The Wise Man's Fear (92 page)

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Authors: Patrick Rothfuss

Tags: #Mercenary troops, #Magicians, #Magic, #Attempted assassination, #Fairies, #Fiction, #Fantasy, #General, #Heroes, #Epic

BOOK: The Wise Man's Fear
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The day after I’d followed Denna through the city, she sent me a note, and I met her outside the Four Tapers. We’d met there dozens of times in the last several span, but today something was different. Today Denna wore a long, elegant dress, not layered and high necked in the current fashion, but close fitting and open at the throat. It was a deep blue, and when she took a step I could glimpse a long stretch of her bare leg beneath.
Her harp case leaned against the wall behind her, and she had an expectant look in her eye. Her dark hair was lustrous in the sunlight, unadorned except for three narrow braids tied with blue string. She was barefoot, and her feet were grass-stained. She smiled.
“It’s done,” she said, excitement thrumming through her voice like distant thunder. “Done enough to play you a piece at any rate. Would you like to hear it?” I caught a bit of well-hidden shyness in her voice.
As we were both working for patrons who valued their privacy, Denna and I didn’t often discuss our work. We compared our ink-stained fingers and bemoaned our difficulties, but only in vague ways.
“I’d like nothing better than to hear it,” I said as Denna picked up her harp case and started down the street. I fell into step beside her. “But won’t your patron mind?”
Denna gave a too-casual shrug. “He says he wants my first song to be something that men will sing for a hundred years, so I doubt he’ll want me to keep it bottled up forever.” She gave me a sideways look. “We’ll go somewhere private and I’ll let you hear. So long as you don’t go shouting it from rooftops, I should be safe.”
We started walking to the western gate by unspoken agreement. “I’d have brought my lute,” I said, “but I finally found a luthier I trust. I’m having that loose peg mended.”
“You’ll serve me best as audience today,” she said. “Sit rapt in admiration as I play. Tomorrow I’ll watch you, all dewy-eyed with wonder. I’ll marvel at your skill and wit and charm.” She moved her harp to her other shoulder and grinned at me. “Provided you aren’t having them mended at the shop.”
“I’m always up for a duet,” I suggested. “Harp and lute is rare but not unheard of.”
“That’s delicately phrased.” She glanced sideways at me. “I’ll think on it.”
As I had a dozen times before, I fought the urge to tell her I’d reclaimed her ring from Ambrose. I wanted to tell her the story of it, mistakes and all. But I was fairly certain the romantic impact of my gesture would be diminished by the end of the story, where I’d effectively pawned the ring before I left Imre. Better to keep it a secret for now, I thought, and surprise her with the ring itself.
“So what would you think,” I asked, “of having Maer Alveron for your patron?”
Denna stopped walking and turned to look at me. “What?”
“I’m currently in his good graces,” I said. “And he owes me a favor or two. I know you’ve been looking for a patron.”
“I have a patron,” she said firmly. “One I’ve earned on my own.”
“You have half a patron,” I protested. “Where’s your writ of patronage? Your Master Ash might be able to give you some financial support, but the more important half of a patron is their name. It’s like armor. It’s like a key that opens—”
“I know how a patronage works,” Denna said, cutting me off.
“Then you know yours is shortchanging you,” I said. “If the Maer had been your patron when things went wrong at that wedding, no one in that shabby little town would have dared to raise their voice to you, let alone their hand. Even from a thousand miles away the Maer’s name would have protected you. He would have kept you safe.”
“A patron can offer more than a name and money,” Denna said with an edge to her voice. “I’m fine without the shelter of a title, and honestly, I’d be irritated if some man wanted to dress me in his colors. My patron gives me other things. He knows things I need to know.” She gave me an irritated look as she flicked her hair over her shoulder. “I’ve told you all this before. I’m content with him for now.”
“Why not have both?” I suggested. “The Maer in public and your Master Ash in secret. Surely he couldn’t object to that. Alveron could probably even look into this other fellow for you, make sure he’s not trying to win you with false—”
Denna gave me a horrified look. “No. God no.” She turned to me, her expression earnest. “Promise me you won’t try to find out anything about him. It could ruin everything. You’re the only one I’ve told in all the wide world, but he’d be furious if he knew I’d mentioned him to anyone.”
I felt a bizarre glow of pride at this. “If you’d really rather I not . . .”
Denna stopped walking and set her harp case down on the cobblestones where it made a hollow thump. Her expression was deadly serious. “Promise me.”
I probably wouldn’t have agreed if I hadn’t spent half the previous night following her around the city with the hope of discovering this very thing. But I had. Then I’d eavesdropped on her, too. So today I was practically sweating with guilt.
