The Name of the Wind

Deoch rolled his eyes. “Fine. The girl. Denna, Dianne, Dyanae ... whatever she’s calling herself these days. I haven’t seen hide nor hair of her. I even asked around a little, nobody’s seen her in a full span. That means she’s probably left town. It’s her way. She does it at the drop of a hat.”

I tried not to let my disappointment show. “You didn’t have to go to the trouble,” I said. “But thanks all the same.”

“I wasn’t asking entirely on your account,” Deoch admitted. “I’ve a fondness for her myself.”

“Do you now?” I said as neutrally as I could manage.

“Don’t give me that look. I’m not any sort of competition.” He gave a crooked smile. “Not this time around at any rate. I might not be one of you University folk, but I can see the moon on a clear night. I’m smart enough not to stick my hand in the same fire twice.”

I struggled to get my expression back under control, more than slightly embarrassed. I don’t usually let my emotions go parading around on my face. “So you and Denna ...”

“Stanchion still gives me a hard time about chasing after a girl half my age.” He shrugged his broad shoulders sheepishly. “For all that, I am still fond of her. These days she reminds me of my littlest sister more than anything.”

“How long have you known her?” I asked, curious.

“I wouldn’t say I really know her, lad. But I met her what, about two years back? Not that long, maybe a year and little change....” Deoch ran both of his hands through his blond hair and arched his back in a great stretch, the muscles in his arms straining against his shirt. Then he relaxed with an explosive sigh and looked out at the nearly empty courtyard. “The door won’t be busy for hours yet. Come give an old man an excuse to sit and have a drink?” He jerked his head in the direction of the bar.

I looked at Deoch: tall, muscular, and tan. “Old man? You’ve still got all your hair and your teeth, don’t you? What are you, thirty?”

“Nothing makes a man feel older than a young woman.” He laid a hand on my shoulder. “Come on, share a drink with me.” We made our way over to the long mahogany bar and he muttered as he looked over the bottles. “Beer dulls a memory, brand sets it burning, but wine is the best for a sore heart’s yearning.” He paused and turned to looked at me, his brow furrowed. “I can’t remember the rest of that. Can you?”

“Never heard it before,” I said. “But Teccam claims that out of all the spirits, only wine is suited to reminiscence. He said a good wine allows clarity and focus, while still allowing a bit of comforting coloration of the memory.”

“Fair enough,” he said, picking through the racks before drawing out a bottle and holding it up to a lamp, peering through it. “Let’s view her in a rosy light, shall we?” He grabbed two glasses and led us off to a secluded booth in the corner of the room.

“So you’ve known Denna for a while,” I prompted as he poured each of us a glass of pale red wine.

He slouched back against the wall. “Off and on. More off, honestly.”

“What was she like back then?”

Deoch spent several long moments pondering his answer, giving the question more serious consideration than I’d expected. He sipped his wine. “The same,” he said at last. “I suppose she was younger, but I can’t say she seems any older now. She always struck me as being older than her years.” He frowned. “Not old really, more ...”

“Mature?” I suggested.

He shook his head. “No. I don’t know a good word for it. It’s like if you look at a great oak tree. You don’t appreciate it because it’s older than the other trees, or because it’s taller. It just has something that other younger trees don’t. Complexity, solidity, significance.” Deoch scowled, irritated. “Damn if that isn’t the worst comparison I’ve ever made.”

A smile broke onto my face. “It’s nice to see I’m not the only one who has trouble pinning her down with words.”

“She’s not much for being pinned down,” Deoch agreed and drank off the rest of his wine. He picked up the bottle and tapped the mouth of it lightly against my glass. I emptied it, and he poured again for both of us.

Deoch continued, “She was just as restless then, and wild. Just as pretty, prone to startle the eye and stutter the heart.” He shrugged again. “As I said, largely the same. Lovely voice, light of foot, quick of tongue, men’s adoration and women’s scorn in roughly equal amounts.”

“Scorn?” I asked.

Deoch looked at me as if he didn’t understand what I was asking. “Women hate Denna,” he said plainly, as if repeating something we both already knew.

“Hate her?” The thought baffled me. “Why?”

Deoch looked at me incredulously, then burst out laughing. “Good lord, you really don’t know anything about women, do you?” I would ordinarily have bristled at his comment, but Deoch was nothing but good natured. “Think of it. She’s pretty and charming. Men crowd round her like stags in rut.” He made a flippant gesture. “Women are bound to resent it.”