The Wise Man's Fear: The Kingkiller Chronicle: Day Two

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9780756407919: The Wise Man's Fear: The Kingkiller Chronicle: Day Two

Book by Rothfuss Patrick

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Extrait :

THE WISE
     MAN’S
        FEAR

The Kingkiller Chronicle:

Day One: THE NAME OF THE WIND

Day Two: THE WISE MAN’S FEAR

THE WISE
     MAN’S
        FEAR

Copyright © 2011 by Patrick Rothfuss

.

All Rights Reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-101-48640-5

Cover cobblestone alley photo: Getty Images: Ed Freeman
Cover shadowy figure photo: Getty Images: Matthias Clamer.
Cover designed by G-Force Design.

DAW Book Collectors No. 1540.

DAW Books are distributed by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

Book designed by Elizabeth M. Glover.

All characters and events in this book are fictitious.
Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

First Printing March 2012

1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9   10

To my patient fans, for reading the blog and telling me what they really want is an excellent book, even if it takes a little longer.

To my clever beta readers, for their invaluable help and toleration of my paranoid secrecy.

To my fabulous agent, for keeping the wolves from the door in more ways than one.

To my wise editor, for giving me the time and space to write a book that fills me with pride.

To my loving family, for supporting me and reminding me that leaving the house every once in a while is a good thing.

To my understanding girlfriend, for not leaving me when the stress of endless revision made me frothy and monstrous.

To my sweet baby, for loving his daddy even though I have to go away and write all the time. Even when we’re having a really great time. Even when we’re talking about ducks.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

A Silence of Three Parts

DAWN WAS COMING. THE Waystone Inn lay in silence, and it was a silence of three parts.

The most obvious part was a vast, echoing quiet made by things that were lacking. If there had been a storm, raindrops would have tapped and pattered against the selas vines behind the inn. Thunder would have muttered and rumbled and chased the silence down the road like fallen autumn leaves. If there had been travelers stirring in their rooms they would have stretched and grumbled the silence away like fraying, half-forgotten dreams. If there had been music…but no, of course there was no music. In fact there were none of these things, and so the silence remained.

Inside the Waystone a dark-haired man eased the back door closed behind himself. Moving through the perfect dark, he crept through the kitchen, across the taproom, and down the basement stairs. With the ease of long experience, he avoided loose boards that might groan or sigh beneath his weight. Each slow step made only the barest tep against the floor. In doing this he added his small, furtive silence to the larger echoing one. They made an amalgam of sorts, a counterpoint.

The third silence was not an easy thing to notice. If you listened long enough you might begin to feel it in the chill of the window glass and the smooth plaster walls of the innkeeper’s room. It was in the dark chest that lay at the foot of a hard and narrow bed. And it was in the hands of the man who lay there, motionless, watching for the first pale hint of dawn’s coming light.

The man had true-red hair, red as flame. His eyes were dark and distant, and he lay with the resigned air of one who has long ago abandoned any hope of sleep.

The Waystone was his, just as the third silence was his. This was appropriate, as it was the greatest silence of the three, holding the others inside itself. It was deep and wide as autumn’s ending. It was heavy as a great river-smooth stone. It was the patient, cut-flower sound of a man who is waiting to die.

CHAPTER ONE

Apple and Elderberry

BAST SLOUCHED AGAINST THE long stretch of mahogany bar, bored.

Looking around the empty room, he sighed and rummaged around until he found a clean linen cloth. Then, with a resigned look, he began to polish a section of the bar.

After a moment Bast leaned forward and squinted at some half-seen speck. He scratched at it and frowned at the oily smudge his finger made. He leaned closer, fogged the bar with his breath, and buffed it briskly. Then he paused, exhaled hard against the wood, and wrote an obscene word in the fog.

Tossing aside the cloth, Bast made his way through the empty tables and chairs to the wide windows of the inn. He stood there for a long moment, looking at the dirt road running through the center of the town.

Bast gave another sigh and began to pace the room. He moved with the casual grace of a dancer and the perfect nonchalance of a cat. But when he ran his hands through his dark hair the gesture was restless. His blue eyes prowled the room endlessly, as if searching for a way out. As if searching for something he hadn’t seen a hundred times before.

But there was nothing new. Empty tables and chairs. Empty stools at the bar. Two huge barrels loomed on the counter behind the bar, one for whiskey, one for beer. Between the barrels stood a vast panoply of bottles: all colors and shapes. Above the bottles hung a sword.

