“Scoffered off,” Wilem announced with an edge of bellicosity. “As soon as you finished playing. Before you’d even got your pipes.”
“He knew. He knew,” Simmon singsonged delightedly. “He knew you would get them and couldn’t bear to watch.”
“Looked bad when he left,” Wilem said with a quiet malice. “Pale and shaking. Like he’d found out someone’d been lanting in his drinks all night.”
“Maybe someone was,” Simmon said with uncharacteristic viciousness. “I would.”
“Shaking?” I asked.
Wilem nodded. “Trembling. Like someone’d gut-punched him. Linten was giving him an arm to lean on when he left.”
The symptoms sounded familiar, like binder’s chills. A suspicion began to form. I pictured Ambrose, listening to me glide through the most beautiful song he’d ever heard, and realizing I’m about to win my pipes.
He wouldn’t do anything obvious, but perhaps he could find a loose thread, or a long splinter from the table. Either one would provide only the most tenuous sympathetic link to my lute string: one percent at best, perhaps only a tenth of that.
I imagined Ambrose drawing on his own body’s heat, concentrating as the chill slowly worked into his arms and legs. I pictured him, trembling, his breath growing labored, until finally the string breaks…
…And I finish the song in spite of him. I grinned at the thought. Pure speculation of course, but something had certainly broken my lute string, and I didn’t doubt for a second that Ambrose would try something of the sort. I focused back in on Simmon.
“…it up to him and say, No hard feelings about that time in the Crucible when you mixed my salts and I was nearly blind for a day. No. No really, drink up! Ha!” Simmon laughed, lost in his own vengeful fantasy.
The flood of well-wishers slowed somewhat: a fellow lutist, the talented piper I’d seen on stage, a local merchant. A heavily perfumed gentleman with long, oiled hair and a Vintic accent clapped me on the back and gave me a purse of money, “for new strings.” I didn’t like him. I kept the purse.
“Why does everyone keep going on about that?” Wilem asked me.
“About what?”
“Half the people that come over to shake your hand bubble over about how beautiful the song was. The other half hardly mention the song at all, and all they talk about is how you played with a broken string. It’s like they didn’t hardly hear the song at all.”
“The first half don’t know anything about music,” Simmon said. “Only people who take their music seriously can really appreciate what our little E’lir here did tonight.”
Wilem grunted thoughtfully. “It’s hard then, what you did?”
“I’ve never seen anyone play ‘Squirrel in the Thatch’ without a full set of strings,” Simmon told him.
“Well,” he said. “You made it look easy. Since you have come to your sense in pushing aside that Yllish fruit drink, will you let me buy you a round of fine dark scutten, drink of the kings of Cealdim?”
I know a compliment when I hear it, but I was reluctant to accept as I was just beginning to feel clear-headed again.
Luckily, I was saved from having to make an excuse by Marea coming to pay her respects. She was the lovely, golden-haired harper who had tried for her talent and failed. I thought for a moment that she might be the voice of my Aloine, but after a moment’s listening to her, I realized it couldn’t be.
She was pretty though. Even prettier than she had seemed on stage, as is not always the case. Talking, I found she was the daughter of one of Imre’s councilmen. Against the tumble of her deep golden hair, the soft blue of her gown was a reflection of the deep blue of her eyes.
Lovely as she was, I couldn’t give her the concentration she deserved. I itched to be away from the bar to find the voice that had sung Aloine with me. We talked a while, smiled, and parted with kind words and promises to speak again. She disappeared back into the crowd, a wonderful collection of gently moving curves.
“What was that shameful display?” Wilem demanded after she had gone.
“What?” I asked.
“What?” he mocked my tone. “Can you even pretend to be that thick? If a girl as fair as that looked at me with one eye the way she looked at you with two…We’d have a room by now, to say it carefully.”
“She was friendly,” I protested. “And we were talking. She asked me if I would show her some harp fingerings, but it’s been a long time since I played harp.”
