The Name of the Wind

He looked down into the courtyard. “It’s particularly good tonight, isn’t it?”

I folded my arms, ineffectually trying to cover my bare, bloody chest. Only then did I notice the blood on my hands was dry. How long had I been sitting here, motionless, watching the wind?

“Master Elodin,” I said, then stopped. I had no idea what I could possibly say in a situation like this.

“Please, we’re all friends here. Feel free to call me by my first name: Master.” He gave a lazy grin and looked back down toward the courtyard.

Hadn’t he noticed the state I was in? Was he being polite? Maybe ... I shook my head. There was no use guessing with him. I knew better than anyone that Elodin was cracked as the potter’s cobbles.

“Long ago,” Elodin said conversationally, not taking his eyes from the courtyard below. “When folk spoke differently, this used to be called the Quoyan Hayel. Later they called it the Questioning Hall, and students made a game of writing questions on slips of paper and letting them blow about. Rumor had it you could divine your answer by which way the paper left the square.” He pointed to the roads that left gaps between the grey buildings. “Yes. No. Maybe. Elsewhere. Soon.”

He shrugged. “It was all a mistake though. Bad translation. They thought Quoyan was an early root of quetentan: question. But it isn’t. Quoyan means ‘wind.’ This is rightly named ‘the House of the Wind.’ ”

I waited a moment to see if he intended to say any more. When nothing was forthcoming I got slowly to my feet. “That’s interesting, Master ...” I hesitated, not sure how serious he had been before. “But I should be going.”

Elodin nodded absently and gave a wave that was half farewell, half dismissal. His eyes never left the courtyard below, following the ever-changing wind.

Back in my room at Anker’s, I sat on my bed for a long minute in the dark, trying to decide what to do. My thoughts were muddy. I was weary, wounded, and still a little drunk. The adrenaline that had kept me going earlier was slowly turning sour and my side burned and stung.

I took a deep breath and tried to focus my thoughts. I’d been moving on instinct so far, but now I needed to think things through carefully.

Could I go to the masters for help? For a moment hope rose in my chest, then fell. No. I had no proof that Ambrose was responsible. What’s more, if I told them the whole story, I would have to admit that I had used sympathy to blind and burn my attackers. Self-defense or no, what I’d done was unquestionably malfeasance. Students had been expelled for less than that just to preserve the University’s reputation.

No. I couldn’t risk being expelled over this. And if I went to the Medica, there would be too many questions. And word of my injury would get around if I went in to get stitched. That meant Ambrose would know how close he had come to succeeding. It would be better to give the impression that I had walked away unscathed.

I had no idea how long Ambrose’s hired killers had been following me. One of them had said, “We already lost him twice.” That means they could know I had a room here at Anker’s. I might not be safe here.

I locked the window and drew the curtain before turning on my hand lamp. The light revealed the forgotten piece of paper that had been wedged into my window. I unfolded it and read: