The Wise Man's Fear

over to the guards.”

“I hope he got what he deserved.”

“And with some to spare,” Sim said grimly. “The point is, it hits everyone a little differently. It’s not a simple lowering of inhibition. There’s an amplification of emotion. A freeing up of hidden desire combined with a strange type of selective memory, almost like a moral amnesia.”

“I don’t feel bad,” I said. “I feel pretty good, actually. But I’m worried about admissions.”

Sim gestured. “See? He remembers admissions. It’s important to him. But other things are just . . . gone.”

“Is there a cure?” Fela asked nervously. “Shouldn’t we take him to the Medica?”

Simmon looked nervous. “I don’t think so. They might try a purgative, but it’s not as if there’s a drug working through him. Alchemy doesn’t work like that. He’s under the influence of unbound principles. You can’t flush those out the way you’d try to get rid of mercury or ophalum.”

“A purgative doesn’t sound like much fun,” I added. “If my vote counts for anything.”

“And there’s a chance they might think he’s cracked under admission stress,” Sim said to Fela. “That happens to a few students every term. They’d stick him in Haven until they were sure—”

I was on my feet, my hands clenched into fists. “I’ll be cut into pieces in hell before I let them stick me in Haven,” I said, furious. “Even for an hour. Even for a minute.”

Sim blanched and took a step back, raising his hands defensively, palms out. But his voice was firm and calm. “Kvothe, I am telling you three times. Stop.”

I stopped. Fela was watching me with wide, frightened eyes.

Simmon continued firmly. “Kvothe, I am telling you three times: sit down.”

I sat.

Standing behind him, Fela looked at Simmon, surprised.

“Thank you,” Simmon said graciously, lowering his hands. “I agree. The Medica isn’t the best place for you. We can just ride this out here.”

“That sounds better to me too,” I said.

“Even if things did go smoothly at the Medica,” Simmon added. “I expect you will be more inclined to speak your mind than usual.” He gave a small, wry smile. “Secrets are the cornerstone of civilization, and I know you have a few more than most folk.”

“I don’t think I have any secrets,” I said.

Sim and Fela both burst out laughing at the same time. “I’m afraid you just proved his point,” Fela said. “I know you have at least a few.”

“So do I,” Sim said.

“You’re my touchstone,” I shrugged. Then I smiled at Fela and pulled out my purse.

Sim shook his head at me. “No no no. I’ve already told you. Seeing her naked would be the worst thing in the world right now.”

Fela’s eyes narrowed a little at that.

“What’s the matter?” I asked. “Are you worried I’ll tackle her to the ground and ravage her?” I laughed.

Sim looked at me. “Wouldn’t you?”

“Of course not,” I said.

He looked at Fela, then back. “Can you say why?” he asked curiously.

I thought about it. “It’s because . . .” I trailed off, then shook my head. “It . . . I just can’t. I know I can’t eat a stone or walk through a wall. It’s like that.”

I concentrated on it for a second and began to get dizzy. I put one hand over my eyes and tried to ignore the sudden vertigo. “Please tell me I’m right about that,” I asked, suddenly scared. “I can’t eat a stone, can I?”

“You’re right,” Fela said quickly. “You can’t.”

I stopped trying to rummage around the inside of my mind for answers and the odd vertigo faded.

Sim was watching me intently. “I wish I knew what that signified,” he said.

“I have a fair idea,” Fela murmured softly.

I drew the ivory admissions tile out of my purse. “I was just looking to trade,” I said. “Unless you are willing to let me see you naked.” I hefted the purse with my other hand and met Fela’s eye. “Sim says it’s wrong, but he’s an idiot with women. My head might not be screwed on quite as tightly as I’d like, but I remember that clearly.”

It was four hours before my inhibitions began to filter back, and two more before they were firmly in place. Simmon spent the entire day with me, patient as a priest, explaining that no, I shouldn’t go buy us a bottle of brand. No, I shouldn’t go kick the dog that was barking across the street. No, I shouldn’t go to Imre and look for Denna. No. Three times no.

By the time the sun went down I was back to my regular, semi-moral self. Simmon quizzed me extensively before walking me back to my room at Anker’s, where he made me swear on my mother’s milk that I wouldn’t leave my room until morning. I swore.

But all was not right with me. My emotions were still running hot, flaring up at every little thing. Worse, my memory hadn’t simply returned to normal, it was back with a vivid and uncontrollable enthusiasm.

It hadn’t been that bad when I was with Simmon. His presence was a pleasant distraction. But alone in my small garret room in Anker’s, I was at the mercy of my memory. It was as if my mind was determined to unpack and examine every sharp and painful thing I had ever seen.

You might think the worst memories were those of when my troupe was killed. Of how I came back to our camp and found everything aflame. The unnatural shapes my parents’ bodies made in the dim twilight. The smell of scorched canvas and blood and burning hair. Memories of the ones who killed them. Of the Chandrian. Of the man who spoke to me, grinning all the while. Of Cinder.

These were bad memories, but over the years I had brought them out and handled them so often there was hardly a sharp edge left to them. I remembered the pitch and timbre of Haliax’s voice as clearly as my father’s. I could easily bring to mind the face of Cinder. His perfect, smiling teeth. His white, curling hair. His eyes, black as beads of ink. His voice, full of winter’s chill, saying: Someone’s parents have been singing entirely the wrong sorts of songs.

You would think these would be the worst memories. But you would be wrong.

No. The worst memories were those of my young life. The slow roll and bump of riding in the wagon, my father holding the reins loosely. His strong hands on my shoulders, showing me how to stand on the stage so my body said proud, or sad, or shy. His fingers adjusting mine on the strings of his lute.

My mother brushing my hair. The feel of her arms around me. The perfect way my head fit into the curve of her neck. How I would sit, curled in her lap next to the fire at night, drowsy and happy and safe.

These were the worst memories. Precious and perfect. Sharp as a mouthful of broken glass. I lay in bed, clenched into a trembling knot, unable to sleep, unable to turn my mind to other things, unable to stop myself from remembering. Again. And again. And again.

Then there came a small tapping at my window. A sound so tiny I didn’t notice it until it stopped. Then I heard the window ease open behind me.

“Kvothe?” Auri said softly.

I clenched my teeth against the sobbing and lay still as I could, hoping she would think I was asleep and leave.

“Kvothe?” she called again. “I brought you—” There was a moment of silence, then she said, “Oh.”

I heard a soft sound behind me. The moonlight showed her tiny shadow on the wall as she climbed through the window. I felt the bed move as she settled onto it.

A small, cool hand brushed the side of my face.

“It’s okay,” she said quietly. “Come here.”

I began to cry quietly, and she gently uncurled the tight knot of me until my head lay in her lap. She murmured, brushing my hair away from my forehead, her hands cool against my hot face.

“I know,” she said sadly. “It’s bad sometimes, isn’t it?”

She stroked my hair gently, and it only made me cry harder. I could not remember the last time someone had