The Name of the Wind tkc-1

by Patrick Rothfuss

  Everything grew quiet again. Seeing he wasn’t going to get the rise he had expected from me, Ambrose affected nonchalance. “Some people have no sense of humor,” he said with a sigh. “Catch.”

  He tossed it to me, but lutes are not meant to be tossed. It twisted awkwardly in the air, and when I grabbed, there was nothing in my hands. Whether he was clumsy or cruel makes not the slightest difference to me. My lute hit the cobblestones bowl first and made a splintering noise.

  The sound reminded me of the terrible noise my father’s lute had made, crushed beneath my body in a soot-streaked alley in Tarbean. I bent to pick it up and it made a noise like a wounded animal. Ambrose half-turned to look back at me and I saw flickers of amusement play across his face.

  I opened my mouth to howl, to cry, to curse him. But something other tore from my throat, a word I did not know and could not remember.

  Then all I could hear was the sound of the wind. It roared into the courtyard like a sudden storm. A nearby carriage slid sideways across the cobblestones, its horses rearing up in panic. Sheet music was torn from someone’s hands to streak around us like strange lightning. I was pushed forward a step. Everyone was pushed by the wind. Everyone but Ambrose, who pinwheeled to the ground as if struck by the hand of God.

  Then everything was still again. Papers fell, twisting like autumn leaves. People looked around, dazed, their hair tousled and clothes in disarray. Several people staggered as they braced against a storm that was no longer there.

  My throat hurt. My lute was broken.

  Ambrose staggered to his feet. He held his arm awkwardly at his side and blood was running down from his scalp. The look of wild, confused fear he gave me was a brief, sweet pleasure. I considered shouting at him again, wondering what would happen. Would the wind come again? Would the ground swallow him up?

  I heard a horse whinnying in panic. People began to pour from the Eolian and the other buildings around the courtyard. Musicians looked around wildly, and everyone was talking at once.

  “… was that?”

  “… notes are all over. Help me before they get …”

  “… did it. Him over there, with the red …”

  “… demon. A demon of wind and …”

  I looked around in mute confusion until Wilem and Simmon hurried me away.

  “We didn’t know where to take him,” Simmon said to Kilvin.

  “Say it all to me again,” Kilvin said calmly. “But this time only one talks.” He pointed at Wilem. “Try to put the words all in a tidy row.”

  We were in Kilvin’s office. The door was closed and the curtains drawn. Wilem began to explain what had happened. As he gained speed he switched to Siaru. Kilvin kept nodding along, his face thoughtful. Simmon listened intently, occasionally interjecting a word or two.

  I sat on a stool nearby. My mind was a whirl of confusion and half-formed questions. My throat was sore. My body was weary and full of sour adrenaline. In the middle of it all, deep in the center of my chest, a piece of me burned in anger like a forge coal fanned red and hot. All around me there was a great numbness, as if I were sealed in wax ten inches thick. There was no Kvothe, only the confusion, the anger, and the numbness wrapping them. I was like a sparrow in a storm, unable to find a safe branch to cling to. Unable to control the tumbling motion of my flight.

  Wilem was reaching the end of his explanation when Elodin entered the room without knocking or announcing himself. Wilem fell silent. I spared the Master Namer half a glance then looked back toward the shattered lute in my hands. As I turned it over in my hands, one of its sharp edges cut my finger. I blankly watched the blood well up and fall to the floor.

  Elodin came to stand directly in front of me, not bothering to speak to anyone else. “Kvothe?”

  “He’s not right, Master,” Simmon said, his voice shrill with worry. “He’s gone all dumb. He won’t say a thing.” While I heard the words, knew they had meaning, even knew the meanings that belonged to them, I couldn’t pull any sense from them.

  “I think he struck his head,” Wilem said. “He looks at you, but nothing is there. His eyes are like a dog’s eyes.”

  “Kvothe?” Elodin repeated. When I didn’t respond or look up from my lute he reached forward and gently tipped my chin up until I met his eye. “Kvothe.”

  I blinked.

  He looked at me. His dark eyes steadied me somewhat. Slowed the storm inside me. “Aerlevsedi,” he said. “Say it.”

