If you have never been deep underground, I doubt you can understand what it is like. The darkness is absolute, almost tangible. It lurks outside the light, waiting to rush in like a sudden flood. The air is still and stale. There’s no noise except what you make yourself. Your breathing becomes loud in your own ears. Your heart thumps. And all the while there is the overwhelming knowledge that thousands of tons of earth and stone are pressing down above you.
Still I continued to worm my way ahead, moving by inches. My hands were grimy, and sweat dripped into my eyes. The crawlway grew smaller yet, and I foolishly let one of my arms get pinned to my side. Cold sweat burst out across my whole body as I panicked. I struggled, trying to get it stretched out in front of me….
After several terrifying minutes I managed to get my arm free. Then, after lying there for a moment, trembling in the dark, I pressed ahead.
And found what I’d been looking for….
After emerging from the Underthing, I made my careful way through a window and a locked door into the women’s wing of the Mews. I knocked softly on Fela’s door, not wanting to wake anyone accidentally. Men were not allowed unescorted in the women’s wing of the Mews, especially not during the late hours of night.
I knocked three times before I heard a gentle stirring in her room. After a moment, Fela opened the door, her long hair in wild disarray. Her eyes were still half-closed as she peered into the hallway with a puzzled expression. She blinked when she saw me standing there, as if she hadn’t really expected anyone.
She was unmistakably naked, with a bedsheet half-wrapped around herself. I will admit that the sight of gorgeous, full-breasted Fela half-naked in front of me was one of the most startlingly erotic moments in my young life.
“Kvothe?” she said, maintaining a remarkable degree of composure. She tried to cover herself more fully and met with mixed success, pulling the sheet up to her neck in exchange for exposing a scandalous amount of long, shapely leg. “What time is it? How did you get in here?”
“You said that if I ever needed anything, I could call on you for a favor,” I said urgently. “Did you mean it?”
“Well, yes. Of course,” she said. “God, you’re a mess. What happened to you?”
I looked down at myself, only then realizing the state I was in. I was grimy, the front of my body streaked with dirt from sliding across the floor. I’d torn open my pants across one knee, and it looked like I was bleeding underneath. I’d been so excited that I hadn’t even noticed or thought to change into my new clothes before I came.
Fela took a half step back and swung the door wider, making room for me to enter. As it opened, the door made a tiny wind that pressed the sheet against her body, outlining her nudity in perfect profile for a moment. “Do you need to come in?”
“I can’t stay,” I said without thinking, struggling against the urge to gawk openly. “I need you to meet a friend of mine in the Archives tomorrow evening. Fifth bell, by the four-plate door. Can you do that?”
“I have class,” she said. “But if it’s important, I can skip it.”
“Thank you,” I said quietly as I backed away.
It says a great deal about what I had found in the tunnels underneath the University that I was halfway back to my room at Anker’s before I realized I had turned down an invitation from a near-naked Fela to join her in her room.
The next day Fela skipped her lecture on Advanced Geometries and made her way to the Archives. She climbed down several flights of stairs and through a maze of corridors and shelves to find the only section of stone wall in the entire building that wasn’t lined with books. The four-plate door stood there, silent and immobile as a mountain: Valaritas.
Fela looked around nervously, shifting her weight from foot to foot.
After a long moment, a hooded figure stepped out of the dark and into the ruddy light of her hand lamp.
She smiled anxiously. “Hello,” she said softly. “A friend asked me to…” she paused and ducked her head a little, trying to glimpse the face under the shadow of the hood.
You probably wouldn’t be surprised at who she saw.
“Kvothe?” she said incredulously, looking around in sudden panic. “My God, what are you doing in here?”
“Trespassing,” I said flippantly.
She grabbed hold of me and pulled me through a maze of shelves until we came to one of the reading holes scattered throughout the Archives. She pushed me in and closed the door firmly behind us and leaned against it. “How did you get in here? Lorren will burst a vessel! Do you want to get us both expelled?”
“They wouldn’t expel you,” I said easily. “You’re guilty of Willful Collusion at the very most. They can’t expel you for that. You’d probably get off with a fine, since they don’t whip women.” I shifted my shoulders a little, feeling the dull tug of the stitches across my back. “Which seems a little unfair if you ask me.”
“How did you get in here?” she repeated. “Did you sneak past the desk?”
“You’re better off not knowing,” I hedged.
It had been Billows, of course. Once I smelled old leather and dust on the wind there I knew I was close. Hidden away in the maze of tunnels was a door that lead directly into the lowest level of the stacks. It was there so the scrivs would have easy access to the ventilation system. The door had been locked, of course, but locked doors have never proved much of a hindrance to me. More’s the pity.
I didn’t tell Fela any of that, however. I knew my secret route would only work as long as it remained secret. Telling a scriv, even a scriv who owed me a favor, simply wasn’t a good idea.
“Listen,” I said quickly. “It’s safe as houses. I’ve been here for hours and no one’s come even close to me. Everyone carries their own light so it’s easy to avoid them.”
“You just surprised me,” Fela said, as she brushed her dark hair back over her shoulders. “You’re right though, it’s probably safer out there.” She opened the door and peered outside, making sure the coast was clear. “Scrivs spot-check the reading holes periodically to make sure no one’s sleeping in here, or having sex.”
