like a whip and the sailor jumped to his feet, grabbed the young gentleman by the back of his neck, and scuffed him tidily away.
I turned back to the woman and watched as her perfect mouth opened. She strained and drew in only the barest rasp of a breath. Her eyes were wild and wet with fear. I moved close to her and spoke in my gentlest tones. “You will be fine. All is well,” I reassured her. “You need to look in my eyes.”
Her eyes fixed on mine, then widened in recognition, in amazement. “I need you to breathe for me.” I laid one hand against her straining chest. Her skin was flushed and hot. Her heart was thrilling like a frightened bird. I laid my other hand along her face. I looked deeply into her eyes. They were like dark pools.
I leaned close enough to kiss her. She smelled of selas flower, of green grass, of road dust. I felt her strain to breathe. I listened. I closed my eyes. I heard the whisper of a name.
I spoke it soft, but close enough to brush against her lips. I spoke it quiet, but near enough so that the sound of it went twining through her hair. I spoke it hard and firm and dark and sweet.
There was a rush of indrawn air. I opened my eyes. The room was still enough that I could hear the velvet rush of her second desperate breath. I relaxed.
She laid her hand over mine, over her heart. “I need you to breathe for me,” she repeated. “That’s seven words.”
“It is,” I said.
“My hero,” Denna said, and drew a slow and smiling breath.
“It were powerful strange,” I heard the sailor say on the other side of the room. “There were sommat in his voice. I swear by all the salt in me, I felt like a puppet with my string pulled.”
I listened with half an ear. I guessed the deckhand simply knew to jump when a voice with the proper ring of authority told him to.
But there was no sense in telling him that. My performance with Denna, combined with my bright hair and dark cloak, had identified me as Kvothe. So it would be magic, no matter what I had to say about it. I didn’t mind. What I had done tonight was worthy of a story or two.
Because they recognized me, folk were watching us, but not coming very close. Denna’s gentleman friend had left before we thought to look for him, so the two of us enjoyed a certain privacy in our small corner of the taproom.
“I should have known I’d come across you here,” she said. “You’re always where I least expect to find you. Have you migrated away from the University at last?”
I shook my head. “I’m playing truant for a couple days.”
“Are you heading back soon?”
“Tomorrow, actually. I’ve got a fetter-cart.”
She smiled. “Would you like some company?”
I gave her a frank look. “You must know the answer to that.”
Denna blushed a little and looked away. “I suppose I do.”
When she looked down her hair cascaded off her shoulders, falling around her face. It smelled warm and rich, like sunshine and cider. “Your hair,” I said. “Lovely.”
Surprisingly, she blushed even deeper at this and shook her head without looking up at me. “That’s what we’ve come to after all this time?” she said, darting a look up at me. “Flattery?”
It was my turn to be embarrassed, and I stammered. “I . . . I wouldn’t . . . I mean, I would . . .” I took a breath before reaching out to lightly touch a narrow, intricate braid, half-hidden in her hair. “Your braid,” I clarified. “It almost says
Her mouth made a perfect “o” of surprise, and one hand went self-consciously to her hair. “You can read it?” she said, her voice incredulous, her expression slightly horrified. “Merciful Tehlu, isn’t there anything you don’t know?”
“I’ve been learning Yllish,” I said. “Or trying to. It’s got six strands instead of four, but it’s almost like a story knot, isn’t it?”
“Almost?” she said. “It’s a damn sight more than almost.” Her fingers plucked at the piece of blue string at the end of her braid. “Even Yllish folk barely know Yllish these days,” she said under her breath, plainly irritated.
“I’m not any good,” I said. “I just know some words.”
“Even the ones that do speak it don’t bother with the knots.” She glared sideways at me. “And you’re supposed to read them with your fingers, not by looking at them.”
“I’ve mostly had to learn by looking at pictures in books,” I said.
Denna finally untied the blue string and began to unfurl the braid, her quick fingers smoothing it back into her hair.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I said. “I liked it better before.”
“That’s rather the point, isn’t it?” She looked up at me, tilting her chin proudly as she shook out her hair. “There. What do you think now?”
“I think I’m afraid to give you any more compliments,” I said, not exactly sure what I’d done wrong.
Her demeanor softened a bit, her irritation fading. “It’s just embarrassing. I never expected anyone to be able to read it. How would you feel if someone saw you wearing a sign that said, ‘I am dashing and handsome’?”
There was a pause. Before it could grow uncomfortable, I said, “Am I keeping you from anything pressing?”
“Only Squire Strahota.” She made a negligent gesture toward her departed escort.
“Pressing, was he?” I gave a half-smile, raising an eyebrow.
“All men press, one way or another,” she said with mock severity.
“They’re still keeping to their book then?”
Denna’s expression grew rueful and she sighed. “I used to hope they’d disregard the book with age. Instead I’ve found they’ve merely turned a page.” She held up her hand, displaying a pair of rings. “Now instead of roses they give gold, and in the giving they grow sudden bold.”
“At least you’re being bored by men of means,” I said consolingly.
“Who wants a mean man?” she pointed out. “Little matter if his wealth is above or below the board.”
I laid a gentling hand on her arm. “You must forgive these men of mercenary thought. These poor, rich men who, seeing that you can’t be caught, attempt to buy a thing they know cannot be bought.”
Denna applauded delightedly. “A plea of grace for enemies!”
“I merely point out that you yourself are not above the giving of gifts,” I said. “As I myself well know.”
Her eyes hardened, and she shook her head. “There is a great difference between a gift given freely, and one that’s meant to tie you to a man.”
“There’s truth to that,” I admitted. “Gold can make a chain as easily as iron. Still, one can hardly blame a man who hopes to decorate you.”
“Hardly,” she said with smile that was both wry and weary. “Many of their suggestions are rather indecorous.” She looked at me. “What of you? Would you have me decorated or indecorous?”
“I have given some thought to that,” I said with a secret smile, knowing I had her ring tucked safely away in my room at Anker’s. I made a show of looking her over. “Both have their merits, but gold is not for you. You are too bright for burnishing.”
Denna gripped my arm and squeezed it, giving me a fond smile. “Oh my Kvothe, I’ve missed you. Half the reason I came back to this corner of the world was in the hope of finding you.” She stood and held out her arm to me. “Come, take me away from all this.”
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FORTY-EIGHT
The Stories of Stones
On the long ride back to Imre, Denna and I spoke of a hundred small things. She told me about the cities she had seen: Tinuë, Vartheret, Andenivan. I told her about Ademre and showed her a few pieces of hand-
