The Name of the Wind (77 page)

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.

F
ALL 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.”

“What's a hind?”

“A deer.”

“I thought that was a hart?”

“A hind is a female deer. A wild deer. Do you know how much good it does you to chase a wild thing? None. It works against you. It startles the hind away. All you can do is stay gently where you are, and hope in time that the hind will come to you.”

Sim nodded, but I could tell he didn't really understand.

“Did you know they used to call this place the Questioning Hall?” I said, pointedly changing the subject. “Students would write questions on slips of paper and let the wind blow them around. You would get different answers depending on the way the paper left the square.” I gestured to the gaps between the grey buildings Elodin had shown to me. “Yes. No. Maybe. Elsewhere. Soon.”

The belling tower struck and Simmon sighed, sensing it was pointless to pursue the conversation further. “Are we playing corners tonight?”

I nodded. After he was gone I reached into my cloak and pulled out the note Denna had left in my window. I read it again, slowly. Then carefully tore away the bottom of the page where she had signed it.

I folded the narrow strip of paper with Denna's name, twisted it, and let the courtyard's ever-present wind tug it out of my hand to spin among the few remaining autumn leaves.

It danced along the cobblestones. It circled and spun, making patterns too wild and varied for me to understand. But though I waited until the sky grew dark, the wind never took it away. When I left, my question was still wandering in the House of the Wind, giving no answers, hinting at many.
Yes. No. Maybe. Elsewhere. Soon.

 

Lastly, there was my ongoing feud with Ambrose. I walked on pins and needles every day, waiting for him to take his revenge. But the months passed and nothing happened. Eventually, I came to the conclusion that he had finally learned his lesson and was keeping a safe distance from me.

I was wrong, of course. Perfectly and completely wrong. Ambrose had merely learned to bide his time. He did manage to get his revenge, and when it came, I was caught flatfooted and forced to leave the University.

But that, as they say, is a story for another day.

“T
HAT SHOULD DO FOR now, I imagine,” Kvothe said, gesturing for

Chronicler to lay down his pen. “We have all the groundwork now. A foundation of story to build upon.”

Kvothe came to his feet and rolled his shoulders, stretching his back. “Tomorrow we'll have some of my favorite stories. My journey to Alveron's court. Learning to fight from the Adem. Felurian…” He picked up a clean linen cloth and turned to Chronicler. “Is there anything you need before you turn in for the night?”

Chronicler shook his head, knowing a polite dismissal when he heard one. “Thank you, no. I'll be fine.” He gathered everything into his flat leather satchel and made his way upstairs to his rooms.

“You too, Bast,” Kvothe said. “I'll take care of the cleaning up.” He made a shooing motion to forestall his student's protest. “Go on. I need time to think about tomorrow's story. These things don't plan themselves you know.”

Shrugging, Bast headed up the stairs as well, his footsteps sounding hard on the wooden stairs.

Kvothe went about his nightly ritual. He shoveled ashes out of the huge stone fireplace and brought in wood for tomorrow's fire. He went outside to extinguish the lamps beside the Waystone's sign, only to find that he'd forgotten to light them earlier that evening. He locked the inn, and after a moment's consideration, left the key in the door so Chronicler could let himself out if he woke early in the morning.

Then he swept the floor, washed the tables, and rubbed down the bar, moving with a methodical efficiency. Last came the polishing of the bottles. As he went through the motions his eyes were far away, remembering. He did not hum or whistle. He did not sing.

 

In his room, Chronicler moved about restlessly, tired but too full of anxious energy to let sleep take him. He removed the finished pages from his satchel and stowed them safely in the heavy wooden chest of drawers. Then he cleaned all his pen's nibs and set them out to dry. He carefully removed the bandage on his shoulder, threw the foul-smelling thing in the chamber pot, and replaced the lid before washing his shoulder clean in the hand basin.

Yawning, he went to the window and looked out at the little town, but there was nothing to see. No lights, no movement. He opened the window a crack, letting in the fresh autumn air. Drawing the curtains, Chronicler undressed for bed, lying his clothes over the back of a chair. Last of all he removed the simple iron wheel from around his neck and laid it on the nightstand.

Turning down his bed, Chronicler was surprised to see the sheets had been changed sometime during the day. The linen was crisp and smelled pleasantly of lavender.

After a moment's hesitation, Chronicler moved to the door of his room and locked it. He laid the key on the nightstand, then frowned and picked up the stylized iron wheel and put it back around his neck before snuffing the lamp and crawling into bed.

For the better part of an hour, Chronicler lay sleepless in his sweet-smelling bed, rolling restlessly from side to side. Finally he sighed and threw off the covers. He relit the lamp with a sulfur match and climbed back out of bed. Then he walked over to the heavy chest of drawers beside the window and pushed at it. It wouldn't budge at first, but when he put his back into it, he managed to slide it slowly across the smooth wooden floor.

After a minute the weighty piece of furniture was pressed against the door of his room. Then he climbed back into bed, rolled down the lamp, and quickly fell into a deep and peaceful sleep.

 

It was pitch black in the room when Chronicler woke with something soft pressing against his face. He thrashed wildly, more a reflex than an attempt to get away. His startled shout was muffled by the hand clamped firmly over his mouth.

After his initial panic, Chronicler went quiet and limp. Breathing hard through his nose, he lay there, eyes wide in the darkness.

“It's just me,” Bast whispered without removing his hand.

Chronicler said something muffled.

“We need to talk.” Kneeling beside the bed, Bast looked down at the dark shape Chronicler made, twisted in his blankets. “I'm going to light the lamp and you're not going to make any loud noises. Alright?”

Chronicler nodded against Bast's hand. A moment later a match flared, filling the room with jagged red light and the acrid smell of sulfur. Then gentler lamplight welled up. Bast licked his fingers and pinched the match between them.

Trembling slightly, Chronicler sat up in the bed and put his back against the wall. Bare-chested, he gathered the blankets self-consciously around his waist and glanced toward the door. The heavy dresser was still in place.

Bast followed his gaze. “That shows a certain lack of trust,” he said dryly. “You better not have scratched up his floors. He gets mad as hell about that sort of thing.”

“How did you get in here?” Chronicler demanded.

Bast flailed his hands franticly at Chronicler's head. “Quiet!” he hissed. “We have to be quiet. He has ears like a hawk.”

“How…” Chronicler began more softly, then stopped. “Hawks don't have ears.”

Bast gave him a puzzled look. “What?”

“You said he has ears like a hawk. That doesn't make any sense.”

Bast frowned and made a dismissive gesture. “You know what I mean. He can't know that I'm here.” Bast sat on the edge of the bed and smoothed down his pants self-consciously.

Chronicler gripped the blankets bunched around his waist. “Why
are
you here?”

“Like I said, we need to talk.” Bast looked at Chronicler seriously. “We need to talk about why you're here.”

“This is what I do,” Chronicler said, irritated. “I collect stories. And when I get the chance I investigate odd rumors and see if there's any truth behind them.”

“Out of curiosity, which rumor was it?” Bast asked.

“Apparently you got soppy drunk and let something slip to a wagoneer,” Chronicler said. “Rather careless, all things considered.”

Bast gave Chronicler a profoundly pitying look. “Look at me,” Bast said, as if talking to a child. “Think. Could some wagon herder get me drunk? Me?”

Chronicler opened his mouth. Closed it. “Then…”

“He was my message in a bottle. One of many. You just happened to be the first person to find one and come looking.”

Chronicler took a long moment to digest this piece of information. “I thought you two were hiding?”

“Oh we're hiding alright,” Bast said bitterly. “We're tucked away so safe and sound that he's practically fading into the woodwork.”

“I can understand you feeling a little stifled around here,” Chronicler said. “But honestly, I don't see what your master's bad mood has do to with the price of butter.”

Bast's eyes flashed angrily. “It has everything to do with the price of butter!” he said through his teeth. “And it's a damn sight more than a bad mood, you ignorant, wretched
anhaut-fehn
. This place is killing him.”

Chronicler went pale at Bast's outburst. “I…I'm not…”

Bast closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, obviously trying to calm himself. “You just don't understand what's going on,” he said, speaking to himself as much as Chronicler. “That's why I came, to explain. I've been waiting for months for someone to come. Anyone. Even old enemies come to settle scores would be better than him wasting away like this. But you're better than I'd hoped for. You're perfect.”

“Perfect for what?” Chronicler asked. “I don't even know what the problem is.”

“It's like…have you ever heard the story of Martin Maskmaker?” Chronicler shook his head and Bast gave a frustrated sigh. “How about plays? Have you seen
The Ghost and the Goosegirl
or
The Ha'penny King
?”

Chronicler frowned. “Is that the one where the king sells his crown to an orphan boy?”

Bast nodded. “And the boy becomes a better king than the original. The goosegirl dresses like a countess and everyone is stunned by her grace and charm.” He hesitated, struggling to find the words he wanted. “You see, there's a fundamental connection between
seeming
and
being.
Every Fae child knows this, but you mortals never seem to see. We understand how dangerous a mask can be. We all become what we pretend to be.”