“What?”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about the Archives.” She smiled as she opened the door the rest of the way.
“That’s why I need your help,” I said as we headed out into the stacks. “I can’t make heads or tails of this place.”
“What are you looking for?” Fela asked.
“About a thousand things,” I said honestly. “But we can start with the history of the Amyr. Or any nonfictional reports of the Chandrian. Anything about either one really. I haven’t been able to find a thing.”
I didn’t bother trying to keep the frustration from my voice. To finally get inside the Archives after all this time and not be able to find any of the answers I was looking for was maddening. “I thought things would be better organized,” I groused.
Fela chuckled deep in her throat. “And how would you do that, exactly? Organize everything, I mean.”
“I’ve been thinking about it for the last couple hours, actually,” I said. “It’d be best to do it by subject. You know: histories, memoirs, grammars….”
Fela stopped walking and gave a deep sigh. “I guess we should get this over with.” She pulled a slim book off a shelf at random. “What’s the subject of this book?”
I opened it and glanced over the pages. It was written in an old scribe’s hand, spidery and hard to follow. “It looks like a memoir.”
“What type of memoir? Where do you put it in relationship to the other memoirs?”
Still flipping pages, I spotted a carefully drawn map. “Actually, it looks more like a travelogue.”
“Fine,” she said. “Where do you put it in the memoir-travelogue-section?”
“I’d organize them geographically,” I said, enjoying the game. I flipped more pages. “Atur, Modeg, and…Vint?” I frowned and looked at the spine of the book. “How old is this? The Aturan Empi
re absorbed Vint over three hundred years ago.”
“Over four hundred years,” she corrected. “So where do you put a travelogue that refers to a place that doesn’t exist any more?”
“It would be more of a history, really,” I said more slowly.
“What if it isn’t accurate?” Fela pressed. “Based on hearsay rather than personal experience? What if it’s purely fictional? Novel travelogues were quite a fashion in Modeg a couple hundred years ago.”
I closed the book and slowly slid it back onto the shelf. “I’m beginning to see the problem,” I said thoughtfully.
“No, you don’t,” Fela said frankly. “You’re just glimpsing the edges of the problem.” She gestured to the stacks around us. “Let’s say you became Master Archivist tomorrow. How long would it take you to organize all this?”
I looked around at the countless shelves retreating off into the darkness. “It would be a lifetime’s work.”
“Evidence suggests it takes more than just one lifetime,” Fela said dryly. “There are over three quarters of a million volumes here, and that’s not even taking into consideration the clays or scrolls or fragments from Caluptena.”
She made a dismissive gesture. “So you spend years developing the perfect organizational system, which even has a convenient place for your historical-fictional-travelogue-memoir. You and the scrivs spend decades slowly identifying, sorting and reordering tens of thousands of books.” She looked me in the eye. “And then you die. What happens then?”
I began to see where she was going. “Well, in a perfect world, the next Master Archivist would pick up where I left off,” I said.
“Hurrah for the perfect world,” Fela said sarcastically, then turned and began leading me through the shelves again.
“I’m guessing the new Master Archivist usually has his own ideas about how to organize things?”
“Not usually,” Fela admitted. “Sometimes there are a several in a row who work toward the same system. But sooner or later you get someone who’s sure they have a better way of doing things and everything starts from scratch again.”
“How many different systems have there been?” I spotted a faint red light bobbing in the distant shelves and pointed towards it.
Fela changed directions to take us away from the light and whoever was carrying it. “It depends on how you count them,” she said softly. “At least nine in the last three hundred years. The worst was about fifty years ago when there were four new Master Archivists within five years of each other. The result was three different factions among the scrivs, each using a different cataloging system, each firmly believing theirs was the best.”
“Sounds like a civil war,” I said.
“A holy war,” Fela said. “A very quiet, circumspect crusade where each side was sure they were protecting the immortal soul of the Archives. They would steal books that had already been cataloged in each other’s systems. They would hide books from each other, or confuse their order on the shelves.”
“How long did this go on?”
“Almost fifteen years,” Fela said. “It might still be going on today if Master Tolem’s scrivs hadn’t finally managed to steal the Larkin ledger books and burn them. The Larkins couldn’t keep going after that.”
“And the moral of the story is that people get passionate around books?” I teased gently. “Hence the need to spot-check the reading holes?”
Fela stuck out her tongue at me. “The moral of the story is that things are a mess in here. We effectively ‘lost’ almost two hundred thousand books when Tolem burned the Larkin ledgers. They were the only records on where those books were located. Then, five years later, Tolem dies. Guess what happens then?”
“A new Master Archivist looking to start over with a clean slate?”
“It’s like an endless chain of half-built houses,” she said, exasperated. “It’s easy to find books in the old system, so that’s how they build the new system. Whoever’s working on the new house keeps stealing lumber from what’s been built before. The old systems are still there in scattered bits and pieces. We’re still finding pockets of books scrivs hid from each other years ago.”
“I sense this is a sore spot with you,” I said with a smile.
