“I would go to the Faen Court,” Wilem said.
Simmon laughed. “You can’t pick that.”
“Why not?” Wilem said with a quick anger. “If Kvothe can go to a singing tree, I can go into Faen and dance with
“The Tahl is real,” Simmon protested. “Faerie stories are for drunks, halfwits, and children.”
“Where would you go?” I asked Simmon to keep him from antagonizing Wilem.
There was a long pause. “I don’t know,” he said, his voice oddly empty of any inflection. “I haven’t been anywhere, really. I only came to the University because after my brothers inherit and my sister gets her dowry there isn’t going to be much for me except the family name.”
“You didn’t want to come here?” I asked, disbelief coloring my voice.
Sim made a noncommittal shrug, and I was about to ask him something else when I was interrupted by the sound of Wilem getting noisily to his feet. “Are we feeling up to the bridge now?”
My head felt remarkably clear. I got to my feet with only a slight wobble. “Fine by me.”
“Just a second.” Simmon started to undo his pants as he moved toward the trees.
As soon as he was out of sight, Wilem leaned close to me. “Don’t ask about his family,” he said quietly. “It is not easy for him to speak about. Worse when he is drunk.”
“What—”
He made a sharp motion with his hand, shaking his head. “Later.”
Simmon bumbled back into the clearing, and the three of us made our silent way back to the road, then over Stonebridge and into the University.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Contradictions
Late next morning, Wil and I made our way to the Archives to meet up with Sim and settle our bets of the night before.
“The problem is his father,” Wilem explained in low tones as we made our way between the grey buildings. “Sim’s father holds a duchy in Atur. Good land, but—”
“Hold on,” I interrupted. “Our little Sim’s father is a duke?”
“Little Sim,” Wilem said dryly, “is three years older than you and two inches taller.”
“Which duchy?” I asked. “And he’s not that much taller.”
“Dalonir,” Wilem said. “But you know how it is. Noble blood from Atur. Small wonder he does not speak of it.”
“Oh come on,” I chided, gesturing to the students filling the street around us. “The University has the most open-minded atmosphere since the church burned Caluptena to the ground.”
“I notice you do not make any loud announcement that you’re Edema Ruh.”
I bristled. “Are you implying I’m embarrassed?”
“I am saying you make no loud announcement,” Wil said calmly, giving me a steady look. “Neither does Simmon. I imagine you both have your reasons.”
Pushing down my irritation, I nodded.
Wilem continued. “Dalonir is in the north of Aturna, so they are reasonably well off. But he has three older brothers and two sisters. The first son inherits. The father bought the second a military commission. The third was placed in the church. Simmon . . .” Wilem trailed off suggestively.
“I have a hard time imagining Sim as a priest,” I admitted. “Or a soldier, come to think of it.”
“And so Sim ends up at the University,” Wilem finished. “His father was hoping he would become a diplomat. Then Sim discovered he liked alchemy and poetry and entered the Arcanum. His father was not entirely pleased.” Wilem gave me a significant look and I gathered he was drastically understating the case.
“Being an arcanist is a remarkable thing!” I protested. “Much more impressive than being a perfumed toady in some court.”
Wilem shrugged. “His tuition is paid. His allowance continues.” He paused to wave at someone on the other side of the courtyard. “But Simmon does not go home. Not for even a brief visit. Sim’s father likes to hunt, fight, drink, and wench. I suspect our gentle, bookish Sim was probably not given the love a clever son deserves.”
Wil and I met up with Sim in our usual reading hole and clarified the details of our drunken wagers. Then we went our separate ways.
An hour later I returned with a modest armload of books. My search had been made considerably easier by the fact that I’d been researching the Amyr since Nina had arrived and given me her scroll.
I knocked softly on the door of the reading hole, then let myself in. Wil and Sim were already sitting at the table.
“Me first,” Simmon said happily. He consulted a list, then pulled a book from his stack. “Page one hundred and fifty two.” He leafed through until he found the page and then began to scan it. “Ah-ha! ‘The girl then gave an account of everything. . . .
I sat down. “Let’s see the rest.”
Sim’s second book was more of the same. But the third held something of a surprise.
“ ‘A large preponderance of marker stones in the vicinity, suggesting this area might have been crossed with trade routes in some forgotten past. . . .’ ” He trailed off, then shrugged and handed the book to me. “This one seems to be on your side.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Didn’t you read these before you brought them here?”
“In an hour?” He gave a laugh of his own. “Not likely, I just used a scriv.”
Wilem gave him a dark look. “No you didn’t. You asked Puppet, didn’t you?”
Simmon assumed an innocent expression, which on his naturally innocent face only served to make him look profoundly guilty. “I might have stopped in to see him,” he hedged. “And he might have happened to suggest a couple books that had information about greystones.” Seeing Wilem’s expression he raised a hand. “Don’t get sniffy on me. It’s backfired anyway.”
“Puppet again,” I grumbled. “Are you ever going to introduce me? The two of you are so tight-lipped about him.”
Wilem shrugged. “You will understand when you meet him.”
Sim’s books divided into three categories. One supported his side, telling of pagan rites and animal sacrifices. The other speculated about an ancient civilization that used them as marker stones for roads, despite the fact that some were located on sheer mountainsides or river bottoms where no road could be.
His final book was interesting for other reasons:
“. . . a pair of matched stone monoliths with a third across the top,” Simmon read. “The locals refer to it as the door-post. While spring and summer pageants involve decorating and dancing around the stone, parents forbid their children from spending time near it when the moon is full. One well-respected and otherwise reasonable old man claimed . . .”
Sim broke off reading. “Whatever,” he said disgustedly and moved to close the book.
“Claimed what?” Wilem asked, his curiosity piqued.
Simmon rolled his eyes and continued reading, “Claimed at certain times men could pass through the stone door into the fair land where Felurian herself abides, loving and destroying men with her embrace.”
“Interesting,” Wilem murmured.
“No it isn’t. It’s childish, superstitious bunk,” Simmon said testily. “And none of this is getting us any closer to deciding who is right.”
“How do you count them, Wilem?” I asked. “You’re our impartial judge.”
Wilem moved to the table and looked through the books. His dark eyebrows moved up and down as he considered. “Seven for Simmon. Six for Kvothe. Three contrary.”
We looked briefly at the four books I had brought. Wilem ruled one of them out, which brought the tally to
