They drank with quiet determination, avoiding serious discussions of troubling news.

“The Chandrian. Everyone knows that blue fire is one of their signs.

“Scrael?” Jake broke in. “Blackened body of God,

“Demons fear three things: cold iron, clean fire, and the holy name of God.”

Looking up, he saw a thousand stars glittering in the deep velvet of a night with no moon. He knew them all, their stories and their names. He knew them in a familiar way, the way he knew his own hands.

Celum Tinture

“Tehus antausa eha!”

the numerous solvent formulae extant in Celum Tinture. Chapter thirteen,

The chest was sealed three times. It had a lock of iron, a lock of copper, and a lock that could not be seen. Tonight the wood filled the room with the almost imperceptible aroma of citrus and quenching iron.

The Penitent King was having a difficult time with the rebels in Resavek.

Abbott’s Ford

he finished this foolishness and met up with Skarpi in Treya.

way from Aryen, not

“Folly,” Graham read. “Odd name for a sword.”

“When the hearthfire turns to blue, What to do? What to do? Run outside. Run and hide.”

Limes from Tinuë, chocolate from Tarbean, polished horn from Aerueh….

“See a man without a face? Move like ghosts from place to place. What’s their plan? What’s their plan? Chandrian. Chandrian.”

Or if there was, it was too faint to be noticed, or too well hidden.

All the scars were smooth and silver, streaking him like lightning, like lines of gentle remembering. The flare of flame revealed them all briefly, old wounds and new. All the scars were smooth and silver except one.

He had searched for horses in Abbott’s Ford and Rannish,

“The scrael don’t retreat. They’re like wasps from a hive. They keep attacking until they die.”

“You’d be surprised at the sorts of things hidden away in children’s songs. But while I don’t think we need to dig the entire ten feet down,

“Bloodless and all that.” “Don’t believe everything you hear in stories, Bast. They lie to you.”

“Devan. Devan Lochees.”

“How about that? The great debunker himself.”

“I’ve been traveling with an old friend of yours. Skarpi.”

The stories will take care of themselves.”

“What could you possibly offer me that is worth the price of remembering?”

very special kind of myth that creates itself. The best lies about me are the ones I told.”

stories paint you as little more than a red- handed killer.”

“The stories are saying ‘assassin’ not ‘hero.’ Kvothe the Arcane and Kvothe Kingkiller are two very different men.”

saying that there is a new Chandrian. A fresh terror in the night. His hair as red as the blood he spills.”

So this is the difference between telling a story and being in one, he thought numbly, the fear.

The story told of how Kvothe had gone looking for his heart’s desire. He had to trick a demon to get it. But once it rested in his hand, he was forced to fight an angel to keep it. I believe it, Chronicler found himself thinking. Before it was just a story, but now I can believe it. This is the face of a man who has killed an angel.

“An appointment with the Earl of Baedn- Bryt,” Chronicler said, puffing himself up slightly. “Three days from now, in Treya.”

“‘ I trouped, traveled, loved, lost, trusted and was betrayed.’

Oren Velciter. Oren Velciter, mind you. He’s eighty years old, and done two hundred years worth of living. Five hundred, if you count the lies.

“I am. We are. She is. He was. They will be.”

really learn Tema in a day?”

I am of the Edema Ruh. We were telling stories before Caluptena burned.

This is, in many ways, a story about the Chandrian.”

The Adem call me Maedre.

have been called Kvothe the Bloodless, Kvothe the Arcane, and Kvothe Kingkiller. I have earned those names.

Our patron was Baron Greyfallow, and his name opened many doors that would ordinarily be closed to the Edema Ruh.

Trip was doing some juggling. Marion and his wife were putting on an impromptu string- puppet show.

Hudumbran- by- Thiren, and the Wydeconte Hills.”

The Forging of the Path

arcanist,

They were brighter than gaslight, steadier than candles or lamps, and lasted nearly forever. They were also terribly expensive.

He was quoting lines from the exorcism scene in Daeonica. Not many folk knew that play.

The folk that need me don’t trust me, and the ones that trust me can’t afford me.”

“Just because someone knows a trick or two doesn’t mean they’re an arcanist. They might know how to set a bone or read Eld Vintic. Maybe they even know a little sympathy.

A true arcanist has worked his way through the Arcanum at the University.”

Teren and Shandi rehearsing lines from The Swineherd and the Nightingale.

I learned how to work the sextant, the compass, the slipstick, the abacus. More important, I learned to do without.