We reached a flight of stairs and Fela turned to look at me. “It’s a sore spot with every scriv who lasts more than two days working in the Archives,” she said. “People down in the Tomes complain when it takes us an hour to bring them what they want. They don’t realize it’s not as easy as going to the ‘Amyr History’ shelf and pulling down a book.”
She turned and began to climb the stairs. I followed her silently, appreciating the new perspective.
CHAPTER NINETY-ONE
Worthy of Pursuit
FALL TERM SETTLED INTO a comfortable pattern after that. Fela slowly introduced me to the inner workings of the Archives and I spent what time I could spare skulking about, trying to dig up answers to my thousand questions.
Elodin did something that could, conceivably, be referred to as teaching, but for the most part he seemed more interested in confusing me than shedding any real light on the subject of naming. My progress was so nonexistent that I wondered at times if there was any progress to be made at all.
What time I didn’t spend studying or in the Archives I spent on the road to Imre, braving the coming winter wind, if not looking for its name. The Eolian was always my best bet for finding Denna, and as the weather worsened I found her there more and more. By the time the first snow fell, I usually managed to catch her one trip of three.
Unfortunately, I rarely managed to have her wholly to myself, as she usually had someone with her. As Deoch had mentioned, she was not the sort who spent a lot of time alone.
Still I kept coming. Why? Because whenever she saw me some light would go on inside her, making her glow for a moment. She would jump to her feet, run to me, and catch hold of my arm. Then, smiling, bring me back to her table and introduce me to her newest man.
I came to know most of them. None were good enough for her, so I held them in contempt and hated them. They in turn hated and feared me.
But we were pleasant to each other. Always pleasant. It was a game of sorts. He would invite me to sit, and I would buy him a drink. The three of us would talk, and his eyes would slowly grow dark as he watched her smile toward me. His mouth would narrow as he listened to the laughter that leapt from her as I joked, spun stories, sang….
They would always react the same way, trying to prove ownership of her in small ways. Holding her hand, a kiss, a too-casual touch along her shoulder.
They clung to her with desperate determination. Some of them merely resented my presence, saw me as a rival. But others had a frightened knowledge buried deep behind their eyes from the beginning. They knew she was leaving, and they didn’t know why. So they clutched at her like shipwrecked sailors, clinging to the rocks despite the fact that they are being battered to death against them. I almost felt sorry for them. Almost.
So they hated me, and it shone in their eyes when Denna wasn’t looking. I would offer to buy another round of drinks, but he would insist, and I would graciously accept, and thank him, and smile.
I have known her longer, my smile said. True, you have been inside the circle of her arms, tasted her mouth, felt the warmth of her, and that is something I have never had. But there is a part of her that is only for me. You cannot touch it, no matter how hard you might try. And after she has left you I will still be here, making her laugh. My light shining in her. I will still be here long after she has forgotten your name.
There were more than a few. She went through them like a pen through wet paper. She left them, disappointed. Or, frustrated, they abandoned her, leaving her heartsore, moved to sadness but never as far as tears.
There were tears once or twice. But they were not for the men she had lost or the men she had left. They were quiet tears for herself, because there was something inside her that was badly hurt. I couldn�
��t tell what it was and didn’t dare to ask. Instead I simply said what I could to take the pain away and helped her shut her eyes against the world.
Occasionally I would talk about Denna with Wilem and Simmon. Being true friends they gave me sensible advice and compassionate sympathy in roughly equal amounts.
The compassion I appreciated, but the advice was worse than useless. They urged me toward the truth, told me to open my heart to her. To pursue her. Write her poetry. Send her roses.
Roses. They didn’t know her. Despite the fact that I hated them, Denna’s men taught me a lesson that I might never have learned otherwise.
“What you don’t understand,” I explained to Simmon one afternoon as we sat under the pennant pole, “is that men fall for Denna all the time. Do you know what that’s like for her? How tiresome it is? I am one of her few friends. I won’t risk that. I won’t throw myself at her. She doesn’t want it. I will not be one of the hundred cow-eyed suitors who go mooning after her like love-struck sheep.”
“I just don’t understand what you see in her,” Sim said carefully. “I know she’s charming. Fascinating and all of that. But she seems rather,” he hesitated, “cruel.”
I nodded. “She is.”
Simmon watched me expectantly, finally said. “What? No defense for her?”
“No. Cruel is a good word for her. But I think you are saying cruel and thinking something else. Denna is not wicked, or mean, or spiteful. She is cruel.”
Sim was quiet for a long while before responding. “I think she might be some of those other things, and cruel as well.”
Good, honest, gentle Sim. He could never bring himself to say bad things about another person, just imply them. Even that was hard for him.
He looked up at me. “I talked with Sovoy. He’s still not over her. He really loved her, you know. Treated her like a princess. He would have done anything for her. But she left him anyway, no explanation.”
“Denna is a wild thing,” I explained. “Like a hind or a summer storm. If a storm blows down your house, or breaks a tree, you don’t say the storm was mean. It was cruel. It acted according to its nature and something unfortunately was hurt. The same is true of Denna.”
Kingkiller Chronicle [01] The Name of the Wind Page 77