  “What?” Simmon said somewhere in the distant background. “Wind?”

  “Aerlevsedi,” Elodin repeated patiently, his dark eyes intent upon my face.

  “Aerlevsedi,” I said numbly.

  Elodin closed his eyes briefly, peacefully. As if he were trying to catch a faint strain of music wafting gently on a breeze. Unable to see his eyes, I began to drift. I looked back down toward the broken lute in my hands, but before my gaze wandered too far he caught my chin again, tilting my face up.

  His eyes caught mine. The numbness faded, but the storm still turned inside my head. Then Elodin’s eyes changed. He stopped looking toward me and looked into me. That is the only way I can describe it. He looked deep into me, not into my eyes, but through my eyes. His gaze went into me and settled solidly in my chest, as if he had both his hands inside me, feeling the shape of my lungs, the movement of my heart, the heat of my anger, the pattern of the storm that thundered inside me.

  He leaned forward and his lips brushed my ear. I felt his breath. He spoke … and the storm stilled. I found a place to land.

  There is a game all children try at some time or another. You fling out your arms and spin round and round, watching as the world blurs. First you are disoriented, but if you continue to spin long enough the world resolves itself, and you are no longer dizzy as you spin with the world blurring around you.

  Then you stop and the world lurches into regular shape. The dizziness strikes you like a thunderclap, everything lurches, moves. The world tilts around you.

  That is what happened when Elodin stilled the storm in my head. Suddenly, violently dizzy I cried out and raised my hands to keep myself from falling sideways, falling upward, falling inward. I felt arms catch me as my feet tangled in the stool and I began to topple to the floor.

  It was terrifying, but it faded. By the time I recovered, Elodin was gone.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE

  Hands Against Me

  Simmon and Wilem took me to my room at Anker’s where I fell into bed and spent eighteen hours behind the doors of sleep. When I woke the next day I felt surprisingly good, considering I had slept in my clothes and my bladder felt stretched to the size of a sweetmelon.

  Fortune smiled on me, giving me enough time for a meal and a bath before one of Jamison’s errand boys tracked me down. I was needed in the Masters’ Hall. I was due to be on the horns in half an hour.

  Ambrose and I stood before the masters’ table. He had accused me of malfeasance. In retaliation I had accused him of theft, destruction of property, and Conduct Unbecoming a Member of the Arcanum. After my previous experience on the horns I had familiarized myself with the Rerum Codex, the University’s official rules. I had read them twice to be certain of how things were done around here. I knew them like the backs of my hands.

  Unfortunately, this meant I knew exactly how much trouble I was in. The charge of malfeasance was a serious one. If they found me guilty of intentionally harming Ambrose, I would be whipped and expelled from the University.

  There was little doubt that I had hurt Ambrose. He was bruised and limping. A garish red abrasion colored his forehead. He wore a sling as well, but I was fairly certain that was merely a piece of drama he had added on his own.

  The trouble was, I didn’t have the slightest idea what had really happened. I hadn’t had the opportunity to speak with anyone. Not even to thank Elodin for helping me yesterday in Kilvin’s shop.

  The masters allowed each of us to speak our piece. Ambrose was on his best behavior, which
meant he was very polite when he spoke at all. After a while, I began to suspect that his sluggishness might be from a too-liberal dose of painkiller. By the glaze in his eyes, my guess was laudanum.

  “Let’s deal with the grievances in order of their severity,” the Chancellor said after we had related our sides of the story.

  Master Hemme made a gesture, and the Chancellor nodded for him to speak. “We should pare the charges down before we vote,” Hemme said. “E’lir Kvothe’s complaints are redundant. You cannot charge a student with both theft and destruction of the same property, it is either one or the other.”

  “Why do you say that, Master?” I asked politely.

  “Theft implies the possession of another’s property,” Hemme said in reasonable tones. “How can you possess something that you have destroyed? One charge or the other should be set aside.”

  The Chancellor looked at me. “E’lir Kvothe, do you wish to set aside one of your complaints?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then I call for a vote to set aside the charge of theft,” Hemme said.