“I promise,” I said. When her anxious look didn’t evaporate I added, “Don’t you trust me? I’ll swear it, if that will set your mind at ease.”
“What would you swear it on?” she asked, beginning to smile again. “What’s important enough that it will hold you to your word?”
“My name and my power?” I said.
“You are many things,” she said dryly. “But you are not Taborlin the Great.”
“My good right hand?” I suggested.
“Only one hand?” she asked, playfulness creeping back into her tone. She reached out and took both of my hands in her own, turning them over and making a show of inspecting them closely. “I like the left one better,” she decided. “Swear by that one.”
“My good
left
hand?” I asked dubiously.
“Fine,” she said. “The right. You’re such a traditionalist.”
“I swear I won’t attempt to uncover your patron,” I said bitterly. “I swear it on my name and my power. I swear it by my good left hand. I swear it by the ever-moving moon.”
Denna peered at me closely, as if she wasn’t sure if I was mocking her. “Fine,” she said with a shrug, picking up her harp. “Consider me reassured.”
We started walking again, moving through the western gates and into the countryside. The silence between us stretched, starting to grow uncomfortable.
Worried things would grow awkward, I said the first thing that came to mind. “So, are there any new men in your life?”
Denna chuckled low in her throat. “Now you sound like Master Ash. He’s always asking after them. He doesn’t think any of my suitors are good enough for me.”
I couldn’t agree more, but decided it wouldn’t be prudent to say so. “And what does he think of me?”
“What?” she asked, confused. “Oh. He doesn’t know about you,” she said. “Why would he?”
I tried to give a nonchalant shrug, but I couldn’t have been very convincing as she burst out laughing. “Poor Kvothe. I’m teasing you. I only tell him about the ones that come prowling around, panting and sniffing like dogs. You’re not like them. You’ve always been different.”
“I’ve always prided myself on my lack of panting and sniffing.”
Denna turned her shoulder and let her swinging harp bump me playfully. “You know what I mean. They come and go with little gain or loss. You are the gold behind the windblown dross. Master Ash might think he has a right to know about my personal affairs, my comings and goings.” She scowled a bit. “But he doesn’t. I’m willing to concede some of that, for now. . . .”
She reached out and took hold of my upper arm possessively. “But you are not part of the bargain,” she said, her voice almost fierce. “You are mine. Mine alone. I don’t intend to share you.”
The momentary tension passed, and we walked the wide west road away from Severen, laughing and talking of small things. Half a mile past the city’s last inn was a quiet patch of trees with a single tall greystone nestled in its center. We had found it while searching for wild strawberries, and it had become one of our favorite places to escape the noise and stink of the city.
Denna sat at the base of the greystone and put her back against it. Then she brought her harp out of its case and pulled it close to her chest, causing her dress to gather and expose a scandalous amount of leg. She arched an eyebrow at me and smirked as if she knew exactly what I was thinking.
“Nice harp,” I said casually.
She snorted indelicately.
I sat where I was, sprawling comfortably on the long, cool grass. I tugged a few strands of it out of the ground and idly began to twist them together into a braid.
Honestly, I was nervous. While we had spent a great deal of time together over the last month, I’d never heard Denna play anything of her own creation. We had sung together, and I knew she had a voice like honey on warm bread. I knew her fingers were sure, and she had a musician’s timing. . . .
But writing a song isn’t the same as playing one. What if hers wasn’t any good? What would I say?
Denna spread her fingers to the strings, and my worries faded to the background. I’ve always found something powerfully erotic about the way a woman puts her hands to a harp. She began a rolling gliss down the strings from high to low. The sound of it was like hammers on bells, like water over stones, like birdsong through the air.
She stopped and tuned a string. Plucked, tuned. She struck a sharp chord, a hard chord, a lingering chord, then turned to look at me, flexing her fingers nervously. “Are you ready?”
“You’re incredible,” I said.
I saw her flush a little, then brush her hair back to hide her reaction. “Fool. I haven’t played you anything yet.”
“You’re incredible all the same.”
“Hush.” She struck a hard chord and let it fade into a quiet melody. As it rose and fell, she spoke the introduction to her song. I was surprised at such a traditional opening. Surprised but pleased. Old ways are best.
Gather round and listen well,
For I’ve a tale of tragedy to tell.
I sing of subtle shadow spread
Across a land, and of the man
Who turned his hand toward a purpose few could bear.
Fair Lanre: stripped of wife, of life, of pride
Still never from his purpose swayed.
Who fought the tide, and fell, and was betrayed.
 
