The Wise Man's Fear

CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE Blood and Ink

In the Theophany, Teccam writes of secrets, calling them painful treasures of the mind. He explains that what most people think of as secrets are really nothing of the sort. Mysteries, for example, are not secrets. Neither are little-known facts or forgotten truths. A secret, Teccam explains, is true knowledge actively concealed.

Philosophers have quibbled over his definition for centuries. They point out the logical problems with it, the loopholes, the exceptions. But in all this time none of them has managed to come up with a better definition. That, perhaps, tells us more than all the quibbling combined.

In a later chapter, less argued over and less well-known, Teccam explains that there are two types of secrets. There are secrets of the mouth and secrets of the heart.

Most secrets are secrets of the mouth. Gossip shared and small scandals whispered. These secrets long to be let loose upon the world. A secret of the mouth is like a stone in your boot. At first you’re barely aware of it. Then it grows irritating, then intolerable. Secrets of the mouth grow larger the longer you keep them, swelling until they press against your lips. They fight to be let free.

Secrets of the heart are different. They are private and painful, and we want nothing more than to hide them from the world. They do not swell and press against the mouth. They live in the heart, and the longer they are kept, the heavier they become.

Teccam claims it is better to have a mouthful of poison than a secret of the heart. Any fool will spit out poison, he says, but we hoard these painful treasures. We swallow hard against them every day, forcing them deep inside us. There they sit, growing heavier, festering. Given enough time, they cannot help but crush the heart that holds them.

Modern philosophers scorn Teccam, but they are vultures picking at the bones of a giant. Quibble all you like, Teccam understood the shape of the world.

The day after I’d followed Denna through the city, she sent me a note, and I met her outside the Four Tapers. We’d met there dozens of times in the last several span, but today something was different. Today Denna wore a long, elegant dress, not layered and high necked in the current fashion, but close fitting and open at the throat. It was a deep blue, and when she took a step I could glimpse a long stretch of her bare leg beneath.

Her harp case leaned against the wall behind her, and she had an expectant look in her eye. Her dark hair was lustrous in the sunlight, unadorned except for three narrow braids tied with blue string. She was barefoot, and her feet were grass-stained. She smiled.

“It’s done,” she said, excitement thrumming through her voice like distant thunder. “Done enough to play you a piece at any rate. Would you like to hear it?” I caught a bit of well-hidden shyness in her voice.

As we were both working for patrons who valued their privacy, Denna and I didn’t often discuss our work. We compared our ink-stained fingers and bemoaned our difficulties, but only in vague ways.

“I’d like nothing better than to hear it,” I said as Denna picked up her harp case and started down the street. I fell into step beside her. “But won’t your patron mind?”

Denna gave a too-casual shrug. “He says he wants my first song to be something that men will sing for a hundred years, so I doubt he’ll want me to keep it bottled up forever.” She gave me a sideways look. “We’ll go somewhere private and I’ll let you hear. So long as you don’t go shouting it from rooftops, I should be safe.”

We started walking to the western gate by unspoken agreement. “I’d have brought my lute,” I said, “but I finally found a luthier I trust. I’m having that loose peg mended.”

“You’ll serve me best as audience today,” she said. “Sit rapt in admiration as I play. Tomorrow I’ll watch you, all dewy-eyed with wonder. I’ll marvel at your skill and wit and charm.” She moved her harp to her other shoulder and grinned at me. “Provided you aren’t having them mended at the shop.”

“I’m always up for a duet,” I suggested. “Harp and lute is rare but not unheard of.”

“That’s delicately phrased.” She glanced sideways at me. “I’ll think on it.”

As I had a dozen times before, I fought the urge to tell her I’d reclaimed her ring from Ambrose. I wanted to tell her the story of it, mistakes and all. But I was fairly certain the romantic impact of my gesture would be diminished by the end of the story, where I’d effectively pawned the ring before I left Imre. Better to keep it a secret for now, I thought, and surprise her with the ring itself.

“So what would you think,” I asked, “of having Maer Alveron for your patron?”

Denna stopped walking and turned to look at me. “What?”

“I’m currently in his good graces,” I said. “And he owes me a favor or two. I know you’ve been looking for a patron.”

“I have a patron,” she said firmly. “One I’ve earned on my own.”

“You have half a patron,” I protested. “Where’s your writ of patronage? Your Master Ash might be able to give you some financial support, but the more important half of a patron is their name. It’s like armor. It’s like a key that opens—”

“I know how a patronage works,” Denna said, cutting me off.

