The Wise Man's Fear

by Patrick Rothfuss

  I felt I should be irritated, but I couldn’t quite muster the energy. Perhaps some of what she said about men giving away their anger had some truth to it. “What is a man-mother?” I asked.

  “Are you not making a joke?” she asked, one hand still half-covering her smile. “Do you truly believe a man puts a baby in a woman?”

  “Well . . . yes,” I said a little awkwardly. “In a manner of speaking. It takes a man and a woman to make a baby. A mother and a father.”

  “You have a word for it!” she said, delighted. “They told me this too. With the stories of dirt soup. But I never thought it a real story!”

  I sat up myself at this point, growing concerned. “You do know how babies are made, don’t you?” I asked, gesturing serious earnestness. “What we have been doing for most of the day is what makes a baby.”

  She looked at me for a moment in stunned silence, then dissolved helplessly into laughter, trying to speak several times only to have it overwhelm her again when she looked up at the expression on my face.

  Penthe put her hands on her belly, prodding it as if puzzled. “Where is my baby?” She looked down at her flat belly. “Perhaps I have been sexing wrong these years.” When she laughed, the muscles across her stomach flickered, making a pattern like a turtle’s shell. “I should have a hundred babies if what you say is true. Five hundred babies!”

  “It does not happen every time there is sex,” I said. “There are only certain times when a woman is ripe for a baby.”

  “And have you done this?” she asked, looking at me with mock seriousness while a smile tugged at her mouth. “Have you made a baby with a woman?”

  “I have been careful not to do such a thing,” I said. “There is an herb called silphium. I chew it every day, and it keeps me from putting a baby in a woman.”

  Penthe shook her head. “This is more of your barbarian sex rituals,” she said. “Does bringing a man to the flowers also make a baby where you come from?”

  I decided to take a different tack. “If men do not help with making babies, how do you explain that babies look like their fathers?”

  “Babies look like angry old men,” Penthe said. “All bald and with . . . ” She hesitated, touching her cheek. “. . . with face lines. Perhaps the old men are the only ones making babies then?” She smirked.

  “What about kittens?” I asked. “You have seen a litter of kittens. When a white cat and a black cat have sex, you get kittens both white and black. And kittens of both colors.”

  “Always?” she asked.

  “Not always.” I admitted. “But most times.”

  “What if there is a yellow kitten?” she asked.

  Before I could put together an answer, she waved the question away. “Kittens have little to do with this,” she said. “We are not like animals. We do not go into season. We do not lay eggs. We do not make cocoons, or fruit, or seeds. We are not dogs or frogs or trees.”

  Penthe gave me a serious look. “You are committing a false thinking. You could as easily say two stones make baby stones by banging against each other until a piece breaks off. Therefore two people make baby peoples in the same way.”

  I fumed, but she was right. I was committing a fallacy of analogy. It was faulty logic.

  Our conversation continued along this vein for some time. I asked her if she had ever known a woman to get pregnant who had not had sex in the previous months. She said she didn’t know of any woman who would willingly go three months without sex, except those who were traveling among the barbarians, or very ill, or very old.

  Eventually Penthe waved a hand to stop me, gesturing exasperation. “Do you hear your own excuses? Sex makes babies, but not always. Babies look like man-mothers, but not always. The sex must be at the right time, but not always. There are plants that make it more likely, or less likely.” She shook her head. “You must realize what you say is thin as a net. You keep sewing new threads, hoping it will hold water. But hoping does not make it true.”

  Seeing me frown, she took my hand and gestured comfort into it as she had before in the dining hall, all the laughter gone out of her face. “I can see you think this truly. I can understand why barbarian men would want to believe it. It must be comforting to think you are important in this way. But it is simply not.”

  Penthe looked at me with something close to pity. “Sometimes a woman ripens. It is a natural thing, and men have no part in it. That is why more women ripen in the fall, like fruit. That is why more women ripen here in Haert, where it is better to have a child.”