At first it was her voice that caught my breath, then it was the music.
But before ten lines had passed her lips I was stunned for different reasons. She sang the story of Myr Tariniel’s fall. Of Lanre’s betrayal. It was the story I had heard from Skarpi in Tarbean.
But Denna’s version was different. In her song, Lanre was painted in tragic tones, a hero wrongly used. Selitos’ words were cruel and biting, Myr Tariniel a warren that was better for the purifying fire. Lanre was no traitor, but a fallen hero.
So much depends upon where you stop a story, and hers ended when Lanre was cursed by Selitos. It was the perfect ending for a tragedy. In her story Lanre was wronged, misunderstood. Selitos was a tyrant, an insane monster who tore out his own eye in fury at Lanre’s clever trickery. It was dreadfully, painfully wrong.
Despite this, it had the first glimmers of beauty to it. The chords well-chosen. The rhyme subtle and strong. The song was very fresh, and there were rough patches aplenty, but I could feel the shape of it. I saw what it could become. It would turn men’s minds. They would sing it for a hundred years.
You’ve probably heard it, in fact. Most folk have. She ended up calling it “The Song of Seven Sorrows.” Yes. Denna composed it, and I was the first person to hear it played entire.
As the last notes faded in the air, Denna lowered her hands, unwilling to meet my eye.
I sat, still and silent on the grass.
For this to make sense, you need to understand something every musician knows. Singing a new song is a nervous thing. More than that. It’s terrifying. It’s like undressing for the first time in front of a new lover. It’s a delicate moment.
I needed to say something. A compliment. A comment. A joke. A lie. Anything was better than silence.
But I couldn’t have been more stunned if she had written a hymn praising the Duke of Gibea. The shock was simply too much for me. I felt raw as reused parchment, as if every note of her song had been another flick of a knife, scraping until I was entirely blank and wordless.
I looked down dumbly at my hands. They still held the half-formed circle of green grass I’d been weaving when the song began. It was a broad, flat plait already beginning to curve into the shape of a ring.
Still looking down, I heard the rustle of Denna’s skirts as she moved. I needed to say something. I’d already waited too long. There was too much silence in the air.
“The city’s name wasn’t Mirinitel,” I said without looking up. It was not the worst thing I could have said. But it wasn’t the right thing to say.
There was a pause. “What?”
“Not Mirinitel,” I repeated. “The city Lanre burned was Myr Tariniel. Sorry to tell you that. Changing a name is hard work. It will wreck the meter in a third of your verses.” I was surprised at how quiet my voice was, how flat and dead it sounded in my own ears.

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