The Wise Man's Fear Part 134

Chronicler drew back his arm and slapped him again. If anything, the sound was even louder than before.

Bast bared his teeth again, then stopped. His eyes darted to Chronicler, then away.

"The Cthaeh knows you fear it," Chronicler said. "It knows I would use that knowledge against you. It's still manipulating you. If you don't attack me, terrible things will come of it."

Bast froze as if paralyzed, trapped halfway between standing and sitting.

"Are you listening to me?" Chronicler said. "Are you finally awake?"

Bast looked up at the scribe with an expression of confused amazement. A bright red mark was blossoming on his cheek. He nodded, sinking slowly back onto the couch.

Chronicler drew back his arm. "What will you do if I hit you again?"

"Beat ten colors of guts out of you," Bast said earnestly.

Chronicler nodded and sat back down on his couch. "I will, for the sake of argument, accept that the Cthaeh knows the future. That means it can control many things." He raised a finger. "But not everything. The fruit you ate today was still sweet in your mouth, wasn't it?"

Bast nodded slowly.

"If the Cthaeh is as malicious as you say, it would harm you in every way possible. But it cannot. It could not keep you from making your Reshi laugh this morning. It could not keep you from enjoying the sun on your face or kissing the rosy cheeks of farmers' daughters, could it?"

A flicker of a grin found Bast's face. "I kissed more than that," he said.

"That," Chronicler said firmly, "is my point. It cannot poison every thing we do."

Bast looked thoughtful, then sighed. "You're right in a way," he said. "But only an idiot sits in a burning house and thinks everything is fine because fruit is still sweet."

Chronicler made a point of looking around the room. "The inn doesn't look like it's on fire to me."

Bast looked at him incredulously. "The whole world is burning down," he said. "Open your eyes."

Chronicler frowned. "Even ignoring everything else," he said, bulling ahead. "Felurian let him go. She knew he'd spoken with the Cthaeh, surely she wouldn't have loosed him on the world unless she had some way to guard against its influence."

Bast's eyes brightened at the thought, then dimmed almost immediately. He shook his head. "You're looking for depth in a shallow stream," he said.

"I don't follow you," Chronicler demanded. "What possible reason could she have for letting him go if he was truly dangerous?"

"Reason?" Bast asked, dark amus.e.m.e.nt coloring his voice. "No reason reason. She's got nothing to do with reason. She let him go because it pleased her pride. She wanted him to go out into the mortal world and sing her praises. Tell stories about her. Pine for her. That's why she let him leave." He sighed. "I've already told you. My folk are not famous for our good decisions."

"Perhaps," Chronicler said. "Or perhaps she simply recognized the futility of trying to second-guess the Cthaeh." He made a nonchalant gesture. "If whatever you're going to do is wrong, you might as well do whatever you want."

Bast sat quietly for a long moment. Then he nodded, faintly at first, then more firmly. "You're right," he said. "If everything is going to end in tears anyway, I should do what I want."

Bast looked around the room, then came suddenly to his feet. After a moment's searching, he found a thick cloak crumpled on the floor. He gave it a vigorous shake and wrapped it around his shoulders before heading to the window. Then he stopped, came back to the couch, and rummaged in the cushions until he found a bottle of wine.

Chronicler looked puzzled. "What are you doing? Are you going back to Shep's wake?"

Bast paused on his way back to the window, seeming almost surprised to see Chronicler still standing there. "I am going about my business," he said tucking the bottle of wine under his arm. He opened the window and swung one foot outside. "Don't wait up."

Kvothe stepped briskly into his room, closing the door behind himself.

He moved about busily. He cleared the cold ashes from the fireplace and set new wood in its place, sparking the fire to life with a fat red sulfur match. He fetched a second blanket and spread it over his narrow bed. Frowning slightly, he picked up the crumpled piece of paper from where it had fallen to the floor and returned it to the top of his desk where it sat next to the two other crumpled sheets.

Then, moving almost reluctantly, he made his way to the foot of his bed. Taking a deep breath, he wiped his hands on his pants and knelt in front of the dark chest that sat there. He rested both hands on the curved lid and closed his eyes, as if listening for something. His shoulders shifted as he tugged against the lid.

Nothing happened. Kvothe opened his eyes. His mouth made a grim line. His hands moved again, pulling harder, straining for a long moment before giving up.

Expressionless, Kvothe stood and walked to the window that overlooked the woods behind the inn. He slid it open and leaned out, reaching down with both hands. Then he drew himself back inside, clutching a slender wooden box.

Brushing away a coating of dust and spiderwebs, he opened the box. Inside lay a key of dark iron and a key of bright copper. Kvothe knelt in front of the chest again and fit the copper key into the iron lock. With slow precision he turned it: left, then right, then left again, listening carefully to the faint clicks of some mechanism inside.

Then he lifted the iron key and fit it into the copper plate. This key he did not turn. He slid it deep into the lock, brought it halfway out, then pushed it back before drawing it free in a smooth, quick motion.

After replacing the keys in their box, he put his hands back on the sides of the lid in the same position as before. "Open," he said under his breath. "Open, d.a.m.n you. Edro."

He lifted, his back and shoulders tensing with the effort of it.

The lid of the chest didn't budge. Kvothe gave a long sigh and leaned forward until his forehead pressed against the cool dark wood. As the air rushed out of him, his shoulders sagged, leaving him looking small and wounded, terribly tired and older than his years.

His expression, however, showed no surprise, no grief. It was merely resigned. It was the expression of a man who has finally received bad news he'd already known was on the way.

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FIFTY-TWO.

Elderberry IT WAS A BAD night to be caught in the open.

The clouds had rolled in late, like a grey sheet pulled across the sky. The wind was chill and gusty, with fits and starts of rain that spattered down heavily before fading into drizzle.

