The Wise Man's Fear

by Patrick Rothfuss

  “They’re very quick,” I said.

  She looked at me. “But ...”

  “They seem rather sloppy,” I said, being careful to speak quietly. “Not at first, but after they started.” I pointed at one. “His feet were too close together. And the other kept leaning forward so his balance was off. That’s how he got caught in Sleeping Bear.”

  Vashet nodded, pleased. “They fight like puppies. They are young, and boys. They are full of anger and impatience. Women have less trouble with these things. It’s part of what makes us better fighters.”

  I was more than slightly surprised to hear her say that. “Women are better fighters?” I asked carefully, not wanting to contradict her.

  “Generally speaking,” she said matter-of-factly. “There are exceptions, of course, but as a whole women are better.”

  “But men are stronger,” I said. “Taller. They have better reach.”

  She turned to look at me, slightly amused. “Are you stronger and taller than me then?”

  I smiled. “Obviously not. But as a whole, you have to admit, men are bigger and stronger.”

  Vashet shrugged. “And that would matter if fighting were the same as splitting wood or hauling hay. That is like saying a sword is better the longer and heavier it is. Foolishness. Perhaps for thugs this is true. But after taking the red, the key is knowing when to fight. Men are full of anger, so they have trouble with this. Women less so.”

  I opened my mouth, then thought of Dedan and closed it.

  A shadow fell over us, and I looked up to see a tall man in his reds standing at a polite distance. He held his hand poised near the hilt of his sword. Invitation.

  Vashet gestured back. Gentle regret and refusal.

  I watched as he walked away. “Won’t they think less of you for not fighting?”

  Vashet sniffed disdainfully. “He didn’t want to fight,” she said. “It would only embarrass him and waste my time. He merely wanted to show he was brave enough to fight me.” She sighed and gave me a pointed look. “It is that sort of foolishness that leads men from the Lethani.”

  The next match was between two red-shirted mercenaries, and the difference was obvious. Everything was much cleaner and crisper. The two boys had been frantic as sparrows flapping in the dust, but the fights that followed were elegant as dances.

  Many of the bouts were hand fighting. These lasted until one person submitted or was visibly stunned by a blow.

  One fight stopped immediately when a man bloodied his opponent’s nose. Vashet rolled her eyes at this, though I couldn’t tell if she thought less of the woman for allowing herself to be struck, or the man for being reckless enough to hurt her.

  There were several bouts with wooden swords, too. These tended to go more quickly, as even a light touch was considered enough for a victory.

  “Who won that one?” I asked. After a quick exchange of clacking swordplay ended with both women scoring hits at the same time.

  “Neither,” she said, frowning.

  “Why don’t they fight again if it was a tie?” I asked.

  Vashet frowned at me. “It wasn’t a tie, strictly speaking. Drenn would have died in minutes, struck through the lung. Lasrel would have died in days when the wound in her gut soured.”

  “So Lasrel won?”

  Vashet gave me a look of withering contempt and turned her attention back to the next fight.

  The tall Adem man who had asked Vashet to fight was bouting with a thin whip of a woman. Strangely, he used a wooden sword while she was barehanded. He won by a narrow margin after catching two solid kicks to the ribs.

  “Who won there?” Vashet asked me.

  I could tell she wasn’t looking for the obvious answer. “It’s not much of a victory,” I said. “She didn’t even have a sword.”

  “She is of the third stone and far outstrips him as a fighter. It was the only way for things to be balanced between them unless he were to bring a companion to fight by his side,” Vashet pointed out. “So I ask again. Who won?”

  “He won the bout,” I said. “But he’ll have some impressive bruises tomorrow. Also, his swings seemed somewhat reckless.”

  Vashet turned to look at me. “So who won?”

  I thought about it for a moment. “Neither,” I decided.

  She nodded. Formal approval. The gesture warmed me, as everyone facing us could see it.

