He had a fair tenor and reasonably clever fingers. He played a ballad, then a light, quick drinking song, then a slow, sad melody in a language that I didn’t recognize but suspected might be Yllish. Lastly he played “Tinker Tanner,” and everyone came in on the chorus. Everyone but me.
I sat still as stone with my fingers aching. I wanted to play, not listen. Want isn’t strong enough a word. I was hungry for it, starved. I’m not proud of the fact that I thought about stealing his lute and leaving in the dark of the night.
He finished the song with a flourish, and Roent clapped his hands a couple of times to get everyone’s attention. “Time for sleep. You sleep too late—”
Derrik broke in, gently teasing. “… we get left behind. We know, Master Roent. We’ll be ready to roll with the light.”
Josn laughed and flipped open his lute case with his foot. But before he could put it away I called over to him. “Could I see that for a second?” I tried to keep the desperation out of my voice, tried to make it sound like idle curiosity.
I hated myself for the question. Asking to hold a musician’s instrument is roughly similar to asking to kiss a man’s wife. Nonmusicians don’t understand. An instrument is like a companion and a lover. Strangers ask to touch and hold with annoying regularity. I knew better, but I couldn’t help myself. “Just for a second?”
I saw him stiffen slightly, reluctant. But keeping friendly appearances is a minstrel’s business just as much as music. “Certainly,” he said with a jocularity that I saw as false but was probably convincing for the others. He strode over to me and held it out. “Be careful …”
Josn took a couple of steps back and gave a very good appearance of being at ease. But I saw how he stood with his arms slightly bent, ready to rush forward and whisk the lute away from me if the need arose.
I turned it over in my hands. Objectively, it was nothing special. My father would have rated it as one short step above firewood. I touched the wood. I cradled it against my chest.
I spoke without looking up. “It’s beautiful,” I said softly, my voice rough with emotion.
It was beautiful. It was the most beautiful thing I had seen in three years. More beautiful than the sight of a spring field after three years of living in that pestilent cesspit of a city. More beautiful than Denna. Almost.
I can honestly say that I was still not really myself. I was only four days away from living on the streets. I was not the same person I had been back in the days of the troupe, but neither was I yet the person you hear about in stories. I had changed because of Tarbean. I had learned many things it would have been easier to live without.
But sitting beside the fire, bending over the lute, I felt the hard, unpleasant parts of myself that I had gained in Tarbean crack. Like a clay mold around a now-cool piece of iron they fell away, leaving something clean and hard behind.
I sounded the strings, one at a time. When I hit the third it was ever so slightly off and I gave one of the tuning pegs a minute adjustment without thinking.
“Here now, don’t go touching those,” Josn tried to sound casual, “you’ll turn it from true.” But I didn’t really hear him. The singer and all the rest couldn’t have been farther away from me if they’d been at the bottom of the Centhe Sea.
I touched the last string and tuned it too, ever so slightly. I made a simple chord and strummed it. It rang soft and true. I moved a finger and the chord went minor in a way that always sounded to me as if the lute were saying sad. I moved my hands again and the lute made two chords whispering against each other. Then, without realizing what I was doing, I began to play.
The strings felt strange against my fingers, like reunited friends who have forgotten what they have in common. I played soft and slow, sending notes no farther than the circle of our firelight. Fingers and strings made a careful conversation, as if their dance described the lines of an infatuation.
Then I felt something inside me break and music began to pour out into the quiet. My fingers danced; intricate and quick they spun something gossamer and tremulous into the circle of light our fire had made. The music moved like a spiderweb stirred by a gentle breath, it changed like a leaf twisting as it falls to the ground, and it felt like three years Waterside in Tarbean, with a hollowness inside you and hands that ached from the bitter cold.
I don’t know how long I played. It could have been ten minutes or an hour. But my hands weren’t used to the strain. They slipped and the music fell to pieces like a dream on waking.
