The Wise Man's Fear

“It was nice,” I said to mollify her, my air of innocence only half affected.

She opened her mouth as if she would speak, then closed her mouth. Her eyes flashed pure fury.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I should have known better than to try.” I pitched my voice somewhere between broken spirit and beaten child. I lowered my hands from the lute strings.

Some of the fire left her, but when she found her voice it was tight and dangerous. “my skills ‘suffice’?” She hardly seemed able to force out the last word. Her mouth formed a thin, outraged line.

I exploded, my voice a roll of thunder. “How the hell am I supposed to know? It’s not like I’ve ever done this sort of thing before!”

She reeled back at the vehemence of my words, some of the anger draining out of her. “what is it you mean?” she trailed off, confused.

“This!” I gestured awkwardly at myself, at her, at the cushions and the pavilion around us, as if that explained everything.

The last of the anger left her as I saw realization begin to dawn, “you . . .”

“No,” I looked down, my face growing hot. “I have never been with a woman.” Then I straightened and looked her in the eye as if challenging her to make an issue out of it.

Felurian was still for a moment, then her mouth turned up into a wry smile. “you tell me a faerie story, my kvothe.”

I felt my face go grim. I don’t mind being called a liar. I am. I am a marvelous liar. But I hate being called a liar when I’m telling the perfect truth.

Regardless of its motivation, my expression seemed to convince her. “but you were like a gentle summer storm.” She made a fluttering gesture with a hand. “you were a dancer fresh upon the field.” Her eyes glittered wickedly.

I tucked that comment away for later ego-polishing purposes. My reply was slightly wounded, “Please, I’m not a complete rube. I’ve read several books—”

Felurian giggled like a brook. “you learned from books.” She looked at me as if she couldn’t decide whether or not to take me seriously. She laughed, stopped, then laughed again. I didn’t know if I should be offended.

“You were rather good too,” I said hurriedly, knowing I sounded like the last dinner guest to compliment her on a salad. “As a matter of fact, I’ve read—”

“books? books! you compare me with books!” Her anger crashed over me. Then without even pausing for breath, Felurian laughed again, high and delighted. Her laugh was wild as a fox’s cry, clear and sharp as morning birdsong. It was no human sound.

I put on my innocent face. “Isn’t it always like this?” I kept my expression calm while inwardly I braced myself for another outburst.

She simply sat. “I am Felurian.”

It wasn’t a simple stating of a name. It was a declaration. It was a proud flag flying.

I held her eyes for a moment, then sighed and dropped my gaze to my lute. “I’m sorry about the song. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“it was more lovely than the setting sun,” she protested, sounding close to tears. “but . . . nice?” The word seemed bitter to her.

I set my lute back into its case. “I’m sorry, I can’t fix it without some basis for comparison. . . .” I sighed. “Pity, it was a good song. They would have sung it for a thousand years.” My voice was thick with regret.

Felurian’s expression brightened as if with an idea, then her eyes narrowed into slits. She looked at me as if she was trying to read something written on the inside of my skull.

She knew. She knew I was holding the unfinished song as ransom. The unspoken messages were clear: Unless I leave I can never finish the song. Unless I leave no one will ever hear these beautiful words I have made for you. Unless I leave and taste the fruits mortal women have to offer, I’ll never know how skilled you truly are.

There, amid the cushions, under the eternal twilight sky, Felurian and I stared at each other. She held a butterfly, and my hand rested on the smooth wood of my lute. Two armored knights eyeing each other across a bloody field could not have matched the intensity of our stare.

Felurian spoke slowly, gauging my response. “if you go, will you finish it?” I tried to look surprised, but I wasn’t fooling her. I nodded. “will you come back to me and sing it?”

My surprise became genuine. I hadn’t considered her asking for that. I knew there would be no leaving the second time. I hesitated, but only for a barest moment. Half a loaf is better than none. I nodded.

“promise?” I nodded again. “promise with kisses?” She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, like a flower basking in the sun.

Life is too short to refuse offers like that. I moved toward her, drew her naked body toward my own, and kissed her as well as my limited practice would allow. It seemed to be good enough.

As I pulled away she looked up at me and sighed. “your kisses are like snowflakes on my lips.” She lay back on the cushions, head resting on her arm. Her free hand brushed my cheek.

To say she was lovely is such an understatement I cannot begin to repair it. I realized that over the last several minutes she hadn’t been trying to make me desire her, at least not in any supernatural sense.

She brushed her lips lightly over the palm of my hand and released it. Then she lay still, watching me intently.

I was flattered. To this day I know of only one answer to a question so politely phrased. I bent to kiss her. And laughing, she took me in her arms.

CHAPTER NINETY-NINE Magic of a Different Kind

By this point in my life, I’d earned myself a modest reputation.

No, that’s not entirely true. It’s better to say that I had built myself a reputation. I’d crafted it deliberately. I’d cultivated it.

Three-quarters of the stories folk told about me at the University were ridiculous rumors I’d started myself. I spoke eight languages. I could see in the dark. When I was three days old, my mother hung me in a basket from a rowan tree by the light of the full moon. That night a faerie laid a powerful charm on me to always keep me safe. It turned my eyes from blue to leafy green.

I knew how stories worked, you see. Nobody believed that I’d traded a cupped handful of my own fresh blood to a demon in exchange for an Alar like a blade of Ramston steel. But still, I was the highest ranked duelist in Dal’s class. On a good day, I could beat any two of them together.

That thread of truth wove through the story, gave it strength. So even though you might not believe it, you might tell it to a wide-eyed first term student with a drink in him, just to watch his face, just for fun. And if you’d had a drink or three yourself, you might begin to wonder. . . .

And so the stories spread. And so, around the University at least, my tiny reputation grew.

There were a few true stories as well. Pieces of my reputation I’d honestly earned. I had rescued Fela from a blazing inferno. I had been whipped in front of a crowd and refused to bleed. I’d called the wind and broken Ambrose’s arm. . . .

Still, I knew my reputation was a coat spun out of cobweb. It was storybook nonsense. There were no demons out there, bargaining for blood. There were no helpful faeries granting magic charms. And though I might pretend, I knew I was no Taborlin the Great.

These were my thoughts when I woke, tangled in Felurian’s arms. I lay quietly among the cushions for a time, her head resting lightly on my chest, her leg thrown loosely over mine. Looking up through the trees at the twilight sky, I realized I could not recognize the stars. They were brighter than those in the mortal sky, their patterns unfamiliar.

It was only then that I realized my life had taken a step in a new direction. Up until now, I had been playing at being a young Taborlin. I had spun lies around myself, pretending to be a storybook hero.