Kvothe continued in a musing tone. “That means anyone influenced by the Cthaeh would be like an arrow shot into the future.”

  “An arrow only hits one person, Reshi.” Bast’s dark eyes were hollow and hopeless. “Anyone influenced by the Cthaeh is like a plague ship sailing for a harbor.” Bast pointed at the half-filled sheet Chronicler held in his lap. “If the Sithe knew that existed, they would spare no effort to destroy it. They would kill us for having heard what the Cthaeh said.”

  “Because anything carrying the Cthaeh’s influence away from the tree . . .” Kvothe said, looking down at his hands. He sat silently for a long moment, nodding thoughtfully. “So a young man seeking his fortune goes to the Cthaeh and takes away a flower. The daughter of the king is deathly ill, and he takes the flower to heal her. They fall in love despite the fact that she’s betrothed to the neighboring prince ...”

  Bast stared at Kvothe, watching blankly as he spoke.

  “They attempt a daring moonlight escape,” Kvothe continued. “But he falls from the rooftops and they’re caught. The princess is married against her will and stabs the neighboring prince on their wedding night. The prince dies. Civil war. Fields burned and salted. Famine. Plague . . .”

  “That’s the story of the Fastingsway War,” Bast said faintly.

  Kvothe nodded. “It’s one of the stories Felurian told. I never understood the part about the flower until now. She never mentioned the Cthaeh.”

  “She wouldn’t have, Reshi. It’s considered bad luck.” He shook his head. “No, not bad luck. It’s like spitting poison in someone’s ear. It simply isn’t done.”

  Chronicler recovered some of his composure and slid his chair back toward the table, still holding the sheet carefully. He frowned at the table, broken and streaked with beer and ink. “It seems like this creature has quite a reputation,” he said. “But I find it hard to believe it’s quite as dangerous as all that. . . .”

  Bast looked at Chronicler incredulously. “Iron and bile,” he said, his voice quiet. “Do you think I’m a child? You think I don’t know the difference between a campfire story and the truth?”

  Chronicler made a mollifying gesture with one hand. “That’s not what I ...”

  Without taking his eyes from Chronicler, Bast laid his bloody palm flat on the table. The wood groaned and the broken timbers snapped back into place with a sudden crackling sound. Bast lifted his hand, then brought it down sharply on the table, and the dark runnels of ink and beer suddenly twisted and shaped themselves into a jet-black crow that burst into flight, circling the taproom once.

  Bast caught it with both hands and tore the bird carelessly in half, casting the pieces into the air where they exploded into great washes of flame the color of blood.

  It all happened in the space of a single breath. “Everything you know about the Fae could fit inside a thimble,” Bast said, looking at the scribe with no expression at all, his voice flat and even. “How dare you doubt me? You have no idea who I am.”

  Chronicler sat very still, but he did not look away.

  “I swear it by my tongue and teeth,” Bast said crisply. “I swear it on the doors of stone. I am telling you three thousand times. There is nothing in my world or yours more dangerous than the Cthaeh.”

  “There’s no need for that, Bast,” Kvothe said softly. “I believe you.”

  Bast turned to look at Kvothe, then sagged miserably in his chair. “I wish you didn’t, Reshi.”

  Kvothe gave a wry smile.
“So after a person meets the Cthaeh, all their choices will be the wrong ones.”

  Bast shook his head, his face pale and drawn. “Not wrong, Reshi, catastrophic. Iax spoke to the Cthaeh before he stole the moon, and that sparked the entire creation war. Lanre spoke to the Cthaeh before he orchestrated the betrayal of Myr Tariniel. The creation of the Nameless. The Scaendyne. They can all be traced back to the Cthaeh.”

  Kvothe’s expression went blank. “Well, that certainly puts me in interesting company, doesn’t it?” he said dryly.

  “It does more than that, Reshi,” Bast said. “In our plays, if the Cthaeh’s tree is shown in the distance in the backdrop, you know the story is going to be the worst kind of tragedy. It’s put there so the audience knows what to expect. So they know everything will go terribly wrong in the end.”

  Kvothe looked at Bast for a long moment. “Oh Bast,” he said softly to his student. His smile was gentle and sad. “I know what sort of story I’m telling. This is no comedy.”

  Bast looked up at him with hollow, hopeless eyes. “But Reshi ...” His mouth moved, trying to find words and failing.

  The red-haired innkeeper gestured at the empty taproom. “This is the end of the story, Bast. We all know that.” Kvothe’s voice was matter-of-fact, as casual as if he were describing yesterday’s weather. “I have led an interesting life, and this reminiscence has a certain sweetness to it. But . . .”

  Kvothe drew a deep breath and let it out gently. “. . . but this is not a dashing romance. This is no fable where folk come back from the dead. It’s not a rousing epic meant to stir the blood. No. We all know what kind of story this is.”

  It seemed for a moment that he would continue, but instead his eyes wandered idly around the empty taproom. His face was calm, without a trace of anger or bitterness.

  Bast darted a look at Chronicler, but this time there was no fire in it. No anger. No fury or command. Bast’s eyes were desperate, pleading.

  “It’s not over if you’re still here,” Chronicler said. “It’s not a tragedy if you’re still alive.”