The Wise Man's Fear

“Yes,” Bast said. “Even so.”

Chronicler stared at the dark-haired man sitting across from him, wrapped in a rag blanket. “Stories taught you to fear the Cthaeh,” he said, disgust plain in his voice. “And that fear is making you stupid.”

Bast shrugged, his empty eyes drifting back to the nonexistent fire. “You bore me, manling.”

Chronicler stood up, stepped forward, and slapped Bast hard across the face.

Bast’s head rocked to the side, and for a moment he seemed too shocked to move. Then he came to his feet in a blur of motion, blanket flying from his shoulders. He grabbed Chronicler roughly by the throat, teeth bared, his eyes a deep, unbroken blue.

Chronicler looked him squarely in the eye. “The Cthaeh set all of this in motion,” he said calmly. “It knew you would attack me, and terrible things will come of it.”

Bast’s furious expression went stiff, his eyes widening. The tension left his shoulders as he let go of Chronicler’s throat. He started to sink back down onto the cushions of the couch.

Chronicler drew back his arm and slapped him again. If anything, the sound was even louder than before.

Bast bared his teeth again, then stopped. His eyes darted to Chronicler, then away.

“The Cthaeh knows you fear it,” Chronicler said. “It knows I would use that knowledge against you. It’s still manipulating you. If you don’t attack me, terrible things will come of it.”

Bast froze as if paralyzed, trapped halfway between standing and sitting.

“Are you listening to me?” Chronicler said. “Are you finally awake?”

Bast looked up at the scribe with an expression of confused amazement. A bright red mark was blossoming on his cheek. He nodded, sinking slowly back onto the couch.

Chronicler drew back his arm. “What will you do if I hit you again?”

“Beat ten colors of guts out of you,” Bast said earnestly.

Chronicler nodded and sat back down on his couch. “I will, for the sake of argument, accept that the Cthaeh knows the future. That means it can control many things.” He raised a finger. “But not everything. The fruit you ate today was still sweet in your mouth, wasn’t it?”

Bast nodded slowly.

“If the Cthaeh is as malicious as you say, it would harm you in every way possible. But it cannot. It could not keep you from making your Reshi laugh this morning. It could not keep you from enjoying the sun on your face or kissing the rosy cheeks of farmers’ daughters, could it?”

A flicker of a grin found Bast’s face. “I kissed more than that,” he said.

“That,” Chronicler said firmly, “is my point. It cannot poison every thing we do.”

Bast looked thoughtful, then sighed. “You’re right in a way,” he said. “But only an idiot sits in a burning house and thinks everything is fine because fruit is still sweet.”

Chronicler made a point of looking around the room. “The inn doesn’t look like it’s on fire to me.”

Bast looked at him incredulously. “The whole world is burning down,” he said. “Open your eyes.”

Chronicler frowned. “Even ignoring everything else,” he said, bulling ahead. “Felurian let him go. She knew he’d spoken with the Cthaeh, surely she wouldn’t have loosed him on the world unless she had some way to guard against its influence.”

Bast’s eyes brightened at the thought, then dimmed almost immediately. He shook his head. “You’re looking for depth in a shallow stream,” he said.

“I don’t follow you,” Chronicler demanded. “What possible reason could she have for letting him go if he was truly dangerous?”

“Reason?” Bast asked, dark amusement coloring his voice. “No reason. She’s got nothing to do with reason. She let him go because it pleased her pride. She wanted him to go out into the mortal world and sing her praises. Tell stories about her. Pine for her. That’s why she let him leave.” He sighed. “I’ve already told you. My folk are not famous for our good decisions.”

“Perhaps,” Chronicler said. “Or perhaps she simply recognized the futility of trying to second-guess the Cthaeh.” He made a nonchalant gesture. “If whatever you’re going to do is wrong, you might as well do whatever you want.”

Bast sat quietly for a long moment. Then he nodded, faintly at first, then more firmly. “You’re right,” he said. “If everything is going to end in tears anyway, I should do what I want.”

Bast looked around the room, then came suddenly to his feet. After a moment’s searching, he found a thick cloak crumpled on the floor. He gave it a vigorous shake and wrapped it around his shoulders before heading to the window. Then he stopped, came back to the couch, and rummaged in the cushions until he found a bottle of wine.

Chronicler looked puzzled. “What are you doing? Are you going back to Shep’s wake?”

Bast paused on his way back to the window, seeming almost surprised to see Chronicler still standing there. “I am going about my business,” he said tucking the bottle of wine under his arm. He opened the window and swung one foot outside. “Don’t wait up.”

Kvothe stepped briskly into his room, closing the door behind himself.

He moved about busily. He cleared the cold ashes from the fireplace and set new wood in its place, sparking the fire to life with a fat red sulfur match. He fetched a second blanket and spread it over his narrow bed. Frowning slightly, he picked up the crumpled piece of paper from where it had fallen to the floor and returned it to the top of his desk where it sat next to the two other crumpled sheets.

Then, moving almost reluctantly, he made his way to the foot of his bed. Taking a deep breath, he wiped his hands on his pants and knelt in front of the dark chest that sat there. He rested both hands on the curved lid and closed his eyes, as if listening for something. His shoulders shifted as he tugged against the lid.

Nothing happened. Kvothe opened his eyes. His mouth made a grim line. His hands moved again, pulling harder, straining for a long moment before giving up.

Expressionless, Kvothe stood and walked to the window that overlooked the woods behind the inn. He slid it open and leaned out, reaching down with both hands. Then he drew himself back inside, clutching a slender wooden box.

Brushing away a coating of dust and spiderwebs, he opened the box. Inside lay a key of dark iron and a key of bright copper. Kvothe knelt in front of the chest again and fit the copper key into the iron lock. With slow precision he turned it: left, then right, then left again, listening carefully to the faint clicks of some mechanism inside.

Then he lifted the iron key and fit it into the copper plate. This key he did not turn. He slid it deep into the lock, brought it halfway out, then pushed it back before drawing it free in a smooth, quick motion.

After replacing the keys in their box, he put his hands back on the sides of the lid in the same position as before. “Open,” he said under his breath. “Open, damn you. Edro.”

He lifted, his back and shoulders tensing with the effort of it.

The lid of the chest didn’t budge. Kvothe gave a long sigh and leaned forward until his forehead pressed against the cool dark wood. As the air rushed out of him, his shoulders sagged, leaving him looking small and wounded, terribly tired and older than his years.

His expression, however, showed no surprise, no grief. It was merely resigned. It was the expression of a man who has finally received bad news he’d already known was on the way.

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FIFTY-TWO Elderberry

It was a bad night to be caught in the open.

The clouds had rolled in late, like a grey sheet pulled across the sky. The wind was chill and gusty, with fits and starts of rain that spattered down heavily before fading into drizzle.

For all this, the two soldiers camped in a thicket near the road seemed to be enjoying themselves. They’d found a woodcutter’s stash and built their fire so high and hot that the occasional gust of rain did little more than make it spit and hiss.