  At long last, Shehyn stepped into the circle. She had removed her lopsided yellow hat, and her greying hair swirled about in the wind. Seeing her among the other Adem, I realized how small she was. She carried herself with such confidence that I had come to think of her as taller, but she barely came up to the shoulder of some of the taller Adem.

  She carried a straight wooden sword with her. Nothing ornate, but it was carved to have the shape of a hilt and blade. Many of the other practice swords I had seen were barely more than smoothed sticks that gave the impression of being swords. Her white shirt and pants were tied tightly to her body with thin white chords.

  Alongside Shehyn came a much younger woman. She was shorter than Shehyn by an inch or so. Her frame was more delicate, too, her small face and shoulders making her look almost childlike. But the pronounced curve of her high breasts and round hips beneath her tight mercenary reds made it obvious she was no child.

  Her wooden sword was also carved. It was curved slightly, unlike most of the others I had seen. Her sandy hair was braided into a long, narrow plait that hung down to the small of her back.

  The two of them raised their swords and began to circle each other.

  The young woman was amazing. She struck so fast I could barely see the motion of her hand, let alone the blade of her sword. But Shehyn brushed it away casually with Drifting Snow, taking half a step in retreat. Then, before Shehyn could respond with an attack of her own, the young woman spun away, her long braid swinging.

  “Who is she?” I asked.

  “Penthe,” Vashet said admiringly. “She is a fury, is she not? Like one of our old ancestors.”

  Penthe closed with Shehyn again, feinting and thrusting. She darted in, low to the ground. Impossibly low. Her back leg thrust out for balance, not even touching the ground. Her sword arm licked out in front of her, her knee bent so deeply that her entire body was below the level of my head, even though I was sitting cross-legged on the ground.

  Penthe unfurled all this sinuous motion as quickly you can snap your fingers. The tip of her sword came in low under Shehyn’s guard and angled up toward her knee.

  “What is that?” I asked softly, not even expecting an answer. “You never showed me that.” But it was just astonished noise. Never in a hundred years could my body do that.

  But Shehyn somehow avoided the attack. Not leaping away with any sudden motion. Not darting out of reach. She was quick, but that was not the heart of how she moved. Instead she was deliberate and perfect. She was already halfway gone before Penthe’s sword had begun to flick toward her leg. The tip of Penthe’s sword must have come within an inch of her knee. But it was not a close thing. Shehyn had only moved as much as was needed, no more.

  This time Shehyn did manage to counterattack, stepping forward with Sparrow Strikes the Hawk. Penthe rolled sideways, touched the grass briefly, then pushed herself up off the ground. No, she threw herself away from the ground using only her left hand. Her body snapped like a steel spring, arcing away while her sword licked out twice, driving Shehyn back.

  Penthe was full of passion and fury. Shehyn was calm and steady. Penthe was a storm. Shehyn a stone. Penthe was a tiger and Shehyn a bird. Penthe danced and wove madly. Shehyn turned and took one single perfect step.

  Penthe slashed and spun and whirled and struck and struck and struck....

  And then they stopped, the tip of Penthe’s wooden sword pressed to Shehyn’s white shirt.

  I gasped, though not loudly enough to draw any attention. Only then did I realize my heart was racing. My entire body was covered in sweat.

 
Shehyn lowered her sword, gesturing irritation, admiration, and a mingling of other things I couldn’t identify. She bared her teeth a little in a grimace and used her hand to chafe roughly at her ribs where Penthe had struck her. The same way you rub your shin when you bark it against a chair.

  Horrified, I turned to Vashet. “Will she be the new leader of the school?” I asked.

  Vashet looked at me, puzzled.

  I gestured to the open circle in front of us where the two women stood talking. “This Penthe. She’s beaten Shehyn . . .”

  Vashet looked at me for a moment, uncomprehending, then burst out in a long, delighted laugh. “Shehyn is old,” she said. “She is a grandmother.You cannot expect her to always win against a limber young thing like Penthe, all full of fire and fresh wind.”

  “Ah,” I said. “I see. I thought . . .”

