Authors: Patrick Rothfuss

Tags: #Mercenary troops, #Magicians, #Magic, #Attempted assassination, #Fairies, #Fiction, #Fantasy, #General, #Heroes, #Epic

The Wise Man's Fear (120 page)

BOOK: The Wise Man's Fear

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But I couldn’t kill her. Not like this. Not wielding my newfound magic like a dissecting knife.

I spoke again, and the wind brought her down among the pillows. I made a tearing motion and the silver flame that once had been my breath became three notes of broken song and went to play among the trees.

I sat. She reclined. We looked each other over for several long minutes. Her eyes flashed from fear to caution to curiosity. I saw myself reflected in her eyes, naked among the cushions. My power rode like a white star on my brow.

Then I began to feel a fading. A forgetting. I realized the name of the wind no longer filled my mouth, and when I looked around I saw nothing but empty air. I tried to remain outwardly calm, but as these things left me I felt like a lute whose strings were being cut. My heart clenched with a loss I hadn’t felt since my parents died.

I could see a slight shimmer in the air around Felurian, some shred of her power returning. I ignored it as I struggled frantically to keep some part of what I had learned. But it was like trying to hold a handful of sand. If you have ever dreamed of flying, then come awake, dismayed to realize you had lost the trick of it, you have some inkling how I felt.

Piece by piece it faded until there was nothing left. I felt hollow inside and ached as badly as if I’d discovered my family never loved me. I swallowed against the lump in my throat.

Felurian looked at me curiously. I could still see myself reflected in her eyes, the star on my forehead no more than a pinprick of light. Then even the perfect vision of my sleeping mind began to fade. I looked desperately at the world around me. I tried to memorize the sight of it, unblinking.

Then it was gone. I bowed my head, half in grief and half to hide the tears.

CHAPTER NINETY-EIGHT

The Lay of Felurian

A
LONG MOMENT PASSED BEFORE I regained enough of my composure to look up. There was a hesitancy in the air, as if we were young lovers who didn’t know what was expected of us next, who didn’t know what parts we were supposed to play.

I picked up my lute and brought it close to my chest. The motion was instinctive, like clutching a wounded hand. I struck a chord out of habit, then made it minor so the lute seemed to be saying
sad.

Without thinking or looking up I began to play one of the songs I had written in the months after my parents died. It was called Sitting by the Water Remembering. My fingers strummed sorrow into the evening air. It was several minutes before I realized what I was doing, and several more before I stopped. I wasn’t done with the song. I don’t know if it really has an ending.

I felt better, not
good
by any means, but better. Less empty. My music always helped. As long as I had my music, no burden was ever too heavy to bear.

I looked up and saw tears on Felurian’s face. It made me less ashamed of my own.

I also felt myself wanting her. The emotion was damped by the ache in my chest, but that touch of desire focused my attention on my most immediate concern. Survival. Escape.

Felurian seemed to reach a decision and started through the cushions toward me. Moving in a cautious crawl, she stopped several feet away and looked at me.

“does my tender poet have a name?” Her voice was so gentle it startled me.

I opened my mouth to speak, then stopped. I thought of the moon, caught by her own name, and a thousand faerie stories I had heard as a child. If you believed Elodin, names were the bones of the world. I hesitated for about half a second before I decided I had given Felurian a damn sight more than my name already.

“I am Kvothe.” The sound of it seemed to ground me, to put me inside myself again.

“kvothe.” She spoke it softly, and it reminded me of a bird calling. “would you sing sweet for me again?” She reached out slowly, as if afraid of being burned, and laid her hand lightly on my arm. “please? your songs are like a caress, my kvothe.”

She pronounced my name like the beginning of a song. It was lovely. However, I wasn’t entirely comfortable with the way she referred to me as
her
Kvothe.

I smiled and nodded. Mostly because I didn’t have a better idea. I struck a couple of tuning chords, then paused, thinking.

Then I started to play “In the Forest Fae,” a song about, of all things, Felurian herself. It wasn’t particularly good. It used about three chords and two dozen words. But it had the effect I was looking for.

Felurian brightened at the mention of her name. There was no false modesty in her. She knew she was most beautiful, most skilled. She knew men told stories, and she knew her reputation. No man could resist her, no man could endure her. By the end of the song, pride had her sitting straighter.

I finished the song. “Would you like to hear another?” I asked.

She nodded and grinned eagerly. She sat among the cushions, back straight, as regal as a queen.

I moved into a second song, similar to the first. It was called “Lady Fae” or something of the sort. I didn’t know who had written it, but they had an appalling habit of sticking extra syllables into their lines. It wasn’t bad enough to get anything thrown at me in a tavern, but it was close.

I watched Felurian closely as I played. She was flattered, but I could read a slight dissatisfaction growing. As if she was irritated, but she couldn’t decide why. Perfect.

Last I played a song written for Queen Serule. I guarantee you haven’t heard it, but I’m sure you know the type. Written by some toadying minstrel looking for a patronage, my father had taught it to me as an example of certain things to avoid when writing a song. It was a numbing example of mediocrity. You could tell the writer was either truly inept, had never met Serule, or that he simply didn’t find her attractive at all.

While singing it, I simply exchanged the name Felurian for Serule. I also replaced some of the better phrases with less poetic ones. By the time I was through with it, the song was truly wretched, and Felurian wore an expression of naked dismay upon her face.

I sat for a long moment, as if deeply considering something. When I finally did speak, my voice was hushed and hesitant. “Lady, might I write a song for you?” I gave her a sheepish smile.