Bast’s eyes fell back onto the bottles. He focused on them for a long, speculative moment, then moved back behind the bar and brought out a heavy clay mug.

Drawing a deep breath, he pointed a finger at the first bottle in the bottom row and began to chant as he counted down the line.

“Maple. Maypole.

Catch and carry.

Ash and Ember.

Elderberry.”

He finished the chant while pointing at a squat green bottle. He twisted out the cork, took a speculative sip, then made a sour face and shuddered. He quickly set the bottle down and picked up a curving red one instead. He sipped this one as well, rubbed his wet lips together thoughtfully, then nodded and splashed a generous portion into his mug.

He pointed at the next bottle and started counting again:

“Woolen. Woman.

Moon at night.

Willow. Window.

Candlelight.”

This time it was a clear bottle with a pale yellow liquor inside. Bast yanked the cork and added a long pour to the mug without bothering to taste it first. Setting the bottle aside, he picked up the mug and swirled it dramatically before taking a mouthful. He smiled a brilliant smile and flicked the new bottle with his finger, making it chime lightly before he began his singsong chant again:

“Barrel. Barley.

Stone and stave.

Wind and water—”

A floorboard creaked, and Bast looked up, smiling brightly. “Good morning, Reshi.”

The red-haired innkeeper stood at the bottom of the stairs. He brushed his long-fingered hands over the clean apron and full-length sleeves he wore. “Is our guest awake yet?”

Bast shook his head. “Not a rustle or a peep.”

“He’s had a hard couple of days,” Kote said. “It’s probably catching up with him.” He hesitated, then lifted his head and sniffed. “Have you been drinking?” The question was more curious than accusatory.

“No,” Bast said.

The innkeeper raised an eyebrow.

“I’ve been tasting,” Bast said, emphasizing the word. “Tasting comes before drinking.”

“Ah,” the innkeeper said. “So you were getting ready to drink then?”

“Tiny Gods, yes,” Bast said. “To great excess. What the hell else is there to do?” Bast brought his mug up from underneath the bar and looked into it. “I was hoping for elderberry, but I got some sort of melon.” He swirled the mug speculatively. “Plus something spicy.” He took another sip and narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “Cinnamon?” he asked, looking at the ranks of bottles. “Do we even have any more elderberry?”

“It’s in there somewhere,” the innkeeper said, not bothering to look at the bottles. “Stop a moment and listen, Bast. We need to talk about what you did last night.”

Bast went very still. “What did I do, Reshi?”

“You stopped that creature from the Mael,” Kote said.

“Oh.” Bast relaxed, making a dismissive gesture. “I just slowed it down, Reshi. That’s all.”

Kote shook his head. “You realized it wasn’t just some madman. You tried to warn us. If you hadn’t been so quick on your feet …”

Bast frowned. “I wasn’t so quick, Reshi. It got Shep.” He looked down at the well-scrubbed floorboards near the bar. “I liked Shep.”

“Everyone else will think the smith’s prentice saved us,” Kote said. “And that’s probably for the best. But I know the truth. If not for you, it would have slaughtered everyone here.”

“Oh Reshi, that’s just not true,” Bast said. “You would have killed it like a chicken. I just got it first.”

The innkeeper shrugged the comment away. “Last night has me thinking,” he said. “Wondering what we could do to make things a bit safer around here. Have you ever heard ‘The White Riders’ Hunt’?”

Bast smiled. “It was our song before it was yours, Reshi.” He drew a breath and sang in a sweet tenor:

“Rode they horses white as snow.

Silver blade and white horn bow.

Wore they fresh and supple boughs,

Red and green upon their brows.”

The innkeeper nodded. “Exactly the verse I was thinking of. Do you think you could take care of it while I get things ready here?”

Bast nodded enthusiastically and practically bolted, pausing by the kitchen door. “You won’t start without me?” he asked anxiously.

“We’ll start as soon as our guest is fed and ready,” Kote said. Then, seeing the expression on his student’s face, he relented a little. “For all that, I imagine you have an hour or two.”

Bast glanced through the doorway, then back.

Amusement flickered over the innkeeper’s face. “And I’ll call before we start.” He made a shooing motion with one hand. “Go on now.”

The man who called himself Kote went through his usual routine at the Waystone Inn. He moved like clockwork, like a wagon rolling down the road in well-worn ruts.

First came the bread. He mixed flour and sugar and salt with his hands, not bothering to measure. He added a piece of starter from the clay jar in the pantry, kneaded the dough, then rounded the loaves and set them to rise. He shoveled ash from the stove in the kitchen and kindled a fire.