  Vashet was kind enough not to laugh at me again. “Shehyn is not the head of the school because no one can beat her. What an odd notion. What chaos that would be, everything tipping this way and that, changing with the luck of one fight or another.”

  She shook her head. “Shehyn is the head because she is a marvelous teacher, and because her understanding of the Lethani is deep. She is the head because she is wise in the ways of the world, and because she is clever at dealing with troublesome problems.” She tapped me pointedly on the chest with two fingers.

  Then Vashet made a conciliatory gesture. “She is also an excellent fighter, of course. We would not have a leader who could not fight. Shehyn’s Ketan is without equal. But a leader is not a muscle. A leader is a mind.”

  I looked up in time to see Shehyn approaching. One of the cords holding her sleeve in place had come loose during the fight, and the cloth was fluttering in the wind like a luffing sail. She had donned her lopsided yellow cap again and gestured formal greeting to both of us.

  Then Shehyn turned to me. “At the end,” she asked. “Why was I struck?” Curiosity.

  Frantically, I thought back to the final moments of the fight, looking them over in my mind’s eye.

  I tried to gesture with the subtlety Vashet had been teaching me: respectful uncertainty. “You misplaced your heel slightly,” I said. “Your left heel.”

  Shehyn nodded. “Good.” She gestured pleased approval widely enough so anyone who happened to be watching could see it. And, of course, everyone was.

  Giddy with praise, but conscious of the fact I was being watched, I kept my face locked in the proper impassivity as Shehyn walked away with Penthe in tow.

  I leaned my head close to Vashet’s. “I like Shehyn’s little hat,” I said.

  Vashet shook her head and sighed. “Come.” She jostled my shoulder with her own and got to her feet. “We should leave before you spoil the good impression you have made today.”

  That night at supper, I sat in my customary place at the corner of one table by the wall farthest from the food. Since no one was willing to sit within ten feet of me, there was no sense my taking up space where people might actually want to sit.

  My good mood still buoyed me, so I was not surprised when I saw a flicker of red slide into the seat across from me. Carceret again. Once or twice a day she made a point to come close enough to hiss a few words at me. She was overdue.

  But looking up, I was surprised. Vashet sat across from me. She nodded, her impassive face staring into my astonished one. Then I composed myself, nodded back, and we ate for a while in companionable silence. After we were finished eating, we passed some time pleasantly, speaking softly of small things.

  We left the dining hall together, and when we stepped into the evening air, I switched back into Aturan so I could properly articulate something I’d been thinking for several hours.

  “Vashet,” I said. “It occurs to me it would be nice to fight someone whose ability is somewhat closer to my own.”

  Vashet laughed, shaking her head. “That is like throwing two virgins into a bed. Enthusiasm, passion, and ignorance are not a good combination. Someone is likely to get hurt.”

  “I hardly think it’s fair to call my fighting virginal,” I said. “I’m not near your level, but you yourself said my Ketan is remarkably good.”

  “I said your Ketan was remarkably good considering the amount of time you have been studying,” she corrected me. “Which is less than two months. Which is no time at all.”

  “It’s frustrating,” I admitted. “If I strike a blow against you, it’s because you let me. There is no substance to it. You’ve given it to me. I haven’t earned it for myself.”

  “Any strike or throw you make against me is earned,” she said. “Even if I offer it to you. But I understand. There is something to be said for honest competition.”

  I started to say something else, but she put her hand over my mouth. “I’ve said I understand. Stop fighting after you have won.” Hand still over my mouth, she tapped a finger thoughtfully. “Very well. Continue your progress and I will find you someone at your own level to fight.”

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED SIXTEEN

  Height

  I WAS ALMOST BEGINNING TO feel comfortable in Haert. My language was improving and I felt less isolated now that I was able to exchange brief pleasantries with others. Vashet occasionally shared meals with me, helping me feel like slightly less of a pariah.

  We had done sword-work this morning, which meant an easy start to the day. Vashet was still showing me how the sword was incorporated into the Ketan, and the moments we fought were few and far between. After a few hours of this, we worked on my Ademic, then more sword-work.