“Do you believe in God?” “Tehlu? After a fashion.”

“That’s the sort of belief I want. It’s called Alar: riding- crop belief. When I drop this stone it will float away, free as a bird.”

“Alar is the cornerstone of sympathy. If you are going to impose your will on the world, you must have control over what you believe.”

Ben taught me Heart of Stone, a mental exercise that let you set aside your emotions and prejudices and let you think clearly about whatever you wished. Ben said a man who truly mastered Heart of Stone could go to his sister’s funeral without ever shedding a tear.

Seek the Stone. The point of the game was to have one part of your mind hide an imaginary stone in an imaginary room. Then you had another, separate part of your mind try to find it.

then you are developing an iron- hard Alar of the sort you need for sympathy.

Have you ever been annoyed and amused with yourself at the same time?

It’s no wonder that many arcanists you meet are a little eccentric, if not downright cracked. As Ben had said, sympathy is not for the weak of mind.

“The no- longer- nomads, called the Cealdim by now, were the first to establish a standardized currency.

“Ten drabs are the same as a copper jot; ten jots—”

“The law of sympathy is one of the most basic parts of magic. It states that the more similar two objects are, the greater the sympathetic link. The greater the link, the more easily they influence each other.”

“The trick is in holding the Alar firm in your mind. You need to believe they are connected. You need to know they are.” He handed me the paper. “Here is the phonetic pronunciation. It’s called the Sympathetic Binding of Parallel Motion. Practice.”

Heart of Stone.

No emotion and prejudice

I learned that almost anything could be bound together. An iron drab and a silver talent, a stone and a piece of fruit, two bricks, a clod of earth and one of the donkeys. It took me about two hours to figure out that the pine pitch wasn’t necessary.

Distrust turns quickly to dislike, my father told new members of our troupe, so stay together when you’re in town, and be polite.

When we are children we seldom think of the future. This innocence leaves us free to enjoy ourselves as few adults can. The day we fret about the future is the day we leave our childhood behind.

The Maxim of Variable Heat Transferred to Constant Motion, or something pretentious like that.

“So you think there is an original story all the others stem from?” Ben asked. “A historical basis for Lanre?”

and in Felior’s Fall there are a full thirteen of them: one for each pontifet in Atur, and an extra for the capitol.”

“Seven. You can hold to that with some certainty. It’s part of their name, actually. Chaen means seven. Chaen- dian means ‘seven of them.’ Chandrian.”

don’t suppose you know why they do what they do?”

But Chandrian come like lightning from a clear blue sky. Just destruction. No rhyme or reason to it.”

“The Chandrian’s signs are another key piece of information we can’t nail down. Everyone agrees there are signs that warn of their presence, but nobody agrees on what they are.”

“Blue flame is obvious, of course. But I’d hesitate to attribute that to the Chandrian in particular. In some stories it’s

“What are they afraid of at night in Vintas then?” “The Fae,” my mother said. My father spoke at the same time. “Draugar.”

here in the Commonwealth people laugh up their sleeves at both ideas.”

“Good sensible fears for a trouper to have,” Ben said. “Fears that townsfolk don’t appreciate. Every place has its little superstitions, and everyone laughs at what the folk across the river think.” He gave them a serious look. “But have either of you ever heard a humorous song or story

My father smiled. Illien is the troupers’ hero. The only truly famous Edema Ruh in all of history. All our oldest, best songs are his songs.

What’s more, if you believed the stories, Illien reinvented the lute in his lifetime. A master luthier, Illien transformed the archaic, fragile, unwieldy court lute into the marvelous, versatile, seven- string trouper’s lute we use today. The same stories claim Illien’s own lute had eight strings in all.

striking ocean blue, but now they showed themselves to be all one color, like gems or deep forest pools, and his soft leather boots had been replaced with graceful cloven hooves.

an accomplished member of the Arcanum, at least Re’lar, and one of perhaps two score people in the world who knows the name of iron.

“Chronicler, I would like you to meet Bastas, son of Remmen, Prince of Twilight and the Telwyth Mael. The brightest, which is to say the only student I’ve had the misfortune to teach. Glamourer, bartender, and, not last, my friend. “Who, over the course of a hundred and fifty years of life,

He’s so young, Chronicler marveled. He can’t be more than twenty- five. Why didn’t I see it before? He could break me in his hands like a kindling stick. How did I ever mistake him for an innkeeper, even for a moment?

This is who I came to see, Chronicler thought to himself, this is the man who counseled kings and walked old roads with nothing but his wit to guide him. This is the man whose name has become both praise and curse at the University.

midtirade,

I fixed the Alar firmly in my mind,

Then he looked at me, all I remember were his eyes, they seemed far away and filled with a terrible power, dispassionate and cold. He looked at me. His mouth moved. He called the wind. A leaf in lightning, I shook. And the thunderclap was black.

“I’ve known them by a different name. Waystones,” Ben said quietly. He looked old and tired. After a moment he asked, “Why do you stop when you find one?” “We just always do.

“What’s a drawstone?” I asked. “It’s an old name for loden- stones,” my mother explained. “They’re pieces of star- iron that draw all other iron toward themselves. I saw one years ago in a curiosity cabinet.”

We were family, and I knew that any trouble between us would eventually be smoothed over. All I needed was time.

TOWN WAS CALLED Hallowfell.

Proud Lanre, strong as the spring Steel of the sword he had at ready hand. Hear how he fought, fell, and rose again, To fall again. Under shadow falling then. Love felled him, love for native land, And love of his wife Lyra, at whose calling Some say he rose, through doors of death To speak her name as his first reborn breath.”

But, even as young as I was, I knew the truth. It would be a great long time before I saw him again. Years.

“Kvothe, Defend yourself well at the University. Make me proud. Remember your father’s song. Be wary of folly.

“Who cares if a Modegan viscount outranks a Vintish spara- thain?”

All the flames were tinged with blue, making the scene dreamlike and surreal.

His face was narrow and sharp, with the perfect beauty of porcelain. His hair was shoulder length, framing his face in loose curls the color of frost. He was a creature of winter’s pale. Everything about him was cold and sharp and white. Except his eyes. They were black like a goat’s but with no iris. His eyes were like his sword, and

“Someone’s parents,” he said, “have been singing entirely the wrong sort of songs.”

The voice came from a man who sat apart from the rest, wrapped in shadow at the edge of the fire. Though the sky was still bright with sunset and nothing stood between the fire and where he sat, shadow pooled around him like thick oil. The fire snapped and danced, lively and warm, tinged with blue, but no flicker of its light came close to him. The shadow gathered thicker around his head. I could catch a glimpse of a deep cowl like some priests wear, but underneath the shadows were so deep it was like looking down a well at midnight.

“You are as good as a watcher, Haliax,”

Halix

The soft voice went as hard as a rod of Ramston steel. “Ferula.”

grew thinner and more ragged. I slept in rain or sun, on soft grass, moist earth, or sharp stones with an intensity of indifference that only grief can promote. The only notice I took of my surroundings was when

whole days trying to capture Wind Turning a Leaf.

“Thanks, boy. I’m Seth, and this here is Jake.

Trees and gardens were replaced by alleys and cart vendors.

“This is Seaward Square.”

could do was think about every story I had ever heard about the Duke of

Waterside and Hillside. Waterside is where people are poor. That makes them beggars, thieves, and whores. Hillside is where people are rich. That makes them solicitors, politicians, and courtesans.

Encanis, Lord of Demons.

fever dreams of my dead parents, the Chandrian, and a man with empty eyes.

“From men who live with demons for their neighbors? Even the best dog will bite that has been kicked enough.”

One by one they crossed, and one by one Tehlu struck them down with the hammer. But after each man or woman fell, Tehlu knelt and spoke to them, giving them new names and healing some of their hurt.

began to harbor a suspicion that never entirely left me. Was Trapis a Tehlin priest?

Perhaps I even viewed it as fair. My punishment for not being there to help when the Chandrian came. My punishment for not dying when I should have, with the rest of my family.”

Lanre and the Creation War. An old, old story.” His

They were Belen, Antus, Vaeret, Tinusa, Emlen, and the twin cities of Murilla and Murella. Last was Myr Tariniel, greatest of them all and the only one unscarred by the long centuries of war. It was protected by the mountains and brave soldiers.

After the battle was finished and the enemy was set beyond the doors of stone, survivors found Lanre’s body, cold and lifeless near the beast he had slain.

the rumors, and he was worried. He feared for Lyra’s health, but more he feared for Lanre. Selitos was wise. He understood how grief

“I hoped, perhaps, that you would join me in what I aim to do.”