“It’ll be a lot longer if you keep missing passes like that,” Wilem said frankly. “She was doing everything but taking down another button for you.”
Sim leaned over and lay his hand on my shoulder, the very picture of the concerned friend. “Kvothe, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this very problem. If you honestly couldn’t tell that she was interested in you, you might want to admit the possibility that you are impossibly thick when it comes to women. You may want to consider the priesthood.”
“The both of you are drunk,” I said to cover my flush. “Did you happen to notice from our conversation that she is a councilman’s daughter?”
“Did you notice,” Wil replied in the same tone, “how she looked at you?”
I knew I was woefully inexperienced with women, but I didn’t have to admit to it. So I waved his comment away and got down off my stool. “Somehow I doubt that a quick romp behind the bar was what she had in mind.” I took a drink of water and straightened my cloak. “Now, I must go find my Aloine and offer her my earnest thanks. How do I look?”
“What does it matter?” Wilem asked.
Simmon touched Wilem’s elbow. “Don’t you see? He’s after more dangerous game than some low-bodiced councilman’s daughter.”
I turned from them with a disgusted gesture and headed off into the crowded room.
I didn’t really have any idea how I would find her. Some foolish, romantic part of me thought I would know her when I saw her. If she were half as radiant as her voice, she would shine like a candle in a dark room.
But as I thought these things, the wiser part of me was whispering in my other ear. Do not hope, it said. Do not dare hold hope that any woman could burn as brightly as the voice that sang the part of Aloine. And while this voice was not comforting, I knew it to be wise. I had learned to listen to it on the streets of Tarbean, where it had kept me alive.
I wandered through the first level of the Eolian, searching without knowing who I was looking for. Occasionally people would smile or wave. After five minutes I had seen all the faces there were to see and moved to the second level.
This was actually a converted balcony, but instead of tiers of seats, there were rising ranks of tables that looked onto the lower level. As I wended my way through the tables looking for my Aloine, my wiser half kept murmuring in my ear. Do not hope. All you will earn is disappointment. She will not be as beautiful as you imagine, and then you will despair.
As I finished searching the second level a new fear began to rise in me. She might have left while I was sitting at the bar, drinking in metheglin and praise. I should have gone to her straightaway, fallen to one knee, and thanked her with my whole heart. What if she was gone? What if no one knew who she was or where she had gone? A nervousness settled into the pit of my stomach as I took the stairs to the highest level of the Eolian.
Now look what your hope has gotten you, the voice said. She is gone and all you have is a bright, foolish imagining to torment yourself with.
The last level was the smallest of the three, hardly more than a thin crescent that hugged three walls, high above the stage. Here, the tables and benches were more widely spaced and sparsely populated. I noticed that the inhabitants of this level were mostly couples and I felt something of a voyeur as I passed from table to table.
Trying to appear casual, I looked at the faces of those who sat talking and drinking. I grew more nervous the closer I came to the last table. It was impossible for me to do so casually, as it was in a corner. T
he couple sitting there, one light haired and one dark, had their backs to me.
As I approached, the light-haired one laughed and I caught a glimpse of a proud, fine-featured face. A man. I turned my attention to the woman with the long dark hair. My last hope. I knew she would be my Aloine.
Coming round the corner of the table I saw her face. Or rather, his face. They were both men. My Aloine had left. I had lost her, and with that knowledge I felt as if my heart had been tipped from its resting place in my chest to topple and fall somewhere deep inside me near my feet.
They looked up, and the fair-haired one smiled at me. “Look Thria, young six-string has come to offer us his respects.” He eyed me up and down. “You’re a fair one. Would you like to join us for a drink?”
“No,” I murmured, embarrassed. “I was just looking for someone.”
“Well you found someone,” he said easily, touching my arm. “My name is Fallon and this is Thria. Come and have a drink. I promise to keep Thria here from trying to take you home. He has a terrible weakness for musicians.” He smiled charmingly at me.
I murmured an excuse and took my leave, too distraught to worry whether or not I had made an ass of myself.