  After lunch, we moved on to hand fighting. I couldn’t help but feel that here, at least, I was progressing well. After half an hour, not only was Vashet breathing harder, but she began to sweat a bit. I was still no sort of challenge to her, of course, but after days of humiliating nonchalance on her part, she was finally having to put forth a shred of effort to keep ahead of me.

  So we continued to fight, and I noticed that—How can I say this delicately ? She smelled wonderful. Not like perfume or flowers or anything like that. She smelled like clean sweat and oiled metal and crushed grass from when I’d thrown her to the ground some time before. It was a good smell. She . . .

  I can’t describe this delicately, I suppose. What I mean to say is that she smelled like sex. Not as if she’d been having it, as if she was made of it. When she came in close to grapple me, the smell of her combined with her body pressing against mine ... For a second it was like someone had thrown a switch in my head. All I could think of was kissing her mouth, biting the soft skin of her neck, tearing at her clothes and licking the sweat off her—

  I did none of these things, of course. But at the moment I wanted nothing more. This is embarrassing to look back on, but I will not bother defending myself except to point out that I was in the full flower of my youth, fit and healthy. And she was quite an attractive woman, though ten years my senior.

  Add to this the simple fact that I had gone from the loving arms of Felurian, to the eager arms of Losine, and from thence to a long, barren stretch of training with Tempi as we traveled to Haert. That meant for three span, I had been constantly exhausted, anxious, confused, and terrified by turns.

  Now I was none of these things. Vashet was a good teacher and made sure I was well-rested and relaxed as possible. I was growing more confident in my abilities and more comfortable around her.

  Given all of this, it’s no great surprise I had the reaction I did.

  At the time, however, I was startled and embarrassed as only a young man can be. I stepped away from Vashet, blushing and fumbling an apology. I tried to hide my obvious arousal, and in doing so only drew more attention to it.

  Vashet looked down at what my hands were trying vainly to conceal. “Well then, I suppose I will take that as a compliment and not a curious new avenue of attack.”

  If a person could die from shame, I would have.

  “Would you like to take care of it yourself?” Vashet asked eas
ily. “Or would you prefer a partner?”

  “I beg your pardon?” I said stupidly.

  “Come now.” She gestured to my hands. “Even if you could keep your mind away from that, it would doubtless throw your balance off.” She gave a low, throaty chuckle. “You’ll need to tend to it before we continue your lessons. I can leave you to it, or we can find a soft spot and see who can pin the other best two of three.”

  The casual tone of her voice convinced me I’d misunderstood her. Then she gave me a knowing smirk, and I realized I’d understood her perfectly well.

  “Where I come from, a teacher and a student would never . . .” I stumbled, trying to think of a polite way to defuse the situation.

  Vashet rolled her eyes at me, the exasperated expression looking odd on an Adem face. “Do your teachers and students also never fight? Never talk? Never eat together?”

  “But this,” I said, “This . . .”

  She sighed. “Kvothe, you need to remember. You come from a barbarous place. Much of what you grew up thinking is quite wrongheaded and foolish. None of it as much as the strange customs you barbarians have built around your sexplay.”

  “Vashet,” I said. “I . . .”

  She cut me off with a sharp gesture. “Whatever you are about to say, I have doubtless heard before from my poet king. But there are only so many hours of light in the day. So I ask you this: are you desirous of sex?”

  I gave a helpless shrug, knowing it would be pointless to deny it.

  “Would you like to have sex with me?”

  I could still smell her. At that moment, I wanted it more than anything. “Yes.”

  “Are you free of disease?” she asked seriously.

  I nodded, too off balance to be startled by the frankness of the question.

  “Very well then. If I remember correctly, there is a nice patch of moss out of the wind not too far from here.” She began to walk up a nearby hill, her fingers working the buckle that fastened her sword’s scabbard over her shoulder. “Come with me.”

  Her memory did serve her well. Two trees arched their branches over a thick bed of soft moss that was snugged up against a small stony bluff, sheltered from the wind by some convenient bushes.