I looked up to see everyone perfectly motionless, their faces ranging from shock to amazement. Then, as if my gaze had broken some spell, everyone stirred. Roent shifted in his seat. The two mercenaries turned and raised eyebrows at each other. Derrik looked at me as if he had never seen me before.
Reta remained frozen, her hand held in front of her mouth. Denna lowered her face into her hands and began to cry in quiet, hopeless sobs.
Josn simply stood. His face was stricken and bloodless as if he had been stabbed.
I held out the lute, not knowing whether to thank him or apologize. He took it numbly. After a moment, unable to think of anything to say, I left them sitting by the fire and walked toward the wagons.
And that is how Kvothe spent his last night before he came to the University, with his cloak as both his blanket and his bed. As he lay down, behind him was a circle of fire, and before him lay shadow like a mantle, gathered. His eyes were open, that much is certain, but who among us can say they know what he was seeing?
Look behind him instead, to the circle of light that the fire has made, and leave Kvothe to himself for now. Everyone deserves a moment or two alone when they desire it. And if by chance there were tears, let us forgive him. He was just a child, after all, and had yet to learn what sorrow really was.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
A Parting of Ways
The weather held fair, which meant that the wagons rolled into Imre just as the sun was setting. My mood was sullen and hurt. Denna had shared a wagon with Josn the whole of the day, and I, being foolish and proud, had kept my distance.
A whirl of activity sprang up as soon as the wagons rolled to a stop. Roent began to argue with a cleanshaven man in a velvet hat before he had brought his wagon to a full stop. After the initial bout of bargaining, a dozen men began unloading bolts of cloth, barrels of molasses, and burlap sacks of coffee. Reta cast a stern eye over the lot of them. Josn scuttled around, trying to keep his luggage from being damaged or stolen.
My own luggage was easier to manage, as I only had my travelsack. I retrieved it from between some bolts of cloth and moved away from the wagons. I slung it over one shoulder and looked around for Denna.
I found Reta instead. “You were a great help on the road,” she said clearly. Her Aturan was much better than Roent’s, with hardly any trace of a Siaru accent at all. “It is nice to have someone along who can unhitch a horse without being led by the hand.” She held out a coin to me.
I took it without thinking. It was a reflex action from my years as a beggar. Like the reverse of jerking your hand back from a fire. Only after the coin was in my hand did I take a closer look at it. It was a whole copper jot, fully half of what I had paid to travel with them to Imre. When I looked back up, Reta was heading back toward the wagons.
Not sure what to think, I wandered over to where Derrick sat on the edge of a horse trough. He shaded his eyes against the evening sun with one hand as he looked up at me. “On your way then? I almost thought you might stick with us for a while.”
I shook my head. “Reta just gave me a jot.”
He nodded. “I’m not terribly surprised. Most folks are nothing but dead weight.” He shrugged. “And she appreciated your playing. Have you ever thought of trying out as a minstrel? They say Imre’s a good place for it.”
I steered the conversation back to Reta. “I don’t want Roent to be angry with her. He seems to take his money pretty seriously.”
Derrick laughed. “And
she doesn’t?”
“I gave my money to Roent,” I clarified. “If he’d wanted to give some of it back, I think he’d do it himself.”
Derrick nodded. “It’s not their way. A man doesn’t give money away.”
“That’s my point,” I said. “I don’t want her to get in trouble.”
Derrick waved his hands back and forth, cutting me off. “I’m not doing a good job explaining myself,” he said. “Roent knows. He might have even sent her over to do it. But grown Cealdish men don’t give away money. It’s seen as womanish behavior. They don’t even buy things if they can help it. Didn’t you notice that Reta was the one who bargained for our rooms and food at the inn a few nights ago?”
I did remember, now that he mentioned it. “But why?” I asked.
Derrick shrugged. “There isn’t any why. It’s just the way they do things. That’s why so many Cealdish caravans are husband-wife teams.”