For all this, the two soldiers camped in a thicket near the road seemed to be enjoying themselves. They'd found a woodcutter's stash and built their fire so high and hot that the occasional gust of rain did little more than make it spit and hiss.

The two men were talking loudly, laughing the wild, braying laughter of men too drunk to care about the weather.

Eventually a third man emerged from the dark trees, stepping delicately over the trunk of a nearby fallen tree. He was wet, if not soaked, and his dark hair was plastered flat to his head. When the soldiers saw him, they lifted their bottles and called out an enthusiastic greeting.

"Didn't know if you'd make it," the blonde soldier said. "It's a s.h.i.t night. But it's only fair you get your third."

"You're wet through," said the bearded one, lifting up a narrow yellow bottle. "Suck on this. It's some fruit thing, but it kicks like a pony."

"Yours is girly p.i.s.s," the blonde soldier said, holding up his own. "Here. Now this here is a man's drink."

The third man looked back and forth as if unable to decide. Finally he lifted a finger, pointing at one bottle then the other as he began to chant.

Maple. Maypole.

Catch and carry.

Ash and Ember.

Elderberry.

He ended pointing at the yellow bottle, then gripped it by the neck and lifted to his lips. He took a long, slow drink, his throat working silently.

"Hey there," said the bearded soldier. "Save a bit!"

Bast lowered the bottle and licked his lips. He gave a dry, humorless chuckle. "You got the right bottle," he said. "It's elderberry."

"You're nowhere near as chatty as you were this morning," the blonde soldier said, c.o.c.king his head to one side. "You look like your dog died. Is everything alright?"

"No," Bast said. "Nothing's alright."

"It ain't our fault if he figured it out," the blonde one said quickly. "We waited a bit after you left, just like you said. But we'd been sitting for hours already. Thought you were never going to leave."

"h.e.l.l," the bearded man said, irritated. "Does he know? He throw you out?"

Bast shook his head and tipped the bottle back again.

"Then you ain't got nothing to complain of." The blonde soldier rubbed the side of his head, scowling. "Silly b.a.s.t.a.r.d gave me a lump or two."

"He got it back with some to spare." The bearded soldier grinned, rubbing his thumb across his knuckles. "He'll be p.i.s.sing blood tomorrow."

"So it's all good at the end," the blonde soldier said philosophically, lurching unsteadily as he waved his bottle a little too dramatically. "You got to skin your knuckles. I got a drink of something lovely. And we all made a heavy penny. Everyone's happy. Everyone gets what they wanted most."

"I didn't get what I wanted," Bast said flatly.

"Not yet," the bearded soldier said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a purse that made a weighty c.h.i.n.k as he bounced it in his palm. "Grab a piece of fire and we'll divvy this up."

Bast looked around the circle of firelight, making no move to take a seat. Then he began to chant again as he pointed at things randomly: a nearby stone, a log, a hatchet ...

Fallow farrow.

Ash and oak.

Bide and borrow.

Chimney smoke.

He ended pointing at the fire. He stepped close, stooped low, and pulled out a branch longer than his arm. The far end was a solid knot of glowing coal.

"h.e.l.l, you're drunker than I am," the bearded soldier guffawed. "That's not what I meant when I said grab a piece of fire."

The blonde soldier rolled with laughter.

Bast looked down at the two men. After a moment he began to laugh too. It was a terrible sound, jagged and joyless. It was no human laugh.

"Hoy," the bearded man interrupted sharply, his expression no longer amused. "What's the matter with you?"

It began to rain again, a gust of wind spattering heavy drops against Bast's face. His eyes were dark and intent. There was another gust of wind that made the end of the branch flare a brilliant orange.

The hot coal traced a glowing arc through the air as Bast began to point it back and forth between the two men, chanting: Barrel. Barley.

Stone and stave.

Wind and water.

Misbehave.

Bast finished with the burning branch pointing at the bearded man. His teeth were red in the firelight. His expression was nothing like a smile.

EPILOGUE.

A Silence of Three Parts IT WAS NIGHT AGAIN. The Waystone Inn lay in silence, and it was a silence of three parts.

The most obvious part was a hollow, echoing quiet, made by things that were lacking. If there had been a steady rain it would have drummed against the roof, sluiced the eaves, and washed the silence slowly out to sea. If there had been lovers in the beds of the inn, they would have sighed and moaned and shamed the silence into being on its way. If there had been music ... but no, of course there was no music. In fact there were none of these things, and so the silence remained.

Outside the Waystone, the noise of distant revelry blew faintly through the trees. A strain of fiddle. Voices. Stomping boots and clapping hands. But the sound was slender as a thread, and a shift in the wind broke it, leaving only rustling leaves and something almost like the far-off shrieking of an owl. That faded too, leaving nothing but the second silence, waiting like an endless indrawn breath.

The third silence was not an easy thing to notice. If you listened for an hour, you might begin to feel it in the chill metal of a dozen locks turned tight to keep the night away. It lay in rough clay jugs of cider and the hollow taproom gaps where chairs and tables ought to be. It was in the mottling ache of bruises that bloomed across a body, and it was in the hands of the man who wore the bruises as he rose stiffly from his bed, teeth clenched against the pain.

The man had true-red hair, red as flame. His eyes were dark and distant, and he moved with the subtle certainty of a thief in the night. He made his way downstairs. There, behind the tightly shuttered windows, he lifted his hands like a dancer, shifted his weight, and slowly took one single perfect step.

The Waystone was his, just as the third silence was his. This was appropriate, as it was the greatest silence of the three, wrapping the others inside itself. It was deep and wide as autumn's ending. It was heavy as a great river-smooth stone. It was the patient, cut-flower sound of a man who is waiting to die.