  I tried to think of some other convincing argument, but none would come to mind. It was frustrating.

  Seeing my expression, Penthe squeezed my hand and gestured concession. “Perhaps it is different for barbarian women,” she said.

  “You are only saying that to make me feel better,” I said sullenly and was overcome with a jaw-popping yawn.

  “I am,” she admitted. Then she gave me a gentle kiss and pushed at my shoulders, encouraging me to lie back down on the bed.

  I did, and she nestled into the crook of my arm again, resting her head on my shoulder. “It must be hard to be a man,” she said softly. “A woman knows she is part of the world. We are full of life. A woman is the flower and the fruit. We move through time as part of our children. But a man . . .” She turned her head and looked up at me with gentle pity in her eyes. “You are an empty branch. You know when you die, you will leave nothing of any import behind.”

  Penthe stroked my chest fondly. “I think that is why you are so full of anger. Maybe you do not have more than women. Maybe the anger in you simply has no place to go. Maybe it is desperate to leave some mark. It hammers at the world. It drives you to rash action. To bickering. To rage. You paint and build and fight and tell stories that are bigger than the truth.”

  She gave a contented sigh and rested her head on my shoulder, snugging herself firmly into the circle of my arm. “I am sorry to tell you this thing. You are a good man, and a pretty thing. But still, you are only a man. All you have to offer the world is your anger.”

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-EIGHT

  Names

  IT WAS THE DAY that I would either stay or leave. I sat with Vashet on a green hill, watching the sun rise out of the clouds to the east.

  “Saicere means to fly, to catch, to break,” Vashet said softly, repeating herself for the hundredth time. “You must remember all the hands that have held her. Many hands, all following the Lethani. You must never use her in an improper way.”

  “I promise,” I said for the hundredth time, then hesitated before bringing up something that had been bothering me. “But Vashet, you used your sword to trim the willow branch you beat me with. I saw you use it to hold your window open once.You pare your nails with it . . .”

  Vashet gave me a blank look. “Yes?”

  “Isn’t that improper?” I asked.

  She cocked her head, then laughed. “You mean I should only use it for fighting?”

  I gestured obvious implication.

  “A sword is sharp,” she said. “It is a tool. I carry it constantly, how is using it improper?”

  “It seems disrespectful, ” I clarified.

  “You respect a thing by putting it to good use,” she said. “It may be years before I return to the barbarian lands and fight. How does it harm my sword if it cuts kindling and carrots in the meantime?” Vashet’s eyes grew serious. “To carry a sword your whole life, knowing it was only for killing . . .” She shook her head. “What would that do to a person’s mind? It would be a horrible thing.”

  Vashet had returned to Haert last night, dismayed that she had missed my stone trial. She said I was right to lay aside my sword when Carceret did, and that I had made her proud.

  Yesterday, Shehyn had formally invited me to stay and train at the school. In theory, I already had earned that right, but everyone knew that was more of a political fiction than anything. Her offer was a flattering one, an opportunity I knew
I would likely never have again.

  We watched a boy herd a flock of goats down the side of a hill. “Vashet, is it true that the Adem have no concept of fatherhood?”

  Vashet nodded easily, then paused. “Tell me you did not embarrass both of us by talking about this with everyone while I was gone,” she said with a sigh.

  “Only with Penthe,” I said. “She thought it was the funniest thing she had heard in ten months’ time.”

  “It is fairly amusing at that,” Vashet said, her mouth curving a little.

  “It’s true then?” I asked. “Even you believe this? You’ve . . .”

  Vashet held up a hand and I trailed off. “Peace,” she said. “Think whatever you wish about your man-mothers. It is all the same to me.” She gave a soft smile of remembrance. “My poet king actually believed a woman was nothing more than the ground in which a man might plant a baby.”

  Vashet made an amused huffing sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. “He was so sure he was right. Nothing could sway him. Years ago I decided arguing such things with a barbarian is a long, weary waste of my time.” She shrugged. “Think what you want about making babies. Believe in demons. Pray to a goat. So long as it doesn’t bruise me, why should I bother myself?”

