The Name of the Wind

Kvothe let out his breath in a sudden rush. “I’m sorry, Bast. It’s good advice, as all of your seemingly inane advice turns out to be.” He pushed his chair back from the table. “But before we continue, the real world has certain calls on me that I can no longer ignore. If you will please excuse me for a moment?”

Chronicler and Bast stood as well, stretching their legs and attending to calls of their own. Bast lit the lamps. Kvothe produced more cheese and bread and hard spiced sausage. They ate, and some small effort was made at polite conversation, but their minds were elsewhere, dwelling on the story.

Bast ate half of everything. Chronicler accounted for a sizable, though more modest amount. Kvothe had a bite or two before he spoke. “Onward then. Music and magic. Triumph and folly. Think now. What does our story need? What vital element is it lacking?”

“Women, Reshi,” Bast said immediately. “There’s a real paucity of women.”

Kvothe smiled. “Not women, Bast. A woman. The woman.” Kvothe looked at Chronicler. “You have heard bits and pieces, I don’t doubt. I will tell you the truth of her. Though I fear I may not be equal to the challenge.”

Chronicler picked up his pen, but before he could dip it, Kvothe held up a hand. “Let me say one thing before I start. I’ve told stories in the past, painted pictures with words, told hard lies and harder truths. Once, I sang colors to a blind man. Seven hours I played, but at the end he said he saw them, green and red and gold. That, I think, was easier than this. Trying to make you understand her with nothing more than words. You have never seen her, never heard her voice. You cannot know.”

Kvothe motioned for Chronicler to pick up his pen. “But still, I will try. She is in the wings now, waiting for her cue. Let us set the stage for her arrival....”

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE The Nature of Wild Things

As with all truly wild things, care is necessary in approaching them. Stealth is useless. Wild things recognize stealth for what it is, a lie and a trap. While wild things might play games of stealth, and in doing so may even occasionally fall prey to stealth, they are never truly caught by it.

So. With slow care rather than stealth we must approach the subject of a certain woman. Her wildness is of such degree, I fear approaching her too quickly even in a story. Should I move recklessly, I might startle even the idea of her into sudden flight.

So in the name of slow care, I will speak of how I met her. And to do that, I must speak of the events that brought me, quite unwillingly, across the river and into Imre.

I finished my first term with three silver talents and a single jot. Not long ago, it would have seemed like all the money in the world to me. Now I simply hoped it would be enough for one more term’s tuition and a bunk in the Mews.

The last span of every term at the University was reserved for admissions exams. Classes were canceled and the masters spent several hours of each day conducting examinations. Your next term’s tuition was based on your performance. A lottery determined what day and hour you would go through admissions.

A great deal hung on the brief interview. Missing a few questions could easily double your tuition. Because of this, slots later in the span were highly prized, as they gave students more time to study and prepare. There was a vigorous trade in appointment times after the lottery was held. Money and favors were bartered as everyone vied for a time that suited them.

I was lucky enough to draw a midmorning hour on Cendling, the last day of admissions. If I’d wanted to, I could have sold my slot, but I preferred to take the extra time to study I knew my performance would have to be brilliant, as several of the masters were now less than impressed by me. My previous trick of spying was out of the question. I now knew it was grounds for expulsion, and I couldn’t risk that.

Despite the long days I spent studying with Wil and Sim, admissions were difficult. I breezed through many of the questions, but Hemme was openly hostile, asking questions with more than one answer so that nothing I said could be correct. Brandeur was difficult as well, clearly helping Hemme carry his grudge. Lorren was unreadable, but I sensed his disapproval rather than seeing it on his face.

Afterward, I fidgeted while the masters discussed my tuition. Voices were calm and muted at first, then became somewhat louder. Eventually, Kilvin stood and shook a finger at Hemme while shouting and pounding the table with his other hand. Hemme maintained more composure than I would have if I had been faced with twenty stone of furious, bellowing artificer.

After the Chancellor managed to regain control of things, I was called forward and given my receipt. “E’lir Kvothe. Fall term. Tuition: 3 Tln. 9 Jt. 7 Fe.”