Selitos, his eyes unveiled, looked at his friend. He saw how Lanre, nearly mad with grief, had sought the power to bring Lyra back to life again. Out of love for Lyra, Lanre had sought knowledge where knowledge is better left alone, and gained it at a terrible price.

pulled like iron to a loden- stone. Your name burns with the power in you.

“I had hoped,” he said simply. “But I knew the truth. I am no longer the Lanre you knew. Mine is a new and terrible name. I am Haliax and no door can bar my passing. All is lost to me, no Lyra, no sweet escape of sleep, no blissful forgetfulness, even madness is beyond me. Death itself is an open doorway to my power. There is no escape. I have only the hope of oblivion after everything is gone and the Aleu fall nameless from the sky.”

“By the power of my own blood I bind you. By your own name let you be accursed.”

“This is my doom upon you. May your face be always held in shadow, black as the toppled towers of my beloved Myr Tariniel. “This is my doom upon you. Your own name will be turned against you, that you shall have no peace. “This is my doom upon you and all who follow you. May it last until the world ends and the Aleu fall nameless from the sky.”

themselves.” He took a drink. “It’s growing all around us. In the manor houses of the Cealdim and in the workshops of the Cealdar, over the Stormwal in the great sand sea. In the low stone houses of the Adem, full of silent conversation. And sometimes.” He smiled. “Sometimes the story is growing in squalid backstreet bars, Dockside in Tarbean.”

The Chandrian were real. Haliax was real. If the story Skarpi had told was true, then Lanre and Haliax were the same person. The Chandrian had killed my parents, my whole troupe. Why?

“Someone’s parents,” he had said, “have been singing entirely the wrong sort of songs.”

he wore the pale grey robe of the Tehlins. Around his neck was a set of silver scales. My heart sunk deep into the pit of my stomach. Not just a priest, but a Justice.

“It’s not as if I expect you to bound off looking for Haliax and the Seven yourself. ‘Small deeds for small men,’

Who keeps you safe from the Amyr? The singers? The Sithe? From all that would harm you in the world?

the Amyr were church knights, the strong right hand of the Aturan Empire.

And Skarpi’s story implied that the Amyr had begun with Selitos, not

Fear tends to come from ignorance. Once I knew what the problem was, it was just a problem, nothing to fear.

“It never works though. Only way to stop your feet from smelling is to let them air out a bit. Could be the same thing with secrets. I don’t know about that, though. I just know about shoes.”

The Tahl have a saying about children of our age. The boy grows upward, but the girl grows up.

My eyes were always returning to Denna. She sat beside me, arms hugging her knees. Her skin was more luminous than the moon, her eyes wider than the sky, deeper than the water, darker than the night.

“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.”

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.

Vorfelan Rhinata Morie.

full- blooded Ceald, with the characteristic ruddy complexion and dark hair and eyes.

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.

Master Rhetorician Hemme made a disgusted noise at my comment,

I turned to face Brandeur. Portly and balding, he was the University’s Master Arithmetician.

“Well sir,” I said slowly to give myself a moment or two to organize my thoughts. “Partly because Lord Nalto was an inept egomaniac. Partly because the church went into upheaval and denounced the Order Amyr who were a large part of the strength of Atur. Partly because the military was fighting three different wars of conquest at the same time, and high taxes fomented rebellion in lands already inside the empire.” I watched the master’s expression, hoping he would give some sign when he had heard enough. “They also debased their currency, undercut the universality of the iron law, and antagonized the Adem.” I shrugged. “But of course it’s more complicated than that.”

“Who was the greatest man who ever lived?” Another unfamiliar question. I thought for a minute. “Illien.”

“Kvothe. Spring term. Tuition: -3. Tln.”

“Kvothe, these are the worst students the Arcanum has to offer: Manet and Wilem.”

“Simmon’s father is a paper duke bowing to a tin king in Atur.

“Barley bread. Gods all around us, a man is meant to eat wheat.” I watched him while chewing a mouthful of the fresh brown bread. It tasted wonderful.

“They tell everyone that. Principles of Sympathy is one of the classes you’ll have to slog through before they elevate you to E’lir.”

Besides, anger can keep you warm at night, and wounded pride can spur a man to wondrous things.

I was standing in one of the cornerstones of civilization, talking to the Master Archivist of the University.