  I chewed it over for a moment. “There’s wisdom in that,” I said.

  She nodded.

  “But either a man helps with a baby or he does not,” I pointed out. “There can be many opinions on a thing, but there is only one truth.”

  Vashet smiled lazily. “And if the pursuit of truth was my goal, that would concern me.” She gave a long yawn, stretching like a happy cat. “Instead I will focus on the joy in my heart, the prosperity of the school, and understanding the Lethani. If I have time left after that, I will put it toward worrying on the truth.”

  We watched the sunrise for a while longer in silence. It occurred to me Vashet was quite a different person when she wasn’t struggling to cram the Ketan and all of Ademic into my head as quickly as possible.

  “That said,” Vashet added, “if you persist in clinging to your barbarian beliefs about man-mothers, you would do well to keep quiet about it. Amusement is the best you can hope for. Most will simply assume you an idiot for thinking such things.”

  I nodded. After a long moment, I decided to finally ask the question I had been holding off for days. “Magwyn called me Maedre. What does it mean?”

  “It is your name,” she said. “Speak of it to no one.”

  “It is a secret thing?” I asked.

  She nodded. “It is a thing for you and your teachers and Magwyn. It would be dangerous to let others know what it is.”

  “How could it be dangerous?”

  Vashet looked at me as if I were daft. “When you know a name you have power over it. Surely you know this?”

  “But I know your name, and Shehyn’s and Tempi’s. What danger is in that?”

  She waved a hand. “Not those names. Deep names. Tempi is not the name he was given by Magwyn. Just as Kvothe is not yours. Deep names have meanings.”

  I already knew what Vashet’s name meant. “What does Tempi mean?”

  “Tempi means ‘little iron.’ Tempa means iron, and it means to strike iron, and it means angry. Shehyn gave him that name years ago. He was a most troublesome student.”

  “In Aturan temper means angry.” I pointed it out rather excitedly, amazed at the coincidence. “And it is also something you do with iron when forging it into steel.”

  Vashet shrugged, unimpressed. “That is the way of names. Tempi is a small name, and still it holds much. That is why you should not speak of yours, even to me.”

  “But I do not know your language well enough to tell what it means myself,” I protested. “A man should know the meaning of his own name.”

  Vashet hesitated, then relented. “It means flame, and thunder, and broken tree.”

  I thought for a while and decided I liked it. “When Magwyn gave it to me, you seemed surprised. Why is that?”

  “It is not proper for me to comment on another’s name.” Absolute refusal. Her gesture was so sharp it almost hurt to look at. She came to her feet, then brushed her hands against her pants. “Come, it is time you gave your answer to Shehyn.”

  Shehyn motioned for us to sit as we entered her room. Then she took a seat herself, startling me by showing the smallest of smiles. It was a terribly flattering gesture of familiarity. “Have you decided?” she asked.

  I nodded. “I thank you, Shehyn, but I cannot stay. I must return to Severen to speak with the Maer. Tempi fulfilled his obligation when the road was made safe, but I am bound to return and explain everything that happened.” I thought of Denna as well, but didn’t mention her.

  Shehyn gestured an elegant mingling of approval and regret. “Fulfilling one’s duty is of the Lethani.” She gave me a serious look. “Remember, you have a sword and a name, but you must not hire yourself out as if you had taken the red.”

  “Vashet has explained everything to me,” I said. Reassurance. “I will make arrangements for my sword to be returned to Haert if I am killed. I will not teach the Ketan or wear the red.” Carefully attentive curiosity. “But I am permitted to tell others I have studied fighting with you?”

  Reserved agreement. “You may say you have studied with us. But not that you are one of us.”

  “Of course,” I said. “And not that I am equal to you.”