“Then you know yours is shortchanging you,” I said. “If the Maer had been your patron when things went wrong at that wedding, no one in that shabby little town would have dared to raise their voice to you, let alone their hand. Even from a thousand miles away the Maer’s name would have protected you. He would have kept you safe.”

“A patron can offer more than a name and money,” Denna said with an edge to her voice. “I’m fine without the shelter of a title, and honestly, I’d be irritated if some man wanted to dress me in his colors. My patron gives me other things. He knows things I need to know.” She gave me an irritated look as she flicked her hair over her shoulder. “I’ve told you all this before. I’m content with him for now.”

“Why not have both?” I suggested. “The Maer in public and your Master Ash in secret. Surely he couldn’t object to that. Alveron could probably even look into this other fellow for you, make sure he’s not trying to win you with false—”

Denna gave me a horrified look. “No. God no.” She turned to me, her expression earnest. “Promise me you won’t try to find out anything about him. It could ruin everything. You’re the only one I’ve told in all the wide world, but he’d be furious if he knew I’d mentioned him to anyone.”

I felt a bizarre glow of pride at this. “If you’d really rather I not . . .”

Denna stopped walking and set her harp case down on the cobblestones where it made a hollow thump. Her expression was deadly serious. “Promise me.”

I probably wouldn’t have agreed if I hadn’t spent half the previous night following her around the city with the hope of discovering this very thing. But I had. Then I’d eavesdropped on her, too. So today I was practically sweating with guilt.

“I promise,” I said. When her anxious look didn’t evaporate I added, “Don’t you trust me? I’ll swear it, if that will set your mind at ease.”

“What would you swear it on?” she asked, beginning to smile again. “What’s important enough that it will hold you to your word?”

“My name and my power?” I said.

“You are many things,” she said dryly. “But you are not Taborlin the Great.”

“My good right hand?” I suggested.

“Only one hand?” she asked, playfulness creeping back into her tone. She reached out and took both of my hands in her own, turning them over and making a show of inspecting them closely. “I like the left one better,” she decided. “Swear by that one.”

“My good left hand?” I asked dubiously.

“Fine,” she said. “The right. You’re such a traditionalist.”

“I swear I won’t attempt to uncover your patron,” I said bitterly. “I swear it on my name and my power. I swear it by my good left hand. I swear it by the ever-moving moon.”

Denna peered at me closely, as if she wasn’t sure if I was mocking her. “Fine,” she said with a shrug, picking up her harp. “Consider me reassured.”

We started walking again, moving through the western gates and into the countryside. The silence between us stretched, starting to grow uncomfortable.

Worried things would grow awkward, I said the first thing that came to mind. “So, are there any new men in your life?”

Denna chuckled low in her throat. “Now you sound like Master Ash. He’s always asking after them. He doesn’t think any of my suitors are good enough for me.”

I couldn’t agree more, but decided it wouldn’t be prudent to say so. “And what does he think of me?”

“What?” she asked, confused. “Oh. He doesn’t know about you,” she said. “Why would he?”

I tried to give a nonchalant shrug, but I couldn’t have been very convincing as she burst out laughing. “Poor Kvothe. I’m teasing you. I only tell him about the ones that come prowling around, panting and sniffing like dogs. You’re not like them. You’ve always been different.”

“I’ve always prided myself on my lack of panting and sniffing.”

Denna turned her shoulder and let her swinging harp bump me playfully. “You know what I mean. They come and go with little gain or loss. You are the gold behind the windblown dross. Master Ash might think he has a right to know about my personal affairs, my comings and goings.” She scowled a bit. “But he doesn’t. I’m willing to concede some of that, for now. . . .”

She reached out and took hold of my upper arm possessively. “But you are not part of the bargain,” she said, her voice almost fierce. “You are mine. Mine alone. I don’t intend to share you.”

The momentary tension passed, and we walked the wide west road away from Severen, laughing and talking of small things. Half a mile past the city’s last inn was a quiet patch of trees with a single tall greystone nestled in its center. We had found it while searching for wild strawberries, and it had become one of our favorite places to escape the noise and stink of the city.

Denna sat at the base of the greystone and put her back against it. Then she brought her harp out of its case and pulled it close to her chest, causing her dress to gather and expose a scandalous amount of leg. She arched an eyebrow at me and smirked as if she knew exactly what I was thinking.

