The Wise Man's Fear

ground. He hardly seemed to notice. “Well,” he said seriously. “I certainly don’t feel up to that right now.”

Stonebridge rose ahead of us: two hundred feet from end to end, with a high arch that peaked five stories above the river. It was part of the Great Stone Road, straight as a nail, flat as a table, and older than God. I knew it weighed more than a mountain. I knew it had a three-foot parapet running along both its edges.

Despite all this knowing, I felt deeply uneasy at the thought of trying to cross it. I climbed unsteadily to my feet.

As the three of us examined the bridge, Wilem began to lean slowly to one side. I reached out to steady him and at the same time Simmon laid hold of my arm, though whether to help me or to brace himself I couldn’t be certain.

“I certainly don’t feel up to that right now,” Simmon repeated.

“There’s a place to sit over here,” Wilem said. “Kella trelle turen navor ka.”

Simmon and I muffled our laughter, and Wilem led us through the trees to a little clearing not fifty feet from the foot of the bridge. To my surprise a tall greystone stood at the middle of it, pointing skyward.

Wil entered the clearing with calm familiarity. I came more slowly, looking about curiously. Greystones are special to troupers, and seeing it gave rise to mixed feelings.

Simmon flopped down in the thick grass while Wilem settled his back against the trunk of a leaning birch. I moved to the greystone and touched it with my fingertips. It was warm and familiar.

“Don’t push at that thing,” Simmon said nervously. “You’ll tip it over.”

I laughed. “This stone has been here for a thousand years, Sim. I don’t think my breathing on it is going to hurt it.”

“Just come away from it. They’re not good things.”

“It’s a greystone,” I said, giving it a friendly pat. “They mark old roads. If anything, we’re safer being next to it. Greystones mark safe places. Everyone knows that.”

Sim shook his head stubbornly. “They’re pagan relics.”

“A jot says I’m right,” I taunted.

“Ha!” Still on his back, Sim held up a hand. I stepped over to slap it, formalizing our wager.

“We can go to the Archives and settle it tomorrow,” Sim said.

I sat down next to the greystone and had just started to relax when I was seized by a sudden panic. “Body of God!” I said. “My lute!” I tried to jump to my feet and failed, almost managing to knock out my brains against the greystone in the process.

Simmon tried to sit up and calm me, but the sudden motion was too much for him and he fell awkwardly onto his side and began to laugh helplessly.

“This isn’t funny!” I shouted.

“It’s at the Eolian,” Wilem said. “You’ve asked about it four times since we left.”

“No I haven’t,” I said with more conviction than I really felt. I rubbed my head where I’d knocked it against the greystone.

“There is no reason to be ashamed.” Wilem waved a hand dismissively. “It is man’s nature to dwell on what sits close to his heart.”

“I heard Kilvin got a few in him at the Taps a couple months ago and wouldn’t shut up about his new cold- sulfur lamp,” Simmon said.

Wil snorted. “Lorren would rattle on about proper shelving behavior. Grasp by the spine. Grasp by the spine.” He growled and made clutching motions with both hands. “If I hear him say it again I will grasp his spine.”

A flash of memory came to me. “Merciful Tehlu,” I said, suddenly aghast. “Did I sing ‘Tinker Tanner’ at the Eolian tonight?”

“You did,” Simmon said. “I didn’t know it had so many verses.”

I wrinkled my forehead, trying desperately to remember. “Did I sing the verse about the Tehlin and the sheep?” It was not a good verse for polite company.

“Nia,” Wilem said.

“Thank God,” I said.

“It was a goat,” Wilem managed seriously before he bubbled up into laughter.

“ ‘. . . in the Tehlin’s cassock!’ ” Simmon sang, then joined Wilem in laughter.

“No, no,” I said miserably, resting my head in my hands. “My mother used to make my dad sleep under the wagon when he sang that in public. Stanchion will beat me with a stick and take away my pipes next time I see him.”

“They loved it,” Simmon reassured me.

“I saw Stanchion singing along,” Wilem added. “His nose was a little red by that time too.”

There was a long piece of comfortable quiet.

“Kvothe?” Simmon asked.

“Yes?”

“Are you really Edema Ruh?”

The question caught me unprepared. Normally it would have set me on edge, but at the moment I didn’t know how I felt about it. “Does it matter?”

“No. I was just wondering.”

“Oh.” I continued to watch the stars for a while. “Wondering what?”

“Nothing in particular,” he said. “Ambrose called you Ruh a couple times, but he’s called you other insulting things before.”

“It’s not an insult,” I said.

“I mean he’s called you things that weren’t true,” Sim said quickly. “You don’t talk about your family, but you’ve said things that made me wonder.” He shrugged, still flat on his back, looking up at the stars. “I’ve never known one of the Edema. Not well, anyway.”

“What you hear isn’t true,” I said. “We don’t steal children, or worship dark Gods or anything like that.”

“I never believed any of that,” he said dismissively, then added. “But some of the things they say must be true. I’ve never heard anyone play like you.”

“That doesn’t have anything to do with my being Edema Ruh,” I said, then reconsidered. “Maybe a little.”

“Do you dance?” Wilem asked, seemingly out of the blue.

If the comment had come from anyone else, or at a different time, it probably would have started a fight. “That’s just how people picture us. Playing pipes and fiddles. Dancing around our campfires. When we aren’t stealing everything that isn’t nailed down, of course.” A little bitterness crept into my tone when I said the last. “That’s not what being Edema Ruh is about.”

“What is it about?” Simmon asked.

I thought about it for a moment, but my sodden wit wasn’t up to the task. “We’re just people really,” I said eventually. “Except we don’t stay in one place very long, and everyone hates us.”

The three of us watched the stars quietly.

“Did she really make him sleep under the wagon?” Simmon asked.

“What?”

“You said your mom made your dad sleep under the wagon for singing the verse about the sheep. Did she really?”

“It’s mostly a figure of speech,” I said. “But once she really did.”

I didn’t often think of my early life in my troupe, back when my parents were alive. I avoided the subject the same way a cripple learns to keep the weight off an injured leg. But Sim’s question brought a memory bubbling to the surface of my mind.

“It wasn’t for singing ‘Tinker Tanner,’ ” I found myself saying. “It was a song he’d written about her. . . .”

I was quiet for a long moment. Then I said it. “Laurian.”

It was the first time I’d said my mother’s name in years. The first time since she’d been killed. It felt strange in my mouth.

Then, without really meaning to, I began to sing.