As I made my desolate way back to the stairs, my wise self took the opportunity to berate me. That is what comes of hope, it said. No good. Still, you are better having missed her. She could never have been equal to her voice. That voice, fair and terrible as burning silver, like moonlight on river stones, like a feather against your lips.
I headed to the stairs, eyes on the floor lest anyone try to catch me in a conversation.
Then I heard a voice, a voice like burning silver, like a kiss against my ears. Looking up, my heart lifted and I knew it was my Aloine. Looking up, I saw her and all I could think was, beautiful.
Beautiful.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Interlude—The Parts that Form Us
MOVING SLOWLY, Bast stretched and looked around the room. Finally the short fuse of his patience burned out. “Reshi?”
“Hmmm?” Kvothe looked at him.
“And then what, Reshi? Did you talk to her?”
“Of course I talked to her. There would be no story if I hadn’t. Telling that part is easy. But first I must describe her. I’m not sure how to do it.”
Bast fidgeted.
Kvothe laughed, a fond expression wiping the irritation from his face. “So is describing a beautiful woman as easy as looking at one for you?”
Bast looked down and blushed, and Kvothe laid a gentle hand on his arm, smiling. “My trouble, Bast, is that she is very important. Important to the story. I cannot think of how to describe her without falling short of the mark.”
“I…I think I understand, Reshi,” Bast said in conciliatory tones. “I’ve seen her too. Once.”
Kvothe sat back in his chair, surprised. “You have, haven’t you? I’d forgotten.” He pressed his hands to his lips. “How would you describe her then?”
Bast brightened at the opportunity. Straightening up in his chair he looked thoughtful for a moment then said. “She had perfect ears.” He made a delicate gesture with his hands. “Perfect little ears, like they were carved out of…something.”
Chronicler laughed, then looked slightly taken aback, as if he’d surprised himself. “Her ears?” he asked as if he couldn’t be sure if he had heard correctly.
“You know how hard it is to find a pretty girl with the right sort of ears,” Bast said matter-of-factly.
Chronicler laughed again, seeming to find it easier the second time. “No,” he said. “No, I’m sure I don’t.”
Bast gave the story collector a deeply pitying look. “Well then, you’ll just have to take my word for it. They were exceptionally fine.”
“I think you’ve struck that chord well enough, Bast,” Kvothe said, amused. He paused for a moment, and when he spoke again it was slowly, his eyes far away. “The trouble is, she is unlike anyone I have ever known. There was something intangible about her. Something compelling, like heat from a fire. She had a grace, a spark—”
“She had a crooked nose, Reshi,” Bast said, interrupting his master’s reverie.
Kvothe looked at him, a line of irritation creasing his forehead. “What?”
Bast held his hands up defensively. “It’s just something I noticed, Reshi. All the women in your story are beautiful. I can’t gainsay you as a whole, as I’ve never seen any of them. But this one I did see. Her nose was a little crooked. And if we’re being honest here, her face was a little narrow for my taste. She wasn’t a perfect beauty by any means, Reshi. I should know. I’ve made some study of these things.”
Kvothe stared at his student for a long moment, his expression solemn. “We are more than the parts that form us, Bast,” he said with a hint of reproach.
“I’m not saying she wasn’t lovely, Reshi,” Bast said quickly. “She smiled at me. It was…it had a sort of…it went right down into you, if you understand me.”
“I understand, Bast. But then again, I’ve met her.” Kvothe looked at Chronicler. “The trouble comes from comparison, you see. If I say ‘she was dark haired,’ you might think, ‘I’ve known dark-haired women, some of them lovely.’ But you would be far off the mark, because that woman would not really have anything in common with her. That other woman wouldn’t have her quick wit, her easy charm. She was unlike anyone I have ever met….”
Kvothe trailed off, looking down at folded hands. He was quiet for such a long moment that Bast began to fidget, looking around anxiously.
“There’s no sense worrying, I suppose,” Kvothe said at last, looking up and motioning to Chronicler. “If I ruin this as well, it will be a small thing as far as the world is concerned.”
Chronicler picked up his pen, and Kvothe began to speak before he had the chance to dip it. “Her eyes were dark. Dark as chocolate, dark as coffee, dark as the polished wood of my father’s lute. They were set in a fair face, oval. Like a teardrop.”
Kvothe stopped suddenly, as if he had run himself out of words. The silence was so sudden and deep that Chronicler glanced briefly up from his page, something he had not done before. But even as Chronicler looked up, another flood of words burst out of Kvothe.
“Her easy smile could stop a man’s heart. Her lips were red. Not the garish painted red so many women believe makes them desirable. Her lips were always red, morning and night. As if minutes before you saw her, she had been eating sweet berries, or drinking heart’s blood.
“No matter where she stood, she was in the center of the room.” Kvothe frowned. “Do not misunderstand. She was not loud, or vain. We stare at a fire because it flickers, because it glows. The light is what catches our eyes, but what makes a man lean close to a fire has nothing to do with its bright shape. What draws you to a fire is the warmth you feel when you come near. The same was true of Denna.”
As Kvothe spoke, his expression twisted, as if each word he spoke rankled him more and more. And while the words were clear, they matched his expression, as if each one was rasped with a rough file before it left his mouth.
“She…” Kvothe’s head was bowed so low he seemed to be speaking to his hands laying in his lap. “What am I doing?” He said faintly, as if his mouth was full of grey ash. “What good can come of this? How can I make any sense of her for you when I have never understood the least piece of her myself?”
Chronicler had written most of this out before he realized that Kvothe had probably not intended him to. He froze for a bare moment, then finished scratching down the rest of the sentence. Then he waited a long, quiet moment, before he stole a look upward at Kvothe.
Kvothe’s eyes caught and held him. They were the same dark eyes that Chronicler had seen before. Eyes like an angry God’s. For a moment it was all Chronicler could do to not draw back from the table. There was an icy silence.
Kvothe stood and pointed at the paper that lay in front of Chronicler. “Cross that out,” he grated.
Chronicler blanched, his expression as stricken as if he’d been stabbed.
When he made no move, Kvothe reached down and calmly slid the half-written sheet from under Chronicler’s pen. “If crossing out is something you feel disinclined toward…” Kvothe tore the half-written sheet with slow care, the sound bleeding the color from Chronicler’s face.
With terrible deliberateness Kvothe lifted a blank sheet and lay it carefully in front of the stunned scribe. One long finger stabbed at the torn sheet, smearing the still-wet ink. “Copy to here,” he said in a voice that was cold and motionless as iron. The iron was in his eyes too, hard and dark.
There was no arguing. Chronicler quietly copied to where Kvothe’s finger pinned the paper to the table.
Once Chronicler was finished, Kvothe began to speak crisply and clearly, as if he were biting off pieces of ice. “In what manner was she beautiful? I realize that I cannot say enough. So. Since I cannot say enough, at least I will avoid saying too much.
“Say this, that she was dark haired. There. It was long and straight. She was dark of eye and fair complected. There. Her face was oval, her jaw strong and delicate. Say that she was poised and graceful. There.”
Kvothe took a breath before continuing. “Finally, say that she was beautiful. That is all that can be well said. That she was beautiful, through to her bones, despite any flaw or fault. She was beautiful, to Kvothe at least. At least? To Kvothe she was most beautiful.” For a moment Kvothe tensed as if he would leap up and tear this sheet away from Chronicler as well.
Then he relaxed, like a sail when the wind leaves it. “But to be honest, it must be said that she was beautiful to others as well….”
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Names for Beginning
IT WOULD BE NICE to say that our eyes met and I moved smoothly to her side. It would be nice to say that I smiled and spoke of pleasant things in carefully metered rhyming couplets, like Prince Gallant from some faerie story.
Unfortunately, life is seldom so carefully scripted. In truth, I simply stood. It was Denna, the young woman I had met in Roent’s caravan so long ago.
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