The Name of the Wind

“This isn’t funny,” I said, but found myself wearing a grin regardless. Simmon could always make me smile, no matter what was going on.

Sim led the way, and we reached Hollows far too soon for my liking. Simmon raised a hand in a hesitant farewell as I opened the door and made my way inside.

I was met by Jamison. He oversaw everything that wasn’t under direct control of the masters: the kitchens, the laundry, the stables, the stockrooms. He was nervous and birdlike. A man with the body of a sparrow and the eyes of a hawk.

Jamison escorted me into a large windowless room with a familiar crescent-shaped table. The Chancellor sat at the center, as he had during admissions. The only real difference was that this table was not elevated, and the seated masters were close to eye level with me.

The eyes I met were not friendly Jamison escorted me to the front of the crescent table. Seeing it from this angle made me understand the references to being “on the horns.” Jamison retreated to a smaller table of his own, dipping a pen.

The Chancellor steepled his fingers and spoke without preamble. “On the fourth of Caitelyn, Hemme called the masters together.” Jamison’s pen scratched across a piece of paper, occasionally dipping back into the inkwell at the top of the desk. The Chancellor continued formally, “Are all the masters present?”

“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. “All eight ...” He frowned. “Sorry. Strike that. АД nine masters are present. Present your grievance, Master Hemme.”

Hemme did not hesitate. “Today, first-term student Kvothe, not of the Arcanum, did perform sympathetic bindings on me with malicious intent.”

“Two grievances are recorded against Kvothe by Master Hemme,” The Chancellor said sternly, not taking his eyes away from me. “First grievance, unauthorized use of sympathy. What is the proper discipline for this, Master Archivist?”

“For unauthorized use of sympathy leading to injury, the offending student will be bound and whipped a number of times, not less than two nor more than ten, singly, across the back.” Lorren said it as if reading off directions for a recipe.

“Number of lashes sought?” The Chancellor looked at Hemme.

Hemme paused to consider. “Five.”

I felt the blood drain from my face and I forced myself to take a slow, deep breath through my nose to calm myself.

“Does any master object to this?” The Chancellor looked around the table, but all mouths were silent, all eyes were stern. “The second grievance: malfeasance. Master Archivist?”

“Four to fifteen single lashes and expulsion from the University.” Lorren said in a level voice.

“Lashes sought?

Hemme stared directly at me. “Eight.”

Thirteen lashes and expulsion. A cold sweat swept over me and I felt nausea in the pit of my stomach. I had known fear before. In Tarbean it was never far away. Fear kept you alive. But I had never before felt such a desperate helplessness. A fear not just for my body being hurt, but for my entire life being ruined. I began to get light-headed.

“Do you understand these grievances set against you?” The Chancellor asked sternly.

I took a deep breath. “Not exactly, sir.” I hated the way my voiced sounded, tremulous and weak.

The Chancellor held up a hand and Jamison lifted his pen from the paper. “It 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.”

His expression darkened. “And it is always, always, expressly forbidden to cause harm with sympathy, especially to a master. A few hundred years ago arcanists were hunted down and burned for things of that sort. We do not tolerate that sort of behavior here.”

I heard a hard edge creep into the Chancellor’s voice, only then did I sense how truly angry he was. He took a deep breath. “Now, do you understand?”

I nodded shakily.

He made another motion to Jamison, who set his pen back to the paper. “Do you, Kvothe, understand these grievances set against you?”

“Yes, sir.” I said, as steadily as I could. Everything seemed too bright, and my legs were trembling slightly. I tried to force them to be still, but it only seemed to make them shake all the more.

“Do you have anything to say in your defense?” the Chancellor asked curtly.