  The Chancellor glared at Hemme, chastising him silently for speaking out of turn, then turned back to me. “Stubbornness in the face of reason is hardly laudable, E’lir, and Master Hemme makes a convincing argument.”

  “Master Hemme makes a flawed argument,” I said evenly. “Theft implies acquisition of another’s property. It is ridiculous to imply you cannot destroy what you have stolen.”

  I saw a few of the masters nod at this, but Hemme persisted. “Master Lorren, what is the punishment for theft?”

  “The student may be given no more than two single lashes across the back,” Lorren recited. “And must return the property or the price of the property plus a fine of one silver talent.”

  “And the punishment for destruction of property?”

  “The student must pay for the replacement or repair of the property.”

  “You see?” Hemme said. “There is the possibility that he would have to pay twice for the same lute. There is no justice in that. It would be punishing him twice for the same thing.”

  “No, Master Hemme,” I interjected. “It would be punishing him for theft and for destruction of property.” The Chancellor gave me the same look Hemme had earned before for speaking out of turn, but I bulled ahead. “If I had lent him my lute and he had broken it, that would be one matter. If he had stolen it and left it intact, that would be another. It is not one or the other. It is both.”

  The Chancellor rapped his knuckles on the table to quiet us. “I take it then, that you will not set aside one of the charges?”

  “I will not.”

  Hemme raised a hand and was recognized. “I call for a vote to strike the charge of theft.”

  “All in favor?” the Chancellor said wearily. Hemme raised his hand, as did Brandeur, Mandrag, and Lorren. “Five and a half to four: grievance stands.”

  The Chancellor pressed on before anyone could slow things down. “Who finds Re’lar Ambrose guilty of destruction of property?” Everyone raised their hands but Hemme and Brandeur. The Chancellor looked at me. “How much did you pay for your lute?”

  “Nine talents and six.” I lied, knowing it to be a reasonable price.

  Ambrose roused himself at this. “Come now. You’ve never held ten talents in your life.”

  Annoyed, the Chancellor rapped his knuckles at the interruption. But Brandeur raised a hand to speak. “Re’lar Ambrose does raise an interesting point. How does a student who came to us destitute come by such money?”

  A few of the masters looked at me speculatively. I looked down as if embarrassed. “I won it playing corners, sirs.”

  There was an amused mutter. Elodin laughed out loud. The Chancellor rapped the table. “Re’lar Ambrose to be fined nine talents and six. Does any master oppose this action?”

  Hemme raised his hand and was voted down.

  “On the grievance of theft. Number of lashes sought?”

  “None,” I said, raising a few eyebrows.

  “Who finds Re’lar Ambrose guilty of theft?” the Chancellor called out. Hemme, Brandeur, and Lorren kept their hands down. “Re’lar Ambrose to be fined ten talents and six. Does any master oppose this action?”

  Hemme kept his hand down this time, looking sullen.

  The Chancellor took a deep breath and let it out in a rush. “Master Archivist, what is the punishment for Conduct Unbecoming a Member of the Arcanum?”

  “Student may be fined, lashed, suspended from the Arcanum, or expelled from the University depending on the severity of grievance,” Lorren said calmly.

  “Punishment sought?”

  “Suspension from the Arcanum,” I said as if it were the most sensible thing in the world.

  Ambrose’s composure broke. “What?” he said incredulously turning to face me.

  Hemme chimed in. “Herma, this is growing ridiculous.”

  The Chancellor looked at me with a tinge of reproach. “I’m afraid I must agree with Master Hemme, E’lir Kvothe. I hardly think that this is grounds for suspension.”

  “I disagree,” I said, attempting to bring all my powers of persuasion to bear. “Think on what you’ve heard. For no other reason than his personal distaste for me, Ambrose chose to publicly mock me, then steal and destroy the only thing I owned of any value.

  “Is this the sort of behavior that a member of the Arcanum should exhibit? Is this the attitude you wish to cultivate in the rest of the Re’lar? Are petty meanness and spite characteristics you approve of in students who seek to become arcanists? It has been two hundred years since we have seen an arcanist burned. If you succeed in giving guilders to petty children such as this,” I gestured to Ambrose. “That long-standing peace and safety will be over in a scant handful of years.”

  It swayed them. I could see it on their faces. Ambrose moved nervously beside me, his eyes darting from face to face.

  After a moment of silence the Chancellor called for the vote. “Those in favor of suspension for Re’lar Ambrose?”

  Arwyl’s hand went up, followed by Lorren’s, Elodin’s, Elxa Dai’s… . There was a tense moment. I looked from Kilvin to the Chancellor, hoping to see one of their hands join the others.

  The moment passed. “Grievance failed.” Ambrose let out a breath. I was only slightly disappointed. In fact, I was rather surprised I had managed to carry it as far as I had.

  “Now,” the Chancellor said as if preparing himself for a great effort. “The grievance of malfeasance against E’lir Kvothe.”

  “From four to fifteen single lashes and mandatory expulsion from the University,” Lorren recited.

  “Lashes sought?”

  Ambrose turned to look at me. I could see the wheels in his mind turning, trying to calculate how heavy a price he could make me pay and still have the masters vote in his favor. “Six.”

  I felt a leaden fear settle into the pit of my stomach. I didn’t care one whit about the lashes. I would take two dozen if it would keep me from being expelled. If I were thrown from the University my life was over. “Chancellor?” I said.

  He gave me a tired, kindly look. His eyes said he understood, but that he had no choice but to see things through to their natural end. The gentle pity in his look frightened me. He knew what was going to happen. “Yes, E’lir Kvothe?”

  “Might I say a few things?”

  “You have already given your defense,” he said firmly.

  “But I don’t even know what I did!” I burst out, panic overwhelming my composure.

  “Six lashes and expulsion,” the Chancellor carried on in an official voice, ignoring my outburst. “All those in favor?”

  Hemme raised his hand. Brandeur and Arwyl followed. My heart sank as I saw the Chancellor raise his hand, and Lorren, and Kilvin, and Elxa Dal. Last of all was Elodin who smiled lazily and waggled the fingers of his upraised hand, as if waving. Аll nine hands against me. I was to be expelled from the University. My life was over.

&n
bsp; CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX

  The Fire Itself

  “Six lashes and expulsion,” the Chancellor said heavily.

  Expulsion, I thought numbly, as if I had never heard the word before. To expel, to cast violently away. I could feel Ambrose’s satisfaction radiating outward. For a second I was afraid that I was going to be violently ill right there in front of everyone.

  “Does any master oppose this action?” the Chancellor asked ritualistically as I looked down at my feet.

  “I do,” the stirring voice could only be Elodin’s.

  “All in favor of suspending expulsion?” I looked up again in time to see Elodin’s hand. Elxa Dal’s. Kilvin, Lorren, the Chancellor. All hands save Hemme’s. I almost laughed out of shock and sheer disbelief. Elodin gave me his boyish smile again.

  “Expulsion repealed,” the Chancellor said firmly and I felt Ambrose’s satisfaction flicker and wane beside me. “Are there any further issues?” I caught an odd note in the Chancellor’s voice. He was expecting something.

  It was Elodin who spoke. “I move that Kvothe be raised to the rank of Re’lar.”

  “All in favor?” All hands save Hemme’s were raised in a single motion. “Kvothe is raised to Re’lar with Elodin as sponsor on the fifth of Fallow. Meeting adjourned.” He pushed himself up from the table and made his way to the door.

  “What?!” Ambrose yelled, looking around as if he couldn’t decide who he was asking. Finally he scampered off after Hemme, who was making a quick exit behind the Chancellor and the majority of the other masters. I noticed he wasn’t limping nearly as much as he had before the trial began.

  Bewildered, I stood stupidly until Elodin came over and shook my unresponsive hand. “Confused?” he asked. “Come walk with me. I’ll explain.”

  The bright afternoon sunlight was a shock after the shadowy cool of Hollows. Elodin awkwardly pulled his master’s robes up over his head. Underneath he was wearing a simple white shirt and a pair of rather disreputable looking pants held up by a piece of frayed rope. I saw for the first time that he was barefoot. The tops of his feet showed the same healthy tan as his arms and face.