Next he moved into the common room and laid a fire in the black stone fireplace, brushing the ash from the massive hearth along the northern wall. He pumped water, washed his hands, and brought up a piece of mutton from the basement. He cut fresh kindling, carried in firewood, punched down the rising bread and moved it close to the now-warm stove.

And then, abruptly, there was nothing left to do. Everything was ready. Everything was clean and orderly. The red-haired man stood behind the bar, his eyes slowly returning from their faraway place, focusing on the here and now, on the inn itself.

They came to rest on the sword that hung on the wall above the bottles. It wasn’t a particularly beautiful sword, not ornate or eye-catching. It was menacing, in a way. The same way a tall cliff is menacing. It was grey and unblemished and cold to the touch. It was sharp as shattered glass. Carved into the black wood of the mounting board was a single word: Folly.

The innkeeper heard heavy footsteps on the wooden landing outside. The door’s latch rattled noisily, followed by a loud hellooo and a thumping on the door.

“Just a moment!” Kote called. Hurrying to the front door he turned the heavy key in the door’s bright brass lock.

Graham stood with his thick hand poised to knock on the door. His weathered face split into a grin when he saw the innkeeper. “Bast open things up for you again this morning?” he asked.

Kote gave a tolerant smile.

“He’s a good boy,” Graham said. “Just a little ditherheaded. I thought you might have closed up shop today.” He cleared his throat and glanced at his feet for a moment. “I wouldn’t be surprised, considering.”

Kote put the key in his pocket. “Open as always. What can I do for you?”

Graham stepped out of the doorway and nodded toward the street where three barrels stood in a nearby cart. They were new, with pale, polished wood and bright metal bands. “I knew I wasn’t getting any sleep last night, so I knocked the last one together for you. Besides, I heard the Bentons would be coming round with the first of the late apples today.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Nice and tight so they’ll keep through the winter.” Graham walked over and rapped a knuckle proudly against the side of the barrel. “Nothing like a winter apple to stave off hunger.” He looked up with a glimmer in his eye and knocked at the side of the barrel again. “Get it? Stave?”

Kote groaned a bit, rubbing at his face.

Graham chuckled to himself and ran a hand over one of the barrel’s bright metal bands. “I ain’t ever made a barrel with brass before, but these turned out nice as I could hope for. You let me know if they don’t stay tight. I’ll see to ’em.”

“I’m glad it wasn’t too much trouble,” the innkeeper said. “The cellar gets damp. I worry iron would just rust out in a couple years.”

Graham nodded. “That’s right sensible,” he said. “Not many folk take the long view of things.” He rubbed his hands together. “Would you like to give me a hand? I’d hate to drop one and scuff your floors.”

They set to it. Two of the brass-bound barrels went to the basement while the third was maneuvered behind the bar, through the kitchen, and into the pantry.

After that, the men made their way back to the common room, each on his own side of the bar. There was a moment of silence as Graham looked around the empty taproom. There were two fewer stools than there should be at the bar, and an empty space left by an absent table. In the orderly taproom these things were conspicuous as missing teeth.

Graham pulled his eyes from a well-scrubbed piece of floor near the bar. He reached into his pocket and brought out a pair of dull iron shims, his hand hardly shaking at all. “Bring me up a short beer, would you, Kote?” he asked, his voice rough. “I know it’s early, but I’ve got a long day ahead of me. I’m helping the Murrions bring their wheat in.”

The innkeeper drew the beer and handed it over silently. Graham drank half of it off in a long swallow. His eyes were red around the edges. “Bad business last night,” he said without making eye contact, then took another drink.

Kote ...

Revue de presse :

" The best epic fantasy I read last year... I gulped it down in a day, staying up almost to dawn reading, and I am already itching for the next one. He's bloody good, this Rothfuss guy."
— George R. R. Martin, #1 New York Times bestselling author of A Game of Thrones

“As seamless and lyrical as a song from the lute-playing adventurer and arcanist Kvothe, this mesmerizing sequel to Rothfuss’s 2007 debut, The Name of the Wind, is a towering work of fantasy.... This breathtakingly epic story is heartrending in its intimacy and masterful in its narrative essence, and will leave fans waiting on tenterhooks for the final installment.”
Publishers Weekly (starred)

“Reminiscent in scope of Robert Jordan’s Wheel of Time series and similar in feel to the narrative tour de force of The Arabian Nights, this masterpiece of storytelling will appeal to lovers of fantasy on a grand scale.”
Library Journal (starred)

