The Wise Man's Fear Part 106

After the better part of a month in Haert, I could not help but feel that things were going well. Vashet acknowledged that my language was improving, congratulating me by saying I sounded like a child, rather than just an imbecile.

I continued to meet with Celean in the gra.s.sy field next to the sword tree. I looked forward to these encounters despite the fact that she thrashed me with cheerful ruthlessness every time we fought. It took three days before I finally managed to beat her.

That's an interesting verse to add to the long story of my life, isn't it?

Come listen all, and I will tell A tale of brave and daring deeds.

Of wonders Kvothe the Bloodless wrought, And of the time he bravely fought A twigling girl no more than ten.

And listen how it came to pa.s.s, The mighty blow he bravely dealt That knocked her sprawling to the gra.s.s, And of the glow of joy he felt.

Awful as it might sound, I was proud. And justifiably so. Celean herself congratulated me when it happened, seeming more than a little surprised that I had managed it. There, in the long shadow of the sword tree, she showed me her two-handed variant of Breaking Lion as a reward, flattering me with the familiarity of an impish grin.

That same day we finished our prescribed number of bouts early. I went to sit on a nearby lump of stone that had been smoothed into a comfortable seat. I nursed my dozen small hurts from the fight and prepared to watch the sword tree until Vashet returned to fetch me.

Celean, however, was not the sort to sit and wait. She skipped over to the sword tree, standing only a few feet from where the longest branches bobbed and danced in the wind, sending the round, razor-sharp leaves turning in wild circles.

Then she lowered her shoulders and darted under the canopy, in among the thousand madly spinning leaves.

I was too startled to cry out, but I did come halfway to my feet before I heard her laughing. I watched as she darted and jigged and spun, her tiny body dodging out of the way of the wind-tossed leaves as if she were playing tag. She made it halfway to the trunk and stopped. She ducked her head, reached out, and swatted away a leaf that otherwise would have cut her.

No. She didn't just lash out. She used Drifting Snow. Then I watched her move even closer to the trunk, weaving back and forth and protecting herself. First she used Maiden Combs Her Hair, then Dance Backwards.

Then she skipped to one side, the Ketan abandoned. She crouched and sprinted through a gap in the leaves and made her way to the trunk of the tree, slapping it with one hand.

And she was back among the leaves. She made Pressing Cider, ducked and spun and ran until she was clear of the canopy. She didn't shout out in triumph as a Commonwealth child might have, but she jumped into the air, hands raised in victory. Then, still laughing, she did a cartwheel.

Breathless, I watched Celean play her game again and again, moving in and out of the tree's dancing leaves. She didn't always make it to the trunk. Twice she scampered back out of the reach of the leaves without making it, and it was obvious even from where I sat that she was angry. Once she slipped and was forced to crawl out under the reach of the leaves.

But she made it to the trunk and back four times, each time celebrating her escape with upraised hands, laughter, and a single perfect cartwheel.

She only stopped when Vashet returned. I watched from a distance as Vashet stormed over and gave the girl a stern telling off. I couldn't hear what was said, but their body language spoke volumes. Celean looked down and shuffled her feet. Vashet shook a finger and cuffed the young girl on the side of her head. It was the same scolding any child receives. Stay out of the neighbor's garden. Don't tease the Bentons' sheep. Don't play tag among the thousand spinning knives of your people's sacred tree.

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED NINETEEN.

Hands ONCE VASHET JUDGED MY language only moderately embarra.s.sing, she arranged for me to talk with an odd handful of people scattered around Haert.

There was a garrulous old man who spun silk thread while chattering endlessly, telling strange, pointless, half-delirious stories. There was a story of a boy who put shoes on his head to keep a cat from being killed, another where a family swore to eat a mountain stone by stone. I could never make any sense of them, but I listened politely and drank the sweet beer he offered me.

I met with twin sisters who made candles and showed me the steps of strange dances. I spent an afternoon with a woodcutter who spoke for hours of nothing but splitting wood.

At first I thought these were important members of the community. I thought Vashet might be parading me in front of them in order to show how civilized I had become.

It wasn't until I spent the morning with Two-fingers that I realized she sent me to each of these people with the hope I would learn something.

Two-fingers was not his real name. I'd merely come to think of him as that. He was a cook at the school, and I saw him at every meal. His left hand was whole, but his right was viciously crippled, with only his thumb and forefinger remaining.

Vashet sent me to him in the morning, and together we prepared lunch and talked. His name was Naden. He told me he had spent ten years among the barbarians. What's more, he had brought more than two hundred and thirty silver talents back into the school before he was injured and could no longer fight. He mentioned the last several times, and I could tell that it was a particular point of pride with him.

The bells rang and folk filtered into the dining hall. Naden ladled up the stew we'd made, hot and thick with chunks of beef and carrot. I cut slices of warm white bread for those who wanted it. I exchanged nods and occasional polite gestures with those who moved through the line. I was careful to make only the briefest eye contact, and tried to convince myself it was just a coincidence so few people seemed interested in bread today.