Chronicler relaxed a bit, sensing familiar ground. “That's basic psychology. You dress a beggar in fine clothes, people treat him like a noble, and he lives up to their expectations.”

“That's only the smallest piece of it,” Bast said. “The truth is deeper than that. It's…” Bast floundered for a moment. “It's like everyone tells a story about themselves inside their own head. Always. All the time. That story makes you what you are. We build ourselves out of that story.”

Frowning, Chronicler opened his mouth, but Bast held up a hand to stop him. “No, listen. I've got it now. You meet a girl: shy, unassuming. If you tell her she's beautiful, she'll think you're sweet, but she won't believe you. She knows that beauty lies in your beholding.” Bast gave a grudging shrug. “And sometimes that's enough.”

His eyes brightened. “But there's a better way. You
show
her she is beautiful. You make mirrors of your eyes, prayers of your hands against her body. It is hard, very hard, but when she truly believes you…” Bast gestured excitedly. “Suddenly the story she tells herself in her own head changes. She transforms. She isn't
seen as beautiful
. She is
beautiful, seen.
”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Chronicler snapped. “You're just spouting nonsense now.”

“I'm spouting too much sense for you to understand,” Bast said testily. “But you're close enough to see my point. Think of what he said today. People saw him as a hero, and he played the part. He wore it like a mask but eventually he believed it. It became the truth. But now…” he trailed off.

“Now people see him as an innkeeper,” Chronicler said.

“No,” Bast said softly. “People saw him as an innkeeper a year ago. He took off the mask when they walked out the door. Now he sees
himself
as an innkeeper, and a failed innkeeper at that. You saw what he was like when Cob and the rest came in tonight. You saw that thin shadow of a man behind the bar tonight. It used to be an act….”

Bast looked up, excited. “But you're perfect. You can help him remember what it was like. I haven't seen him so lively in months. I know you can do it.”

Chronicler frowned a bit. “I'm not sure….”

“I know it will work,” Bast said eagerly. “I tried something similar a couple of months ago. I got him to start a memoir.”

Chronicler perked up. “He wrote a memoir?”

“
Started
a memoir,” Bast said. “He was so excited, talked about it for days. Wondering where he should begin his story. After his first night's writing he was like his old self again. He looked three feet taller with lightning on his shoulders.” Bast sighed. “But something happened. The next day he read what he'd written and went into one of his dark moods. Claimed the whole thing was the worst idea he'd ever had.”

“What about the pages he wrote?”

Bast made a crumpling motion with his hands and tossed imaginary papers away.

“What did they say?” Chronicler asked.

Bast shook his head. “He didn't throw them away. He just…threw them. They've been lying on his desk for months.”

Chronicler's curiosity was almost palpable. “Can't you just…” he waggled his fingers. “You know, tidy them up?”

“
Anpauen.
No.” Bast looked horrified. “He was furious after he read them.” Bast shivered a little. “You don't know what he's like when he's really angry. I know better than to cross him on something like that.”

“I suppose you know best,” Chronicler said dubiously.

Bast gave an emphatic nod. “Exactly. That's why I came to talk to you. Because I know best. You need to keep him from focusing on the dark things. If not…” Bast shrugged and repeated the motion of crumpling and throwing away a piece of paper.

“But I'm collecting the story of his life. The
real
story.” Chronicler made a helpless gesture. “Without the dark parts it's just some silly f—” Chronicler froze halfway through the word, eyes darting nervously to the side.

Bast grinned like a child catching a priest midcurse. “Go on,” he urged, his eyes were delighted, and hard, and terrible. “Say it.”

“Like some silly faerie story,” Chronicler finished, his voice thin and pale as paper.

Bast smiled a wide smile. “You know nothing of the Fae, if you think our stories lack their darker sides. But all that aside, this
is
a faerie story, because you are gathering it for me.”

Chronicler swallowed hard and seemed to regain some of his composure. “What I mean is that what he's telling is a true story, and true stories have unpleasant parts. His more than most, I expect. They're messy, and tangled, and…”

“I know you can't get him to leave them out,” Bast said. “But you can hurry him along. You can help him dwell on the good things: his adventures, the women, the fighting, his travels, his music….” Bast stopped abruptly. “Well…not the music. Don't ask about that, or why he doesn't do magic anymore.”

Chronicler frowned. “Why not? His music seems…”

Bast's expression was grim. “Just don't,” he said firmly. “They're not productive subjects. I stopped you earlier,” he tapped Chronicler's shoulder meaningfully, “because you were going to ask him what went wrong with his sympathy. You didn't know any better. Now you do. Focus on the heroics, his cleverness.” He waved his hands. “That sort of thing.”