The Wise Man’s Fear fairly leaps off the page, whatever the setting and circumstances”
Locus

“This sequel carries the first book’s ideas and wild exuberance further, with aplomb. By combining bold choices with bolder sincerity, Rothfuss has found one of the secrets of great storytelling. He doesn’t reinvent the wheel, but he knows damn sure how to ride it.”
The Onion A. V. Club

“In the end, I think that if I distill why I've loved these books so much more than others, it's because of this: They're beautiful. Wise Man's Fear is a BEAUTIFUL book to read. Masterful prose, a sense of cohesion to the storytelling, a wonderful sense of pacing.... None of that is the reason for the awesomeness any more than a single dab of paint is the reason why a Monet is a thing of wonder. But if you step back... you are left with a sense of awe. There is a beauty to Pat's writing that defies description.”
— Brandon Sanderson, New York Times bestselling author of The Way of Kings

The Wise Man's Fear was worth waiting for. It’s about as good as this kind of fantasy can possibly get.... This is an extremely immersive story set in a flawlessly constructed world and told extremely well. I don’t want to criticize it and analyse it—I don’t want to step that far away from it. I want to sink down below the surface of it and become completely immersed.”
— Jo Walton, Tor.com

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Description du livre DAW BOOKS, United States, 2015. Paperback. État : New. Reissue. 173 x 106 mm. Language: English . Brand New Book. Discover #1 New York Times-bestselling Patrick Rothfuss epic fantasy series, The Kingkiller Chronicle. I just love the world of Patrick Rothfuss. --Lin-Manuel Miranda - He s bloody good, this Rothfuss guy. --George R. R. Martin - Rothfuss has real talent. --Terry Brooks DAY TWO: THE WISE MAN S FEAR There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man. My name is Kvothe. You may have heard of me. So begins a tale told from his own point of view--a story unequaled in fantasy literature. Now in The Wise Man s Fear, Day Two of The Kingkiller Chronicle, Kvothe takes his first steps on the path of the hero and learns how difficult life can be when a man becomes a legend in his own time. Praise for The Kingkiller Chronicle: The best epic fantasy I read last year. He s bloody good, this Rothfuss guy. --George R. R. Martin, New York Times-bestselling author of A Song of Ice and Fire Rothfuss has real talent, and his tale of Kvothe is deep and intricate and wondrous. --Terry Brooks, New York Times-bestselling author of Shannara It is a rare and great pleasure to find a fantasist writing.with true music in the words. --Ursula K. Le Guin, award-winning author of Earthsea The characters are real and the magic is true. --Robin Hobb, New York Times-bestselling author of Assassin s Apprentice Masterful. There is a beauty to Pat s writing that defies description. --Brandon Sanderson, New York Times-bestselling author of Mistborn. N° de réf. du libraire KNV9780756407919

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Description du livre DAW BOOKS, United States, 2015. Paperback. État : New. Reissue. 173 x 106 mm. Language: English . Brand New Book. Discover #1 New York Times-bestselling Patrick Rothfuss epic fantasy series, The Kingkiller Chronicle. I just love the world of Patrick Rothfuss. --Lin-Manuel Miranda - He s bloody good, this Rothfuss guy. --George R. R. Martin - Rothfuss has real talent. --Terry Brooks DAY TWO: THE WISE MAN S FEAR There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man. My name is Kvothe. You may have heard of me. So begins a tale told from his own point of view--a story unequaled in fantasy literature. Now in The Wise Man s Fear, Day Two of The Kingkiller Chronicle, Kvothe takes his first steps on the path of the hero and learns how difficult life can be when a man becomes a legend in his own time. Praise for The Kingkiller Chronicle: The best epic fantasy I read last year. He s bloody good, this Rothfuss guy. --George R. R. Martin, New York Times-bestselling author of A Song of Ice and Fire Rothfuss has real talent, and his tale of Kvothe is deep and intricate and wondrous. --Terry Brooks, New York Times-bestselling author of Shannara It is a rare and great pleasure to find a fantasist writing.with true music in the words. --Ursula K. Le Guin, award-winning author of Earthsea The characters are real and the magic is true. --Robin Hobb, New York Times-bestselling author of Assassin s Apprentice Masterful. There is a beauty to Pat s writing that defies description. --Brandon Sanderson, New York Times-bestselling author of Mistborn. N° de réf. du libraire KNV9780756407919

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