The Name of the Wind

Gel gaped for a moment before managing to say, “For Principles of Sympathy?”

“I do not appreciate tardiness in my class. For tomorrow, you may prepare a report on the development of the sympathy clock, its differences from the previous, more arbitrary clocks that used harmonic motion, and its effect on the accurate treatment of time.”

The boy twisted in his seat. “Yes, sir.”

Hemme seemed satisfied with the reaction. “Very well. What is sympathy, then?”

Another boy hurried in clutching a hardback. He was young, by which I mean he looked to be no more than two years older than me. Hemme stopped him before he could make it into a seat. “Hello there,” he said in an over-courteous tone. “And you are?”

“Basil, sir,” the boy stood awkwardly in the aisle. I recognized him. I had spied on his admissions interview.

“Basil, you wouldn’t happen to be from Yll, would you?” Hemme asked, smiling sharply.

“No sir.”

“Ahhh,” Hemme said, feigning disappointment. “I had heard that Yllish tribes use the sun to tell time, and as such, have no true concept of punctuality. However, as you are not Yllish, I can see no excuse for being late. Can you?”

Basil’s mouth worked silently for a moment, as if to make some excuse, then apparently decided better of it. “No sir.”

“Good. For tomorrow, you can prepare a report on Yll’s lunar calendar compared to the more accurate, civilized Aturan calendar that you should be familiar with by now. Be seated.”

Basil slunk wordlessly into a nearby seat like a whipped dog.

Hemme gave up all pretext of lecture and lay in wait for the next tardy student. Thus it was that the hall was tensely silent when she stepped hesitantly into the room.

It was a young woman of about eighteen. A rarity of sorts. The ratio of men to women in the University is about ten to one.

Hemme’s manner softened when she entered the room. He moved quickly up the steps to greet her. “Ah, my dear. I am suddenly pleased that we have not yet begun today’s discussion.” He took her by the elbow and led her down a few of the steps to the first available seat.

She was obviously embarrassed by the attention. “I’m sorry, Master Hemme. Mains is bigger than I’d guessed.”

“No worry,” Hemme said in a kindly fashion. “You’re here and that’s what matters.” He solicitously helped her arrange her paper and ink before returning to the stage.

Once there, it seemed as if he might actually lecture. But before he began he looked back to the girl. “I’m sorry miss.” She was the only woman in the room. “Poor manners on my part. What is your name?”

“Ria.”

“Ria, is that short for Rian?”

“Yes, it is,” she smiled.

“Rian, would you please cross your legs?”

The request was made with such an earnest tone that not even a titter escaped the class. Looking puzzled, Rian crossed her legs.

“Now that the gates of hell are closed,” Hemme said in his normal, rougher tones. “We can begin.”

And so he did, ignoring her for the rest of the lecture. Which, as I see it, was an inadvertent kindness.

It was a long two and a half hours. I listened attentively, always hoping that he would come to something I hadn’t learned from Abenthy. But there was nothing. I quickly realized that while Hemme was discussing the principles of sympathy, he was doing it at a very, very basic level. This class was a colossal waste of my time.

After Hemme dismissed the class I ran down the stairs and caught him just as he was leaving through a lower door. “Master Hemme?”

He turned to face me. “Oh yes, our boy prodigy. I wasn’t aware you were in my class. I didn’t go too fast for you, did I?”

I knew better than to answer that honestly. “You covered the basics very clearly, sir. The principles you mentioned today will lay a good foundation for the other students in the class.” Diplomacy is a large part of being a trouper.

He puffed up a bit at my perceived compliment, then looked more closely at me. “Other students?” He asked.

“I’m afraid I’m already familiar with the basics, sir. I know the three laws and the fourteen corollaries. As well as the first ninety—”

“Yes, yes. I see,” he cut me off. “I’m rather busy right at the moment. We can speak of this tomorrow, before class.” He turned and walked briskly away.

Half a loaf being better than none, I shrugged and headed for the Archives. If I wasn’t going to learn anything from Hemme’s lectures, I might as well start educating myself.

This time when I entered the Archives there was a young woman sitting behind the desk. She was strikingly beautiful with long, dark hair and clear, bright eyes. A notable improvement over Ambrose to be sure.

She smiled as I approached the desk. “What’s your name?”

“Kvothe,” I said. “Son of Arliden.”

She nodded and began to page through the ledger.

“What’s yours?” I asked to fill the silence.

“Fela,” she said without looking up. Then nodded to herself and tapped the ledger. “There you are, go on in.”