“Have you ever been there?” Simmon asked. “It’s built to keep arcanists locked up. All meshed stone. Wards on the doors and windows.” He shook his head. “I can’t imagine how someone could get out, even one of the masters.”
“All this is beside the path,” Wilem said firmly, bringing us back to task. “Kilvin has welcomed you to the Fishery. Impressing him will be your best chance at making Re’lar.” He looked back and forth between us. “Agreed?”
“Agreed,” Simmon said.
I nodded, but the wheels in my head were spinning. I was thinking about Taborlin the Great, who knew the names of all things. I thought about the stories Skarpi had told back in Tarbean. He hadn’t mentioned arcanists, only namers.
And I thought of Elodin, Master Namer, and how I might approach him.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Interlude—Some Tavern Tale
AT A GESTURE FROM Kvothe, Chronicler wiped off the nib of his pen and shook out his hand. Bast gave a great, seated stretch, his arms arching over the back of the chair.
“I’d almost forgotten how quickly it all happened,” Kvothe mused. “Those were probably the first stories anyone ever told about me.”
“They’re still telling them at the University,” Chronicler said. “I’ve heard three different versions of the class you taught. Your whipping, too. Is that when they started calling you Kvothe the Bloodless?”
Kvothe nodded. “Possibly.”
“If we’re asking questions, Reshi,” Bast said sheepishly, “I was wondering why you didn’t go looking for Skarpi?”
“What could I have done, Bast? Smeared my face with lampblack and staged a daring midnight rescue?” Kvothe gave a brief humorless laugh. “They’d taken him in on heresy. All I could do was hope he truly had friends in the church.”
Kvothe drew a deep breath and sighed. “But the simplest reason is the least satisfying one, I suppose. The truth is this: I wasn’t living in a story.”
“I don’t think I’m understanding you, Reshi,” Bast said, puzzled.
“Think of all the stories you’ve heard, Bast. You have a young boy, the hero. His parents are killed. He sets out for vengeance. What happens next?”
Bast hesitated, his expression puzzled. Chronicler answered the question instead. “He finds help. A clever talking squirrel. An old drunken swordsman. A mad hermit in the woods. That sort of thing.”
Kvothe nodded. “Exactly! He finds the mad hermit in the woods, proves himself worthy, and learns the names of all things, just like Taborlin the Great. Then with these powerful magics at his beck and call, what does he do?”
Chronicler shrugged. “He finds the villains and kills them.”
“Of course,” Kvothe said grandly. “Clean, quick, and easy as lying. We know how it ends practically before it starts. That’s why stories appeal to us. They give us the clarity and simplicity our real lives lack.”
Kvothe leaned forward. “If this were some tavern tale, all half-truth and senseless adventure, I would tell you how my time at the University was spent with a purity of dedication. I would learn the ever-changing name of the wind, ride out, and gain my revenge against the Chandrian.” Kvothe snapped his fingers sharply. “Simple as that.
“But while that might make for an entertaining story, it would not be the truth. The truth is this. I had mourned my parent’s death for three years, and the pain of it had faded to a dull ache.”
Kvothe made a conciliatory gesture with one hand, and smiled a tight smile. “I won’t lie to you. There were times late at night when I lay sleepless and desperately alone in my narrow bunk in the Mews, times when I was choked with a sorrow so endless and empty that I thought it would smother me.
“There were times when I would see a mother holding her child, or a father laughing with his son, and anger would flare up in me, hot and furious with the memory of blood and the smell of burning hair.”
Kvothe shrugged. “But there was more to my life than revenge. I had very real obstacles to overcome close at hand. My poverty. My low birth. The enemies I made at the University were more dangerous to me than any of the Chandrian.”
He gestured for Chronicler to pick up his pen. “But for all that, we still see that even the most fanciful of stories hold a shred of truth, because I did find something very near to the mad hermit in the woods.” Kvothe smiled. “And I was determined to learn the name of the wind.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
The Ever-Changing Wind
ELODIN PROVED A DIFFICULT man to find. He had an office in Hollows, but never seemed to use it. When I visited Ledgers and Lists, I discovered he only taught one class: Unlikely Maths. However, this was less than helpful in tracking him down, as according to the ledger, the time of the class was “now” and the location was “everywhere.”
In the end, I spotted him through sheer luck across a crowded courtyard. He was wearing his black master’s robes, which was something of a rarity. I was on my way to the Medica for observation but decided I’d rather be late for my class than miss the opportunity to speak with him.
By the time I struggled through the midday crowd and caught up with him, we were on the northern edge of the University, following a wide dirt road that led into the forest. “Master Elodin,” I said, pelting up to him. “I was hoping I could talk with you.”
“A sad little hope,” he said without breaking stride or looking in my direction. “You should aim higher. A young man ought to be afire with high ambitions.”
“I hope to study naming then,” I said, falling into step beside him.
“Too high,” he said matter-of-factly. “Try again. Somewhere in-between.” The dirt road curved, and trees blocked the sight of the University’s buildings behind us.
“I hope you’ll accept me as a student?” I tried again. “And teach me whatever you think best?”
Elodin stopped walking abruptly and turned to face me. “Fine,” he said. “Go find me three pinecones.” He made a circle with his thumb and finger. “This big, without any of the little bits broken off.” He sat down right in the middle of the road and made a shooing motion with his hand. “Go on. Hurry.”
I darted off into the surrounding trees. It took me about five minutes to find three pinecones of the appropriate type. By the time I got back to the road I was disheveled and bramble-scratched. Elodin was nowhere to be seen.
I looked around stupidly, then cursed, dropped the pinecones, and took off running, following the road north. I caught up with him fairly quickly, as he was just idling along, looking at the trees.
“So what did you learn?” Elodin asked.
“That you want to be left alone?”
“You are quick.” He spread his arms dramatically and intoned. “Here endeth the lesson! Here endeth my profound tutelage of E’lir Kvothe!”
I sighed. If I left now, I could still catch my class in the Medica, but part of me suspected that this might be a test of some sort. Perhaps Elodin was simply making sure that I was genuinely interested before he accepted me as a student. That is the way it usually goes in stories: the young man has to prove his dedication to the old hermit in the woods before he’s taken under his wing.