“First is the Doctrine of Correspondence which says, ‘similarity enhances sympathy.’ Second is the Principle of Consanguinity, which says, ‘a piece of a thing can represent the whole of a thing.’ Third is the Law of Conservation, which says ‘energy cannot be destroyed nor created.’ Correspondence, Consanguinity, and Conservation. The three C’s.”

the Alar, the riding- crop belief, back when

“This is the prime problem in sympathy. Where do we get the energy? Here, however, the answer is simple.”

by Jamison. He oversaw everything that wasn’t under direct control of the masters: the kitchens, the laundry, the stables, the stockrooms.

“Master Physicker,” said Arwyl. “Master Archivist,” said Lorren, his face impassive as ever. “Master Arithmetician,” Brandeur said, cracking his knuckles absently. “Master Artificer,” grumbled Kilvin without looking up from the tabletop. “Master Alchemist,” said Mandrag. “Master Rhetorician,” Hemme’s face was fierce and red. “Master Sympathist,” said Elxa Dal. “Master Namer.” Elodin actually smiled at me. Not just a perfunctory curling of the lips, but a warm, toothy grin. I drew a bit of a shaky breath, relieved that at least one person present didn’t seem eager to hang me up by my thumbs. “And Master Linguist,” said the Chancellor.

is against the laws of the University for a student who is not a member of the Arcanum to use sympathy without permission from a master.”

No matter how you spend your life, your wit will defend you more often than a sword. Keep it sharp!

himself, “I would say that you were being ridiculous. That our students are adults, not squabbling, bickersome boys.”

VALARITAS.

barony off in Vintas.” He hesitated, looking to Manet. “Lord, how do I even start?” Manet leaned forward and spoke in more confidential tones as well. “He’s not one of those nobility who dabble here for a term or two then leave. He’s been for years, climbed his way up to Re’lar. He’s not some seventh son either. He’s the firstborn heir. And his father is one of the twelve most powerful men in all of Vintas.”

“Upon him I will visit famine and a fire. Till all around him desolation rings And all the demons in the outer dark Look on amazed and recognize That vengeance is the business of a man.”

“It’s like he knows he’s better than you, but doesn’t look down on you for it because he knows it’s not your fault.”

“Everyone thinks chemistry and alchemy are so similar, but they’re really not. They’re not even related. They just happen to live in the same house.”

locked him in the Crockery until he got most of his marbles back.”

without breaking stride or looking in my direction. “You should aim higher. A young man ought to be afire with high ambitions.”

“Have you heard of Haven yet?” I shook my head. “It has other names: the Rookery, the Crockery….”

“Alder Whin is not to be confined. He may come and go as he pleases.

do need a catwhistle and bluedown, and bones too.” His tone was urgent. “Tentbones.”

I practiced my Siaru with Wilem and helped him with his Aturan in exchange.

Reputation is like a sort of armor, or a weapon you can brandish if need be. I decided that if I was going to be an arcanist, I might as well be a well- known arcanist.

absence of things moving about and making noise. Bast feared the deep, weary silence that gathered around his master at times, like an invisible shroud. Bast breathed

“There are two sure ways to lose a friend, one is to borrow, the other to lend.”

needed a gaelet, one of the dangerous men who lend money to desperate people. You might have heard them referred to romantically as copper hawks, but more often they’re referred to as shim- galls, or lets. Regardless of the name, they exist everywhere. The hard part is finding them. They tend to be rather secretive as their business is semilegal at best.

Sygaldry, simply put, is a set of tools for channeling forces. Like sympathy made solid.

if you engraved one brick with the rune ule and another with the rune doch, the two runes would cause the bricks to cling to each other, as if mortared in place.

Truly high- level artificing such as sympathy clocks or gearwins were still beyond my reach, but I knew that it was just a matter of time. Unfortunately, time was proving to be in short supply.

“We all bite off too much sooner or later. But some students don’t know when to spit their mouthful. They burn out. They quit, or botch their exams. Some crack.”

“But we are also servants of fire. Because fire is the most common form of energy, and without energy, our prowess as sympathists is of little use.”

older El’the from the Medica arrived,

“I went out last night.” A sly smile. “On top of things.”

Music sounds different to the one who plays it. It is the musician’s curse.

She smelled faintly of flowers, which I guessed was a perfume, but beneath that was her own smell, like green grass, like the open road after a light spring rain.

The University and Imre are the hearts of understanding and art, the strongest of the four corners of civilization.

“One of Lorren’s gillers,” Wil said. “Viari.”

“He works in acquisitions. They bring back books from all over the world. They’re a different breed entirely.”