  Shehyn gestured content satisfaction. Then her hands shifted and she made a small gesture of embarrassed admission. “This is not entirely a gift,” she said. “You will be a better fighter than many barbarians. If you fight and win, the barbarians will think: Kvothe studied only slightly the Adem’s arts, and still he is formidable. How much more skilled must they themselves be?” However. “If you fight and lose, they will think: He only learned a piece of what the Adem know.”

  The old woman’s eyes twinkled ever so slightly. She gestured amusement. “No matter what, our reputation thrives. This serves Ademre.”

  I nodded. Willing acceptance. “It will not hurt my reputation either,” I said. Understatement.

  There was a pause in the conversation, then Shehyn gestured solemn importance. “When we spoke before, you asked me of the Rhinta. Do you remember?” Shehyn asked. From the corner of my eye I saw Vashet shift uncomfortably in her seat.

  Suddenly excited, I nodded.

  “I have remembered a story of such. Would you like to hear it?”

  I gestured extreme eager interest.

  “It is an old story, old as Ademre. It is always told the same. Are you ready to hear it?” Profound formality. There was a hint of ritual in her voice.

  I nodded again. Pleading entreaty.

  “As with all things, there are rules. I will tell this story once. After, you may not speak of it. After, you may not ask questions.” Shehyn looked back and forth between Vashet and myself. Grave seriousness. “Not until you have slept one thousand nights may you speak on this. Not until you have traveled one thousand miles may you ask questions. Knowing this, are you willing to hear it?”

  I nodded a third time, my excitement rising in me.

  Shehyn spoke with great formality. “Once there was a great realm peopled by great people. They were not Ademre. They were what Ademre was before we became ourselves.

  “But at this time they were themselves, the women and men fair and strong. They sang songs of power and fought as well as Ademre do.

  “These people had a great empire. The name of the empire is forgotten. It is not important as the empire has fallen, and since that time the land has broken and the sky changed.

  “In the empire there were seven cities and one city. The names of the seven cities are forgotten, for they are fallen to treachery and destroyed by time. The one city was destroyed as well, but its name remains. It was called Tariniel.

  “The empire had an enemy, as strength must have. But the enemy was not great enough to pull it down. Not by pulling or pushing was the en
emy strong enough to drag it down. The enemy’s name is remembered, but it will wait.

  “Since not by strength could the enemy win, he moved like a worm in fruit. The enemy was not of the Lethani. He poisoned seven others against the empire, and they forgot the Lethani. Six of them betrayed the cities that trusted them. Six cities fell and their names are forgotten.

  “One remembered the Lethani, and did not betray a city. That city did not fall. One of them remembered the Lethani and the empire was left with hope. With one unfallen city. But even the name of that city is forgotten, buried in time.

  “But seven names are remembered. The name of the one and of the six who follow him. Seven names have been carried through the crumbling of empire, through the broken land and changing sky. Seven names are remembered through the long wandering of Ademre. Seven names have been remembered, the names of the seven traitors. Remember them and know them by their seven signs:Cyphus bears the blue flame.

  Stercus is in thrall of iron.

  Ferule chill and dark of eye.

  Usnea lives in nothing but decay.

  Grey Dalcenti never speaks.

  Pale Alenta brings the blight.

  Last there is the lord of seven:

  Hated. Hopeless. Sleepless. Sane.

  Alaxel bears the shadow’s hame.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-NINE

  Interlude—Din of Whispering

  “RESHI!” BAST CRIED OUT, his face stricken. “No! Stop!” He held out his hands as if he would press them against the innkeeper’s mouth. “You shouldn’t say such things!”

  Kvothe smiled in a humorless way. “Bast, who taught you your name lore in the first place?”

  “Not you, Reshi.” Bast shook his head. “There are things every Fae child knows. It’s never good to speak such things aloud. Not ever.”

  “And why is that?” Kvothe prompted in his best teacher’s voice.

  “Because some things can tell when their names are spoken,” Bast swallowed. “They can tell where they’re spoken.”