along my entire left side. I must have fallen during my mindless flight away from the Cthaeh.
Felurian sat upright. “what has come of you?”
I brushed absently at a bit of dried blood on my elbow. “I might ask the same of you.” My voice sounded thick and coarse, as if I had been shouting. When I looked up I saw real concern in her eyes. “I went walking Dayward. I found something in a tree. It called itself a Cthaeh.”
Felurian went motionless when I spoke its name. “the Cthaeh? did you speak?”
I nodded.
“did you ask of it?” But before I could answer she gave a quiet, despairing cry and rushed to me. She began to run her hands over my body, as if searching for wounds. After a minute of this she took my face in her hands and looked into my eyes as if frightened of what she might find there. “are you well?”
Her concern brought a faint smile to my lips. I began to assure her that I was fine—then I remembered the things the Cthaeh had said. I remembered the fires and the man with ink-black eyes. I thought of Denna sprawled on the floor with a mouthful of blood. Tears came to my eyes and I choked. I turned away and shook my head, eyes clenched shut and unable to speak.
She stroked the back of my neck and said, “all is well. the hurt will go. it has not bit you, and your eyes are clear, so all is well.”
I pulled away from her enough to look her in the face. “My eyes?”
“the things the Cthaeh says can leave men broken in their heads. but I would see if it were so. you are still my kvothe, still my sweet poet.” She leaned forward, oddly hesitant, then gave me a gentle kiss on my forehead.
“It lies to men and drives them mad?”
She shook her head slowly, “the Cthaeh does not lie. it has the gift of seeing, but it only tells things to hurt men. only a dennerling would speak to the Cthaeh.” She touched the side of my neck to soften her words.
I nodded, knowing it to be the truth. And I began to cry.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FIVE
Interlude—A Certain Sweetness
Kvothe motioned for Chronicler to stop writing. “Are you all right, Bast?” He gave his student a look of concern. “You look like you’ve swallowed a lump of iron.”
Bast did look stricken. His face was pale, almost waxy. His normally cheerful expression was aghast. “Reshi,” he said, his voice as dry as autumn leaves. “You never told me you spoke with the Cthaeh.”
“There’s a lot of things I’ve never told you, Bast,” Kvothe said flippantly. “That’s why you find the sordid details of my life so enthralling.”
Bast gave a sickly smile, shoulders sagging with relief. “You didn’t really, then. Talk with it, I mean? It’s something you just added to make things a little more colorful?”
“Please, Bast,” Kvothe said, obviously offended. “My story has quite enough color without my adding to it.”
“Don’t lie to me!” Bast shouted suddenly, coming halfway out of his seat with the force of it. “Don’t you lie to me about this! Don’t you
Quick as blinking, Chronicler snatched up the half-covered sheet of paper and pushed his chair back from the table with his feet, saving the sheet from the sudden spray of ink and beer.
Bast leaned forward, his face livid as he stabbed a finger at Kvothe. “I don’t care what other shit you spin into gold here! But you don’t lie about this, Reshi! Not to me!”
Kvothe gestured to where Chronicler sat, holding the pristine sheet of paper in the air with both hands. “Bast,” he said. “This is my chance to tell the full and honest story of my life. Everything is—”
Bast closed his eyes and pounded the table like a child in the grip of a tantrum. “Shut up. Shut up!
Bast pointed at Chronicler. “I don’t give a fiddler’s fuck what you tell him, Reshi. He’ll write what I say or I’ll eat his heart in the market square!” He turned the finger back to the innkeeper and shook it furiously. “But you’ll tell
Kvothe looked up at his student, the amusement bleeding out of his face. “Bast, we both know I’m not above the occasional embellishment. But this story is different. This is my chance to get the truth of matters recorded. It’s the truth behind the stories.”
The dark young man hunched forward in his chair and covered his eyes with one hand.
Kvothe looked at him, his face full of concern. “Are you alright?”
Bast shook his head, still covering his eyes.
“Bast,” Kvothe said gently. “Your hand is bleeding.” He waited a long moment before asking, “Bast, what’s the matter?”
“That’s just it!” Bast burst out, throwing his arms wide, his voice high and hysterical. “I think I finally understand what the matter is!”
Bast laughed then, but it was loud and strained, and choked off into something that sounded like a sob. He looked up at the rafters of the taproom, his eyes bright. He blinked, as if fighting back tears.
Kvothe leaned forward to lay his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Bast, please . . .”
“It’s just that you know so many things,” Bast said. “You know all sorts of things you’re not supposed to. You know about the Berentaltha. You know about the white sisters and the laughing-way. How can you not know about the Cthaeh? It’s . . . it’s a monster.”
Kvothe relaxed visibly. “Good Lord, Bast, is that all? You had me all in a sweat. I’ve faced down things far worse than—”
“There isn’t anything worse than the Cthaeh!” Bast shouted, bringing his clenched fist down on the tabletop again. This time there was the sharp sound of tearing wood as one of the thick timbers bowed and cracked. “Reshi, shut up and listen. Really listen.” Bast looked down for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “You know who the Sithe are?”
Kvothe shrugged. “They’re a faction among the Fae. Powerful, with good intentions—”
Bast waved his hands. “You don’t understand them if you use the term ‘good intentions.’ But if any of the Fae can be said to work for the good, it’s them. Their oldest and most important charge is to keep the Cthaeh from having any contact with anyone. With
“I didn’t see any guards,” Kvothe said in the tones a man might use to soothe a skittish animal.
Bast ran his hands through his hair, leaving it in disarray. “I can’t for all the salt in me guess how you slipped past them, Reshi. If anyone manages to come in contact with the Cthaeh, the Sithe kill them. They kill them from a half-mile off with their long horn bows. Then they leave the body to rot. If a crow so much as lands on the body, they kill it too.”
Chronicler cleared his throat gently, then spoke up. “If what you’re saying is true,” he asked, “why would anyone go to the Cthaeh?”
Bast looked for a moment as if he would snap at the scribe, then gave a bitter sigh instead. “In all fairness, my people are not known for making good decisions,” he said. “Every Fae girl and boy knows the Cthaeh’s nature, but there’s always someone eager to seek it out. Folk go to it for answers or a glimpse of the future. Or they hope to come away with a flower.”
“A flower?” Kvothe asked.
Bast gave him another startled look. “The Rhinna?” Not seeing any recognition in the innkeeper’s face he shook his head in dismay. “The flowers are a panacea, Reshi. They can heal any illness. Cure any poison. Mend any wound.”
Kvothe raised his eyebrows at that. “Ah,” he said, looking down at his folded hands on the tabletop. “I see. I can understand how that might draw a person in, though they knew better.”
The innkeeper looked up. “I have to admit I don’t see the trouble,” he said apologetically. “I’ve seen monsters, Bast. The Cthaeh falls short of that.”