“Bone- tar?” He nodded. “It’s caustic. Spill it on your arm and it’ll eat through to the bone in about ten seconds.”

“But you can use it to make a different type of emitter for sympathy lamps. You get a bluish light instead of the ordinary red. A little easier on the eyes. Fetch outrageous prices.”

When a man gives you a rose what you see may not be what he intends. You may think he sees you as delicate or frail. Perhaps you dislike a suitor who considers you all sweet and nothing else. Perhaps the stem is thorned, and you assume he thinks you likely to hurt a hand too quick to touch. But if he trims the thorns you might think he has no liking for a thing that can defend itself with sharpness. There’s so many ways a thing can be interpreted,”

I made the boldest motion of my young life and brushed the side of her neck gently with a pair of fingers.

How did one know? How could I be certain? I couldn’t. So I resisted the pull of her. I did not want to presume too much, did not want to offend her or embarrass myself. What’s more, Deoch’s warning had made me uncertain. Perhaps what I felt was nothing more than Denna’s natural charm, her charisma.

could think of nothing worse than making some unwelcome advance toward Denna and having her laugh at the awkwardness of my attempt. I hate nothing more than doing things badly.

dark inns, my mood swung from elation to doubt in the space of three brief breaths. I had ruined everything. All the things I had said, things that seemed so clever at the time, were in fact the worst things a fool could say. Even now she was inside, breathing a sigh of relief to finally be rid of me. But she had smiled. Had laughed. She hadn’t remembered our first meeting on the road from Tarbean. I couldn’t have made that much of an impression on her. Steal me, she had said. I should have been bolder and kissed her at the end. I should have been more cautious. I had talked too much. I had said too little.

moment in the mind is worth nine in the fire.”

sputtered back into life, filling the room with natural light. I marveled at the master’s casual execution of a six- way binding. I couldn’t even guess where he had drawn the energy from.

We talked through the long hours of night. I spoke subtle circles around the way I felt, not wanting to be overbold. I thought she might be doing the same, but I could never be sure. It was like we were doing one of those elaborate Modegan court dances, where the partners stand scant inches apart, but— if they are skilled— never touch. Such was our conversation. But not only were we lacking touch to guide us, it was as if we were also strangely deaf. So we danced very carefully, unsure what music the other was listening to, unsure, perhaps, if the other was dancing at all.

“You see, women are like fires, like flames. Some women are like candles, bright and friendly. Some are like single sparks, or embers, like fireflies for chasing on summer nights. Some are like campfires, all light and heat for a night and willing to be left after. Some women are like hearthfires, not much to look at but underneath they are all warm red coal that burns a long, long while. “But Dianne… Dianne is like a waterfall of spark pouring off a sharp iron edge that God is holding to the grindstone. You can’t help but look, can’t help but want it. You might even put your hand to it for a second. But you can’t hold it. She’ll break your heart….”

stood there, to use Fela’s words, like a scared rabbit. She was close enough that I could feel the warmth of her, and when she leaned to adjust the way the cloak lay across my shoulders, one of her breasts brushed my arm. I stood still as a statue. Over Fela’s shoulder I saw Deoch grin from where he leaned in the doorway across the room.

“you get a coin instead.” She held it out at arm’s length, pinched between her thumb and forefinger. “It will keep you safe at night. As much as anything can, that is.” It was shaped like an Aturan penance piece, but it gleamed silver in the moonlight. I’d never seen a coin like it.

Trace minerals, I thought. Chromium, bassal, malium, iodine… everything your body needs but probably can’t get from apples and bread and whatever you manage to scrounge up when I can’t find you. “The dreams of fish,” I said. “And sailor’s songs.”

We Ruh are meant to travel, son. When my blood tells me to wander, I know enough to trust it.

“You’re an idiot,” the one behind me said. “It’s cleaner this way. Simpler. No confusing descriptions. No names. No worrying about disguises. Follow the needle, find our man, and have done with it.”

The thing they had called a “finder” was probably some sort of dowsing compass. Though I couldn’t make anything that advanced, I knew the principles involved. With a piece of my hair, it would point toward me no matter where I ran.

chaotic because it was vastly, marvelously complex. What’s more, it seemed to be always changing. It was a pattern made of changing patterns. It was—

“It was all a mistake though. Bad translation. They thought Quoyan was an early root of quetentan: question. But it isn’t. Quoyan means ‘wind.’ This is rightly named ‘the House of the Wind.’”