Her smile was like the moon through the clouds. She clapped her hands and threw herself onto me with a kittenish delight, peppering me with kisses. Only fear that my lute might be broken kept me from properly enjoying the experience.

Felurian pulled away and sat very still. I tried a couple of chord combinations, then stilled my hands and looked up at her. “I will call it ‘The Lay of Felurian.’ ” She blushed a bit and looked at me through lowered eyes, her expression bashful and brazen.

All immodest boasting aside, I write a fine song when I set my hand to it, and my skills had recently been sharpened in the Maer’s employ. I am not the best, but I am one of the best. Given enough time, a worthy subject, and the proper motivation I daresay I could write a song nearly as well as Illien. Nearly.

Closing my eyes, I coaxed sweet strains from my lute. My fingers flew, and I captured the music of wind in the branches, of rustling leaves.

Then I looked to the back of my mind where the mad, chattering part of me had been composing a song to Felurian all this while. I brushed the strings more lightly and began to sing.

Flashing moon silver, midnight blue her eyes
The lids were subtle-colored butterflies.
Her hair swayed, a dark scythe swinging
Through the trees with the wind singing.
Felurian! O Lady Fair,
Blessed be your forest glade.
Your breath is light upon the air.
Your hair is shadow-dappled shade.

Felurian grew still as I sang. Toward the end of the chorus I could hardly tell if she was breathing. A few of the butterflies that had been frightened away by our earlier conflict came dancing back to us. One of them landed on Felurian’s hand, brushing its wings once, twice, as if curious why its mistress was so sudden still. I turned my eyes to my lute again and chose notes like raindrops licking the leaves of trees.

She danced in dancing shadows candle cast
She held my eyes, my face, my form, full fast.
Her smile a snare ten times as strong
As legendary faerie song.
O Lady Fair! Felurian,
Your kiss is honeysuckle sweet.
I pity any other man
Unknown to you and incomplete.

I watched her from the corner of my eye. She sat as if listening with her entire body. Her eyes were wide. She’d raised one hand to her mouth, upsetting the butterfly resting there, while the other pressed against her chest as she drew a slow breath. This is what I had wanted, but I regretted it nonetheless.

I bent over my lute and danced my fingers across the strings. I wove chords like water over river stones, like a soft breath against the ear. Then I steeled myself and sang:

Her eyes were of the bluest black
Like night sky with the clouds blown back
Her skills in love—

I stuttered my fingers on the strings, pausing for just a moment as if unsure of something. I saw Felurian wake halfway from her reverie and continued:

Her skills in love they do suffice
In close embrace men find her nice.
Felurian! O Mistress Bright,
Your touch more sought than silver
I br—

“what?” Even though I was expecting the interruption, the ice in her voice startled me into a jangle of notes and sent several butterflies into flight. I took a breath, assumed my most innocent expression, and looked up.

Her expression was a storm of rage and disbelief. “nice?” I felt the blood drain from my face at her tone. Her voice was still round and gentle as a distant flute. But that meant nothing. Distant thunder doesn’t drub the ears, you feel it prowling through your chest. The quiet of her voice moved through me in that distant-thunder way.
“nice?”

“It
was
nice,” I said to mollify her, my air of innocence only half affected.

She opened her mouth as if she would speak, then closed her mouth. Her eyes flashed pure fury.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I should have known better than to try.” I pitched my voice somewhere between broken spirit and beaten child. I lowered my hands from the lute strings.

Some of the fire left her, but when she found her voice it was tight and dangerous. “my skills
‘suffice’?
” She hardly seemed able to force out the last word. Her mouth formed a thin, outraged line.

I exploded, my voice a roll of thunder. “How the hell am I supposed to know? It’s not like I’ve ever done this sort of thing before!”

She reeled back at the vehemence of my words, some of the anger draining out of her. “what is it you mean?” she trailed off, confused.

“This!” I gestured awkwardly at myself, at her, at the cushions and the pavilion around us, as if that explained everything.

The last of the anger left her as I saw realization begin to dawn, “you ...”

“No,” I looked down, my face growing hot. “I have never been with a woman.” Then I straightened and looked her in the eye as if challenging her to make an issue out of it.

Felurian was still for a moment, then her mouth turned up into a wry smile. “you tell me a faerie story, my kvothe.”

I felt my face go grim. I don’t mind being called a liar. I am. I am a marvelous liar. But I hate being called a liar when I’m telling the perfect truth.

Regardless of its motivation, my expression seemed to convince her. “but you were like a gentle summer storm.” She made a fluttering gesture with a hand. “you were a dancer fresh upon the field.” Her eyes glittered wickedly.

I tucked that comment away for later ego-polishing purposes. My reply was slightly wounded, “Please, I’m not a complete rube. I’ve read several books—”

Felurian giggled like a brook. “you learned from books.” She looked at me as if she couldn’t decide whether or not to take me seriously. She laughed, stopped, then laughed again. I didn’t know if I should be offended.

“You were rather good too,” I said hurriedly, knowing I sounded like the last dinner guest to compliment her on a salad. “As a matter of fact, I’ve read—”

“books? books! you compare me with books!” Her anger crashed over me. Then without even pausing for breath, Felurian laughed again, high and delighted. Her laugh was wild as a fox’s cry, clear and sharp as morning birdsong. It was no human sound.

I put on my innocent face. “Isn’t it always like this?” I kept my expression calm while inwardly I braced myself for another outburst.

She simply sat. “I am Felurian.”

BOOK: The Wise Man's Fear

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