The Wise Man's Fear

It’s like telling a joke. Anyone can remember the words. Anyone can repeat it. But making someone laugh requires more than that. Telling a joke faster doesn’t make it funnier. As with many things, hesitation is better than hurry.

This is why there are so few true musicians. A lot of folks can sing or saw out a tune on a fiddle. A music box can play a song flawlessly, again and again. But knowing the notes isn’t enough. You have to know how to play them. Speed comes with time and practice, but timing you are born with. You have it or you don’t.

Denna had it. She moved slowly through the song, but she wasn’t plodding. She played it slow as a luxurious kiss. Not that I knew anything of kissing at that point in my life. But as she stood with her arms around the harp, her eyes half-lidded with concentration, her lips lightly pursed, I knew I someday wanted to be kissed with that amount of slow, deliberate care.

And she was beautiful. I suppose it should come as no surprise that I have a particular fondness for women with music running through them. But as she played I saw her for the first time that day. Before I had been distracted by the difference in her hair, the cut of her dress. But as she played, all that faded from view.

I ramble. Suffice to say she was impressive, though obviously still learning. She struck a few bad notes, but didn’t flinch or cringe away from them. As they say, a jeweler knows the uncut gem. And I am. And she was. And so.

“You’re a long way past ‘Squirrel in the Thatch,’ ” I said quietly after she’d struck the final notes.

She shrugged my compliment away, not meeting my eye. “I don’t have much to do but practice,” she said. “And Kellin says I have a bit of a knack.”

“How long have you been at it?” I asked.

“Three span?” She looked thoughtful, then nodded. “A little less than three span.”

“Mother of God,” I said, shaking my head. “Don’t ever tell anyone how quickly you’ve picked it up. Other musicians will hate you for it.”

“My fingers aren’t used to it yet,” she said, looking down at them. “I can’t practice nearly as long as I like.”

I reached out and took hold of one of her hands, turning it palm up so I could see her fingertips. There were fading blisters there. “You’ve . . .”

I looked up and realized how close she was standing. Her hand was cool in mine. She stared at me with huge, dark eyes. One eyebrow slightly raised. Not arch, or playful even, just gently curious. My stomach felt suddenly strange and weak.

“I’ve what?” she asked.

I realized I had no idea what I had been about to say. I thought of saying, I have no idea what I was going to say. Then I realized that would be a stupid thing to say. So I didn’t say anything.

Denna looked down and took hold of my hand, turning it over. “Your hands are soft,” she said, then touched my fingertips lightly. “I thought the calluses would be rough, but they’re not. They’re smooth.”

Once her eyes weren’t fixed on mine, I regained a small piece of my wits. “It just takes time,” I said.

Denna looked up and gave a shy smile. My mind went blank as fresh paper.

After a moment, Denna let go of my hand and moved past me to the center of the room. “Would you care for something to drink?” she asked as she settled gracefully into a chair.

“That would be very kind of you,” I said purely on reflex. I realized my hand was still hanging stupidly in midair, and I let it fall to my side.

She gestured to a nearby chair and I sat.

“Watch this.” She picked up a small silver bell from a nearby table and rang it softly. Then she held up one hand with all five fingers extended. She folded in her thumb, then her index finger, counting downward.

Before she folded in her smallest finger, there came a knock on the door.

“Come in,” Denna called, and the well-dressed porter opened the door. “I believe I would like some drinking chocolate,” she said. “And Kvothe . . .” She looked at me questioningly.

“Drinking chocolate sounds lovely,” I said.

The porter nodded and disappeared, closing the door behind him.

“Sometimes I do it just to make him run,” Denna admitted sheepishly, looking down at the bell. “I can’t imagine how he can hear it. For a while, I was convinced he was sitting in the hallway with his ear against my door.”

“Can I see the bell?” I asked.

She handed it over. It looked normal at first glance, but when I turned it upside down I saw some tiny sygaldry on the inner surface of the bell.

“He isn’t eavesdropping,” I said, handing it back. “There’s another bell downstairs that rings in time with this one.”

“How?” She asked, then answered her own question. “Magic?”

“You could call it that.”

“Is that the sort of thing you do over there?” She jerked her head in the direction of the river and the University beyond. “It seems a little . . . tawdry.”

“It’s the most frivolous use of sygaldry I’ve ever seen,” I said.

Denna burst out laughing. “You sound so offended,” she said. Then, “It’s called sygaldry?”

“Making something like that is called artificing,” I said. “Sygaldry is writing or carving the runes that make it work.”

Denna’s eyes lit up at this. “So it’s a magic where you write things down?” she asked, leaning forward in her chair. “How does it work?”

I hesitated. Not only because it was a huge question, but because the University has very specific rules about sharing Arcanum secrets. “It’s rather complicated,” I said.

Luckily, at that moment there was another knock on the door and our chocolate arrived in steaming cups. My mouth watered at the smell of it. The man set the tray on a nearby table and left without a word.

I sipped and smiled at the thick sweetness of it. “It’s been years since I’ve had chocolate,” I said.

Denna lifted her cup and looked around the room. “It’s strange to think some people live their whole lives like this,” she mused.

“It’s not to your liking?” I asked, surprised.

“I like the chocolate and the harp,” she said. “But I could do without the bell and a whole room just for sitting.” Her mouth curved into the beginning of a frown. “And I hate knowing someone is set to guard me, like I’m a treasure someone might try to steal.”

“You’re not to be treasured, then?”

She narrowed her eyes over the top of her cup, as if she wasn’t sure how serious I was. “I don’t fancy being under lock and key,” she clarified with a grim note in her voice. “I don’t mind being given rooms, but they aren’t really mine if I’m not free to come and go.”

I raised an eyebrow at that, but before I could say anything she waved her hand dismissively. “It’s not like that really,” she sighed. “But I don’t doubt Kellin is informed of my comings and goings. I know the porter tells him who comes calling. It rankles a bit is all.” She gave a crooked smile. “I suppose that seems terribly ungrateful, doesn’t it?”

“Not at all,” I said. “When I was younger, my troupe traveled everywhere. But every year we would spend a few span at our patron’s estate, performing for his family and his guests.”

I shook my head at the memory. “Baron Greyfallow was a gracious host. We sat at his own table. He gave us gifts . . .” I trailed off, remembering a regiment of tiny lead soldiers he’d given me. I shook my head clear of the thought. “But my father hated it. Climbed the walls. He couldn’t tolerate the feeling of being at someone’s beck and call.”

“Yes!” Denna said. “That’s exactly it! If Kellin says he might pay me a visit on such and such evening, suddenly I feel I’ve had one foot nailed to the floor. If I leave I’m being obstinate and rude, but if I stay I feel like a dog waiting by the door.”

We sat for a moment in silence. Denna twirled the ring on her finger absentmindedly, sunlight catching the pale blue stone.

“Still,” I said, looking around. “They are nice rooms.”