The drumming of his hooves was like a counterpoint to the slow song of the wind, endlessly burning past my ears.

but because pieces of sky- iron like this often had rare metals mingled with the iron. I held out my hand. “I’m willing to make it a deal.”

is a great difference between being fearless and being brave.

“When the hearthfire turns to blue, What to do? What to do? Run outside. Run and hide. When your bright sword turns to rust? Who to trust? Who to trust? Stand alone. Standing stone.”

apple, passing it back and forth between bites, which is close to kissing, if you’ve never kissed before.

“Because someone wanted to build something that would last. Something solid.” I turned back to face Denna. “I think there’s an old hill fort buried here.”

who has no idea of how foolish he is, or what unexpected tragedies the following day will bring.

“That doesn’t fit with anything I’ve ever heard of them. They’re supposed to strike like lightning then disappear. They don’t visit, set some fires, then come back later to run a few errands.”

“That’s the first thing you said to me. I was just wondering why you’re here. My seven words. I’ve been wondering the same thing for so long.”

“You always know where you’re doing,” she said muzzily. “You’re important with your green eyes looking at me like I mean something. It’s okay that you have better things to do. It’s enough that I get you sometimes. Once in a while. I know I’m lucky for that, to get you just a little.”

I sat there in the dark, holding her sleeping body in my arms. She was soft and warm, indescribably precious. I had never held a woman before. After a few moments my back began to ache with the pressure of supporting her weight and my own. My leg started to go numb. Her hair tickled my nose. Still, I didn’t move for fear of ruining this, the most wonderful moment of my life.

“It was a big fancy pot,” she said softly. “About this high.” She held her hand about three feet off the ground. It was shaking. “It had all sorts of writings and pictures on it. Really fancy. I haven’t ever seen colors like that. And some of the paints were shiny like silver and gold.”

“People,” she said. “Mostly people. There was a woman holding a broken sword, and a man next to a dead tree, and another man with a dog biting his leg….” she trailed off. “Was there one with white hair and black eyes?” She looked at me wide- eyed, nodded. “Gave me the all- overs.” She shivered.

It was a vase showing the Chandrian and their signs.

“There was one with no face, just a hood with nothing inside. There was a mirror by his feet and there was a bunch of moons over him. You know, full moon, half moon, sliver moon.”

But there in that room was the first time I actually felt like any sort of hero. If you are looking for a reason for the man I would eventually become, if you are looking for a beginning, look there.

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

“Aerlevsedi,” he said. “Say it.” “What?” Simmon said somewhere in the distant background. “Wind?”

Then Elodin’s eyes changed. He stopped looking toward me and looked into me. That is the only way I can describe it.

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.

“It was a name. It was a name that settled the angry bear, eased it back to sleep. But it is not sleeping so soundly now. We need to rouse it slowly and bring it under your control.”

“Secrets, Re’lar Kvothe. That is what being an arcanist is all about. Now that you are a Re’lar you are entitled to certain things that were withheld before.

The advanced sympathetic bindings, the nature of names. Some smattering of dubious runes,

“It is a word. Words are pale shadows of forgotten names. As names have power, words have power. Words can light fires in the minds of men. Words can wring tears from the hardest hearts. There are seven words that will make a person love you. There are ten words that will break a strong man’s will. But a word is nothing but a painting of a fire. A name is the fire itself.”

“Oh yes,” Auri said, her eyes wide. “She is fearless. She has a face like a wicked moon.”

I had only the vaguest of ideas as to what any of the machines might have done. I had no guess at all as to why they had lain here for uncounted centuries, deep underground. There didn’t seem—

“I leave it to Pater Leoden to distribute the remainder of my worldly goods among the parish, as, being an immoral soul, I will have no further need of them.” “You mean, immortal, don’t you?” Chronicler asked uncertainly.

He’d come looking for revenge against Chronicler, who’d deflowered his sister off in Abbott’s Ford.

“You know better than that, Bast. All of this is my fault. The scrael, the war. All my fault.”

“It seemed like one of the Mahael- uret, Reshi. A skin dancer.”

“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?”

My journey to Alveron’s court. Learning to fight from the Adem. Felurian…”

“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.”

“That’s basic psychology. You dress a beggar in fine clothes, people treat him like a noble, and he lives up to their expectations.”

“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.”

“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.”

“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.”

no reason we can’t all get what we want. You get your story. He gets to tell it. You get to know the truth. He gets to remember who he really is.