Carceret made a show of her feelings for everyone to see. First she made it to the front of the line, then made a widely visible gesture of abhorrent disgust abhorrent disgust before walking away, leaving her wooden plate behind. before walking away, leaving her wooden plate behind.

Later Naden and I tended to the washing up. "Vashet tells me your swordplay is progressing poorly," he said without preamble. "She says you fear too much for your hands, and this makes you hesitant." Firm reproach Firm reproach.

I froze at the abruptness of it, fighting the urge to stare at his ruined hand. I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

He turned from the iron pot he was scrubbing and held out his hand in front of him. It was a defiant gesture, and his face was hard. I looked then, as ignoring it would be rude. Only his thumb and forefinger remained, enough to grip at things, but not enough for any delicate work. The half of his hand that remained was a ma.s.s of puckered scar.

I kept my face even, but it was hard. In some ways I was looking at my worst fear. I felt very self-conscious of my uninjured hands and fought the urge to make a fist or hide them behind my back.

"It has been a dozen years since this hand held a sword," Naden said. Proud anger. Regret Proud anger. Regret. "I have thought long on that fight where my fingers were lost. I did not even lose them to a skilled opponent. They fell to some barbarian whose hands were better suited to a shovel than the sword."

He flexed his two fingers. In some ways, he was lucky. There were other Adem in Haert who were missing entire hands, or eyes, or limbs to the elbow or knee.

"I have thought a long time. How could I have saved my hand? I have thought about my contract, protecting a baron whose lands were in rebellion. I think: What if I had not taken that contract? I think: What if I had lost my left hand? I could not talk, but I could hold a sword." He let his hand drop to his side. "But holding a sword is not enough. A proper mercenary requires two hands. I could never make Lover out the Window or Sleeping Bear with only one... ."

He shrugged. "It is the luxury of looking backward. You can do it forever, and it is useless. I took the red proudly. I brought over two hundred and thirty talents to the school. I was of the second stone, and I would have made the third in time."

Naden held up his ruined hand again. "I could have gained none of these things if I had lived in fear of losing my hand. If I flinched and cringed, I would never have been accepted into the Latantha. Never made the second stone. I would be whole, but I would be less than I am now."

He turned back and began to scrub the pots again. After a moment I joined him.

"Is it bad?" I asked quietly, unable to help myself.

Naden didn't answer for a long moment. "When it first happened, I thought to myself it was not so bad. Others have had worse wounds. Others have died. I was luckier than them."

He drew in a deep breath, then let it out slowly. "I tried to think it was not bad. My life would continue on. But no. Life stops. Much is lost. Everything is lost."

Then he said, "When I dream, I have two hands."

We finished the dishes together, sharing silence between us. Sometimes that is all you can share.

Celean had a lesson of her own to teach me. Namely that there are opponents who will not hesitate to punch, kick, or elbow a man directly in his genitals.

Never hard enough to permanently injure me, mind you. She'd been fighting her entire young life and had the control Vashet valued so highly. But that meant she knew exactly how hard to strike to leave me stunned and reeling, making her victory utterly unquestionable.

So I sat on the gra.s.s, feeling grey and nauseous. After incapacitating me, Celean had given me a comforting pat on the shoulder before skipping blithely away. No doubt going to dance among the wind-tossed branches of the sword tree again.

"You were doing well until the end," Vashet said, lowering herself onto the ground across from me.

I said nothing. Like a child playing find-and-catch, it was my sincere hope that if I closed my eyes and remained perfectly still, the pain wouldn't be able to find me.

"Come now, I saw her kick," Vashet said dismissively. "It was not so hard as that." I heard her sigh. "Still, if you need someone to look at them and make sure they are still intact... ."

I chuckled slightly. It was a mistake. Unbelievable pain uncoiled in my groin, radiating down to my knee and up to my sternum. Nausea rolled over me, and I opened my eyes to steady myself.

"She will grow out of it," Vashet said.

"I should hope so," I said through gritted teeth. "It's a noxious habit."

"That is not what I meant," Vashet said. "I mean she will grow taller. Hopefully then she will distribute her attentions more evenly across the body. Right now she attacks the groin too regularly. It makes her easy to predict and defend against." She gave me a pointed look. "To anyone with a shred of wit."

I closed my eyes again. "No lessons right now, Vashet," I begged. "I'm ready to vomit up yesterday's breakfast."

She climbed to her feet. "It sounds like the perfect time for a lesson. Stand up. You should learn how to fight while wounded. This is an invaluable skill Celean has given you the chance to practice. You should thank her."

Knowing it was pointless to argue, I climbed to my feet and began to walk gingerly toward my training sword.

Vashet caught me by the shoulder. "No. Hands only."

I sighed. "Must we, Vashet?"

She raised an eyebrow at me. "Must we what?"

