The Wise Man's Fear

“I am Kvothe.” The sound of it seemed to ground me, to put me inside myself again.

“kvothe.” She spoke it softly, and it reminded me of a bird calling. “would you sing sweet for me again?” She reached out slowly, as if afraid of being burned, and laid her hand lightly on my arm. “please? your songs are like a caress, my kvothe.”

She pronounced my name like the beginning of a song. It was lovely. However, I wasn’t entirely comfortable with the way she referred to me as her Kvothe.

I smiled and nodded. Mostly because I didn’t have a better idea. I struck a couple of tuning chords, then paused, thinking.

Then I started to play “In the Forest Fae,” a song about, of all things, Felurian herself. It wasn’t particularly good. It used about three chords and two dozen words. But it had the effect I was looking for.

Felurian brightened at the mention of her name. There was no false modesty in her. She knew she was most beautiful, most skilled. She knew men told stories, and she knew her reputation. No man could resist her, no man could endure her. By the end of the song, pride had her sitting straighter.

I finished the song. “Would you like to hear another?” I asked.

She nodded and grinned eagerly. She sat among the cushions, back straight, as regal as a queen.

I moved into a second song, similar to the first. It was called “Lady Fae” or something of the sort. I didn’t know who had written it, but they had an appalling habit of sticking extra syllables into their lines. It wasn’t bad enough to get anything thrown at me in a tavern, but it was close.

I watched Felurian closely as I played. She was flattered, but I could read a slight dissatisfaction growing. As if she was irritated, but she couldn’t decide why. Perfect.

Last I played a song written for Queen Serule. I guarantee you haven’t heard it, but I’m sure you know the type. Written by some toadying minstrel looking for a patronage, my father had taught it to me as an example of certain things to avoid when writing a song. It was a numbing example of mediocrity. You could tell the writer was either truly inept, had never met Serule, or that he simply didn’t find her attractive at all.

While singing it, I simply exchanged the name Felurian for Serule. I also replaced some of the better phrases with less poetic ones. By the time I was through with it, the song was truly wretched, and Felurian wore an expression of naked dismay upon her face.

I sat for a long moment, as if deeply considering something. When I finally did speak, my voice was hushed and hesitant. “Lady, might I write a song for you?” I gave her a sheepish smile.

Her smile was like the moon through the clouds. She clapped her hands and threw herself onto me with a kittenish delight, peppering me with kisses. Only fear that my lute might be broken kept me from properly enjoying the experience.

Felurian pulled away and sat very still. I tried a couple of chord combinations, then stilled my hands and looked up at her. “I will call it ‘The Lay of Felurian.’ ” She blushed a bit and looked at me through lowered eyes, her expression bashful and brazen.

All immodest boasting aside, I write a fine song when I set my hand to it, and my skills had recently been sharpened in the Maer’s employ. I am not the best, but I am one of the best. Given enough time, a worthy subject, and the proper motivation I daresay I could write a song nearly as well as Illien. Nearly.

Closing my eyes, I coaxed sweet strains from my lute. My fingers flew, and I captured the music of wind in the branches, of rustling leaves.

Then I looked to the back of my mind where the mad, chattering part of me had been composing a song to Felurian all this while. I brushed the strings more lightly and began to sing.

Flashing moon silver, midnight blue her eyes
The lids were subtle-colored butterflies.
Her hair swayed, a dark scythe swinging
Through the trees with the wind singing.
Felurian! O Lady Fair,
Blessed be your forest glade.
Your breath is light upon the air.
Your hair is shadow-dappled shade.

Felurian grew still as I sang. Toward the end of the chorus I could hardly tell if she was breathing. A few of the butterflies that had been frightened away by our earlier conflict came dancing back to us. One of them landed on Felurian’s hand, brushing its wings once, twice, as if curious why its mistress was so sudden still. I turned my eyes to my lute again and chose notes like raindrops licking the leaves of trees.

She danced in dancing shadows candle cast
She held my eyes, my face, my form, full fast.
Her smile a snare ten times as strong
As legendary faerie song.
O Lady Fair! Felurian,
Your kiss is honeysuckle sweet.
I pity any other man
Unknown to you and incomplete.

I watched her from the corner of my eye. She sat as if listening with her entire body. Her eyes were wide. She’d raised one hand to her mouth, upsetting the butterfly resting there, while the other pressed against her chest as she drew a slow breath. This is what I had wanted, but I regretted it nonetheless.

I bent over my lute and danced my fingers across the strings. I wove chords like water over river stones, like a soft breath against the ear. Then I steeled myself and sang:

Her eyes were of the bluest black
Like night sky with the clouds blown back
Her skills in love—

I stuttered my fingers on the strings, pausing for just a moment as if unsure of something. I saw Felurian wake halfway from her reverie and continued:

Her skills in love they do suffice
In close embrace men find her nice.
Felurian! O Mistress Bright,
Your touch more sought than silver
I br—

“What?” Even though I was expecting the interruption, the ice in her voice startled me into a jangle of notes and sent several butterflies into flight. I took a breath, assumed my most innocent expression, and looked up.

Her expression was a storm of rage and disbelief. “nice?” I felt the blood drain from my face at her tone. Her voice was still round and gentle as a distant flute. But that meant nothing. Distant thunder doesn’t drub the ears, you feel it prowling through your chest. The quiet of her voice moved through me in that distant-thunder way. “nice?”