The Wise Man's Fear

of the Lethani is deep. She is the head because she is wise in the ways of the world, and because she is clever at dealing with troublesome problems.” She tapped me pointedly on the chest with two fingers.

Then Vashet made a conciliatory gesture. “She is also an excellent fighter, of course. We would not have a leader who could not fight. Shehyn’s Ketan is without equal. But a leader is not a muscle. A leader is a mind.”

I looked up in time to see Shehyn approaching. One of the cords holding her sleeve in place had come loose during the fight, and the cloth was fluttering in the wind like a luffing sail. She had donned her lopsided yellow cap again and gestured formal greeting to both of us.

Then Shehyn turned to me. “At the end,” she asked. “Why was I struck?” Curiosity.

Frantically, I thought back to the final moments of the fight, looking them over in my mind’s eye.

I tried to gesture with the subtlety Vashet had been teaching me: respectful uncertainty. “You misplaced your heel slightly,” I said. “Your left heel.”

Shehyn nodded. “Good.” She gestured pleased approval widely enough so anyone who happened to be watching could see it. And, of course, everyone was.

Giddy with praise, but conscious of the fact I was being watched, I kept my face locked in the proper impassivity as Shehyn walked away with Penthe in tow.

I leaned my head close to Vashet’s. “I like Shehyn’s little hat,” I said.

Vashet shook her head and sighed. “Come.” She jostled my shoulder with her own and got to her feet. “We should leave before you spoil the good impression you have made today.”

That night at supper, I sat in my customary place at the corner of one table by the wall farthest from the food. Since no one was willing to sit within ten feet of me, there was no sense my taking up space where people might actually want to sit.

My good mood still buoyed me, so I was not surprised when I saw a flicker of red slide into the seat across from me. Carceret again. Once or twice a day she made a point to come close enough to hiss a few words at me. She was overdue.

But looking up, I was surprised. Vashet sat across from me. She nodded, her impassive face staring into my astonished one. Then I composed myself, nodded back, and we ate for a while in companionable silence. After we were finished eating, we passed some time pleasantly, speaking softly of small things.

We left the dining hall together, and when we stepped into the evening air, I switched back into Aturan so I could properly articulate something I’d been thinking for several hours.

“Vashet,” I said. “It occurs to me it would be nice to fight someone whose ability is somewhat closer to my own.”

Vashet laughed, shaking her head. “That is like throwing two virgins into a bed. Enthusiasm, passion, and ignorance are not a good combination. Someone is likely to get hurt.”

“I hardly think it’s fair to call my fighting virginal,” I said. “I’m not near your level, but you yourself said my Ketan is remarkably good.”

“I said your Ketan was remarkably good considering the amount of time you have been studying,” she corrected me. “Which is less than two months. Which is no time at all.”

“It’s frustrating,” I admitted. “If I strike a blow against you, it’s because you let me. There is no substance to it. You’ve given it to me. I haven’t earned it for myself.”

“Any strike or throw you make against me is earned,” she said. “Even if I offer it to you. But I understand. There is something to be said for honest competition.”

I started to say something else, but she put her hand over my mouth. “I’ve said I understand. Stop fighting after you have won.” Hand still over my mouth, she tapped a finger thoughtfully. “Very well. Continue your progress and I will find you someone at your own level to fight.”

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED SIXTEEN Height

I was almost beginning to feel comfortable in Haert. My language was improving and I felt less isolated now that I was able to exchange brief pleasantries with others. Vashet occasionally shared meals with me, helping me feel like slightly less of a pariah.

We had done sword-work this morning, which meant an easy start to the day. Vashet was still showing me how the sword was incorporated into the Ketan, and the moments we fought were few and far between. After a few hours of this, we worked on my Ademic, then more sword-work.

After lunch, we moved on to hand fighting. I couldn’t help but feel that here, at least, I was progressing well. After half an hour, not only was Vashet breathing harder, but she began to sweat a bit. I was still no sort of challenge to her, of course, but after days of humiliating nonchalance on her part, she was finally having to put forth a shred of effort to keep ahead of me.

So we continued to fight, and I noticed that—How can I say this delicately? She smelled wonderful. Not like perfume or flowers or anything like that. She smelled like clean sweat and oiled metal and crushed grass from when I’d thrown her to the ground some time before. It was a good smell. She . . .

I can’t describe this delicately, I suppose. What I mean to say is that she smelled like sex. Not as if she’d been having it, as if she was made of it. When she came in close to grapple me, the smell of her combined with her body pressing against mine . . . For a second it was like someone had thrown a switch in my head. All I could think of was kissing her mouth, biting the soft skin of her neck, tearing at her clothes and licking the sweat off her—

I did none of these things, of course. But at the moment I wanted nothing more. This is embarrassing to look back on, but I will not bother defending myself except to point out that I was in the full flower of my youth, fit and healthy. And she was quite an attractive woman, though ten years my senior.

Add to this the simple fact that I had gone from the loving arms of Felurian, to the eager arms of Losine, and from thence to a long, barren stretch of training with Tempi as we traveled to Haert. That meant for three span, I had been constantly exhausted, anxious, confused, and terrified by turns.

Now I was none of these things. Vashet was a good teacher and made sure I was well-rested and relaxed as possible. I was growing more confident in my abilities and more comfortable around her.

Given all of this, it’s no great surprise I had the reaction I did.

At the time, however, I was startled and embarrassed as only a young man can be. I stepped away from Vashet, blushing and fumbling an apology. I tried to hide my obvious arousal, and in doing so only drew more attention to it.

Vashet looked down at what my hands were trying vainly to conceal. “Well then, I suppose I will take that as a compliment and not a curious new avenue of attack.”

If a person could die from shame, I would have.

“Would you like to take care of it yourself?” Vashet asked easily. “Or would you prefer a partner?”

“I beg your pardon?” I said stupidly.

“Come now.” She gestured to my hands. “Even if you could keep your mind away from that, it would doubtless throw your balance off.” She gave a low, throaty chuckle. “You’ll need to tend to it before we continue your lessons. I can leave you to it, or we can find a soft spot and see who can pin the other best two of three.”

The casual tone of her voice convinced me I’d misunderstood her. Then she gave me a knowing smirk, and I realized I’d understood her perfectly well.

“Where I come from, a teacher and a student would never . . .” I stumbled, trying to think of a polite way to defuse the situation.

Vashet rolled her eyes at me, the exasperated expression looking odd on an Adem face. “Do your teachers and students also never fight? Never talk? Never eat together?”

“But this,” I said, “This . . .”

She sighed. “Kvothe, you need to remember. You come from a barbarous place. Much of what you grew up thinking is quite wrongheaded and foolish. None of it as much as the strange customs you barbarians have built