“Derrick!” Roent’s voice came from behind the wagons.
He sighed as he stood up. “Duty calls,” he said. “See you around.”
I tucked the jot into my pocket and thought about what Derrick had said. The truth was, my troupe had never gone so far north as to make it into the Shald. It was unnerving to think I wasn’t as world-wise as I’d thought.
I slung my travelsack over my shoulder and looked around one last time, thinking that perhaps it would be best if I left without any troublesome good-byes. Denna was nowhere to be seen. That settled it then. I turned to leave …
… and found her standing behind me. She smiled a little awkwardly with her hands clasped behind her back. She was lovely as a flower, and totally unconscious of it. I was suddenly short of breath, and I forgot myself, my irritation, my hurt.
“You’re still going?” She asked.
I nodded.
“You could come to Anilin with us,” she suggested. “They say the streets are paved with gold there. You could teach Josn to play that lute he carries around.” She smiled. “I’ve asked him, and he’s said he wouldn’t mind.”
I considered it. For half a heartbeat I almost threw my whole plan aside just to stay with her a little longer. But the moment passed and I shook my head.
“Don’t look like that,” she chided me with a smile. “I’ll be there for a while, if things don’t work out for you here.” She trailed off hopefully.
I didn’t know what I could do if things didn’t work out for me here. I was hanging all my hopes on the University. Besides, Anilin was hundreds of miles away. I barely owned the clothes on my back. How would I find her?
Denna must have seen my thoughts reflected on my face. She smiled playfully. “I guess I’ll just have to come looking for you, then.”
We Ruh are travelers. Our lives are composed of meetings and partings, with brief, bright acquaintances in-between. Because of this I knew the truth. I felt it, heavy and certain in the pit of my stomach: I would never see her again.
Before I could say anything she looked nervously behind her. “I had better go. Watch for me.” She flashed her impish smile again before turning to walk away.
“I will,” I called after her. “I’ll see you where the roads meet.”
She glanced back and hesitated for a moment, then waved and ran off into the early evening twilight.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Less Talents
I spent the night sleeping outside the city limits of Imre in a soft bed of heather. The next day I woke late, washed in a nearby stream, and made my way west to the University.
As I walked, I watched the horizon for the largest building in the University. From Ben’s descriptions I knew what it would look like: featureless, grey, and square as a block. Larger than four granaries stacked together. No windows, no decorations, and only one set of great stone doors. Ten times ten thousand books. The Archives.
I had come to the University for many reasons, but that was at the heart of it. The Archives held answers, and I had many, many questions. First and foremost, I wanted to know the truth about the Chandrian and the Amyr. I needed to know how much of Skarpi’s story was the truth.
When the road crossed the Omethi River, there was an old stone bridge. I don’t doubt that you know the type. It was one of those ancient, mammoth pieces of architecture scattered throughout the world, so old and solidly built that they have become part of the landscape, not a soul wondering who built them, or why. This one was particularly impressive, over two hundred feet long and wide enough for two wagons to pass each other, it stretched over the canyon the Omethi had carved into the rock. When I reached the crest of the bridge I saw the Archives for the first time in my life, rising like some great greystone over the trees to the west.
The University lay at the heart of a small city. Though truthfully, I hesitate to call it a city at all. It was nothing like Tarbean with its twisting alleys and garbage smell. It was more of a town, with wide roads and clean air. Lawns and gardens were spaced between small houses and shops.
But since this town had grown up to serve the peculiar needs of the University, a careful observer could note small differences in the services the town provided. For instance, there were two glassblowers, three fully stocked apothecaries, two binderies, four booksellers, two brothels, and a truly disproportionate number of taverns. One of them had a large wooden sign nailed to its door proclaiming, no sympathy! I wondered what non-arcane visitors might think of the warning.