"Must we focus always on hand fighting?" I said. "My swordplay is falling farther and farther behind."

"Am I not your teacher?" she asked. "Who are you to say what is best?"

"I am the one who will have to use these skills out in the world," I said pointedly. "And out in the world, I would rather fight with a sword than a fist."

Vashet lowered her hands, her expression blank. "And why is that?"

"Because other people have swords," I said. "And if I'm in a fight, I intend to win."

"Is winning a fight easier with a sword?" she asked.

Vashet's outward calm should have warned me I was stepping onto thin conversational ice, but I was distracted by the nauseating pain radiating from my groin. Though honestly, even if I hadn't been distracted, it's possible I wouldn't have noticed. I had grown comfortable with Vashet, too comfortable to be properly careful.

"Of course," I said. "Why else carry a sword?"

"That is a good question," she said. "Why does one carry a sword?"

"Why do you carry anything? So you can use it."

Vashet gave me a look of raw disgust. "Why do we bother to work on your language, then?" She asked angrily, reaching out to grab my jaw, pinching my cheeks and forcing my mouth open as if I were a patient in the Medica refusing my medicine. "Why do you need this tongue if a sword will do? Tell me that?"

I tried to pull away, but she was stronger than me. I tried to push her away, but she shrugged my flailing hands away as if I were a child.

Vashet let go of my face, then caught my wrist, jerking my hand up in front of my face. "Why do you have hands at all and not knives at the ends of your arms?"

Then she let go of my wrist and struck me hard across the face with the flat of her hand.

If I say she slapped me, you will take the wrong impression. This wasn't the dramatic slap of the sort you see on a stage. Neither was it the offended, stinging slap a lady-in-waiting makes against the smooth skin of a too-familiar n.o.bleman. It wasn't even the more professional slap of a serving girl defending herself from the unwelcome attention of a grabby drunk.

No. This was hardly any sort of slap at all. A slap is made with the fingers or the palm. It stings or startles. Vashet struck me with her open hand, but behind that was the strength of her arm. Behind that was her shoulder. Behind that was the complex machinery of her pivoting hips, her strong legs braced against the ground, and the ground itself beneath her. It was like the whole of creation striking me through the flat of her hand, and the only reason it didn't cripple me is that even in the middle of her fury, Vashet was always perfectly in control.

Because she was in control, Vashet didn't dislocate my jaw or knock me unconscious. But it made my teeth rattle and my ears ring. It made my eyes roll in my head and my legs go loose and shaky. I would have fallen if Vashet hadn't gripped me by the shoulder.

"Do you think I am teaching you the secrets of the sword so you can go out and use them?" she demanded. I dimly realized she was shouting. It was the first time I had ever heard one of the Adem raise their voice. "Is that what you think we are doing here?"

As I lolled in her grip, stupefied, she struck me again. This time her hand caught more of my nose. The pain of it was amazing, as if someone had driven a sliver of ice directly into my brain. It jolted me out of my daze so I was fully alert when she hit me the third time.

Vashet held me for a moment while the world spun, then let go. I took one unsteady step and crumpled to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. Not unconscious, but profoundly dazed.

It took me a long time to collect myself. When I was finally able to sit up, my body felt loose and unwieldy, as if it had been taken apart and put back together again in a slightly different way.

By the time I gathered my wits enough to look around, I was alone.

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY.

Kindness TWO HOURS LATER I sat alone in the dining hall. My head ached, and the side of my face was hot and swollen. I'd bitten my tongue at some point, so it hurt to eat and everything tasted of blood. My mood was exactly what you might imagine, except worse.

When I saw a red form slide onto the bench across from me, I dreaded looking up. If it was Carceret, it would be bad. But Vashet would be even worse. I had waited until the dining hall was almost empty before coming to eat, hoping to avoid them both.

But glancing up, I saw it was Penthe, the fierce young woman who had beaten Shehyn.

"h.e.l.lo," she said in lightly accented Aturan.

I gestured, polite formal greeting polite formal greeting. Considering the way my day was going, I thought it best to be as careful as possible. Vashet's comments led me to believe Penthe was a high-ranking and well-respected member of the school.

For all that, she wasn't very old. Perhaps it was her small frame or her heart-shaped face, but she didn't look much more than twenty.

"Could we speak your language?" she asked in Aturan. "It would be a kindness. I am in need of practice with my talking."

"I will gladly join you," I said in Aturan. "You speak very well. I am jealous. When I speak Ademic, I feel I am a great bear of a man, stomping around in heavy boots."

Penthe gave a small, shy smile, then covered her mouth with her hand, blushing slightly. "Is that correct, to smile?"

"It is correct, and polite. A smile such as that shows a small amus.e.m.e.nt. Which is perfect, as mine was a very small joke."

Penthe removed her hand and repeated the shy smile. She was charming as spring flowers. It eased my heart to look at her.

"Normally," I said, "I would smile in answer to yours. But here, I worry others would view it as impolite."