The University itself consisted of about fifteen buildings that bore little resemblance to each other. Mews had a circular central hub with eight wings radiating in each direction so it looked like a compass rose. Hollows was simple and square, with stained glass windows showing Teccam in a classic pose: standing barefoot in the mouth of his cave, speaking to a group of students. Mains was the most distinctive building of the lot: it covered nearly an acre and a half and looked like it had been cobbled together from a number of smaller, mismatched buildings.
As I approached the Archives, its grey, windowless surface reminded me of an immense greystone. It was hard to believe after all the years of waiting that I was finally there. I circled around it until I found the entrance, a massive pair of stone doors standing wide open. Over them, chiseled deep into the stone, were the words Vorfelan Rhinata Morie. I didn’t recognize the language. It wasn’t Siaru … maybe Yllish, or Temic. Yet another question I needed answers for.
Through the stone doors was a small antechamber with a more ordinary set of wooden doors inside. I tugged them open and felt cool, dry air brush past me. The walls were bare grey stone, lit with the distinctive unwavering reddish light of sympathy lamps. There was a large wooden desk with several large, ledger-type books lying open atop it.
At the desk sat a young man who looked to be a full-blooded Ceald, with the characteristic ruddy complexion and dark hair and eyes.
“Can I help you?” he asked, his voice thick with the harsh burr a Siaru accent makes.
“I’m here for the Archives,” I said stupidly. My stomach was dancing with butterflies. My palms were sweaty.
He looked me over, obviously wondering at my age. “Are you a student?”
“Soon,” I said. “I haven’t been through admissions yet.”
“You’ll need to do that first,” he said seriously. “I can’t let anyone in unless they’re in the book.” He gestured at the ledgers on the desk in front of him.
The butterflies died. I didn’t bother to hide my disappointment. “Are you sure I can’t look around just for a couple of minutes? I’ve come an awfully long way …” I looked at the two sets of double doors leading out of the room, one labeled TOMES the other stacks. Behind the desk a smaller door was labeled scrivs only.
His expression softened somewhat. “I cannot. There would be trouble.” He looked me over again. “Are you really going through admissions?” his skepticism was obvious even through his thick accent.
I nodded. “I just came here first.” I said looking around the empty room,
eyeing the closed doors, trying to think of some way to persuade him to let me in.
He spoke before I could think of anything. “If you’re really going, you should hurry. Today is the last day. Sometimes they don’t go much longer than noon.”
My heart beat hard and quick in my chest. I’d assumed they would run all day. “Where are they?”
“Hollows.” He gestured toward the outer door. “Down, then left. Short building with … color-windows. Two big … trees out front.” He paused. “Maple? Is that the word for a tree?”
I nodded and hurried outside, soon I was pelting down the road.
Two hours later I was in Hollows, fighting down a sour stomach and climbing up onto the stage of an empty theater. The room was dark except for the wide circle of light that held the masters’ table. I walked to stand at the edge of the light and waited. Slowly the nine masters stopped talking among themselves and turned to look at me.
They sat at a huge, crescent-shaped table. It was raised, so even seated they were looking down on me. They were serious-looking men, ranging in age from mature to ancient.
There was a long moment of silence before the man sitting at the center of the crescent motioned me forward. I guessed he was the Chancellor. “Come up where we can see you. That’s right. Hello. Now, what’s your name, boy?”
“Kvothe, sir.”
“And why are you here?”
I looked him in the eye. “I want to attend the University. I want to be an arcanist.” I looked around at each of them. Some seemed amused. None looked particularly surprised.
“You are aware,” the Chancellor said. “That the University is for continuing one’s education. Not beginning it?”
“Yes, Chancellor. I know.”
“Very well,” he said. “May I have your letter of introduction?”
I didn’t hesitate. “I’m afraid I don’t have one, sir. Is it absolutely necessary?”
“It is customary to have a sponsor,” he explained. “Preferably an arcanist. Their letter tells us what you know. Your areas of excellence and weakness.”
The Name of the Wind tkc-1 Page 26