“Nice harp,” I said casually.

She snorted indelicately.

I sat where I was, sprawling comfortably on the long, cool grass. I tugged a few strands of it out of the ground and idly began to twist them together into a braid.

Honestly, I was nervous. While we had spent a great deal of time together over the last month, I’d never heard Denna play anything of her own creation. We had sung together, and I knew she had a voice like honey on warm bread. I knew her fingers were sure, and she had a musician’s timing. . . .

But writing a song isn’t the same as playing one. What if hers wasn’t any good? What would I say?

Denna spread her fingers to the strings, and my worries faded to the background. I’ve always found something powerfully erotic about the way a woman puts her hands to a harp. She began a rolling gliss down the strings from high to low. The sound of it was like hammers on bells, like water over stones, like birdsong through the air.

She stopped and tuned a string. Plucked, tuned. She struck a sharp chord, a hard chord, a lingering chord, then turned to look at me, flexing her fingers nervously. “Are you ready?”

“You’re incredible,” I said.

I saw her flush a little, then brush her hair back to hide her reaction. “Fool. I haven’t played you anything yet.”

“You’re incredible all the same.”

“Hush.” She struck a hard chord and let it fade into a quiet melody. As it rose and fell, she spoke the introduction to her song. I was surprised at such a traditional opening. Surprised but pleased. Old ways are best.

At first it was her voice that caught my breath, then it was the music.

But before ten lines had passed her lips I was stunned for different reasons. She sang the story of Myr Tariniel’s fall. Of Lanre’s betrayal. It was the story I had heard from Skarpi in Tarbean.

But Denna’s version was different. In her song, Lanre was painted in tragic tones, a hero wrongly used. Selitos’ words were cruel and biting, Myr Tariniel a warren that was better for the purifying fire. Lanre was no traitor, but a fallen hero.

So much depends upon where you stop a story, and hers ended when Lanre was cursed by Selitos. It was the perfect ending for a tragedy. In her story Lanre was wronged, misunderstood. Selitos was a tyrant, an insane monster who tore out his own eye in fury at Lanre’s clever trickery. It was dreadfully, painfully wrong.

Despite this, it had the first glimmers of beauty to it. The chords well-chosen. The rhyme subtle and strong. The song was very fresh, and there were rough patches aplenty, but I could feel the shape of it. I saw what it could become. It would turn men’s minds. They would sing it for a hundred years.

You’ve probably heard it, in fact. Most folk have. She ended up calling it “The Song of Seven Sorrows.” Yes. Denna composed it, and I was the first person to hear it played entire.

As the last notes faded in the air, Denna lowered her hands, unwilling to meet my eye.

I sat, still and silent on the grass.

For this to make sense, you need to understand something every musician knows. Singing a new song is a nervous thing. More than that. It’s terrifying. It’s like undressing for the first time in front of a new lover. It’s a delicate moment.

I needed to say something. A compliment. A comment. A joke. A lie. Anything was better than silence.

But I couldn’t have been more stunned if she had written a hymn praising the Duke of Gibea. The shock was simply too much for me. I felt raw as reused parchment, as if every note of her song had been another flick of a knife, scraping until I was entirely blank and wordless.

I looked down dumbly at my hands. They still held the half-formed circle of green grass I’d been weaving when the song began. It was a broad, flat plait already beginning to curve into the shape of a ring.

Still looking down, I heard the rustle of Denna’s skirts as she moved. I needed to say something. I’d already waited too long. There was too much silence in the air.

“The city’s name wasn’t Mirinitel,” I said without looking up. It was not the worst thing I could have said. But it wasn’t the right thing to say.

There was a pause. “What?”

“Not Mirinitel,” I repeated. “The city Lanre burned was Myr Tariniel. Sorry to tell you that. Changing a name is hard work. It will wreck the meter in a third of your verses.” I was surprised at how quiet my voice was, how flat and dead it sounded in my own ears.

I heard her draw a surprised breath. “You’ve heard the story before?”

I looked up at Denna, her expression excited. I nodded, still feeling oddly blank. Empty. Hollow as a dried gourd. “What made you pick this for a song?” I asked her.

It wasn’t the right thing to say either. I can’t help but feel that if I’d said the right thing at that moment, everything would have turned out differently. But even now, after years of thinking, I can’t imagine what I could have said that might have made things right.

Her excitement faded slightly. “I found a version of it in an old book when I was doing genealogical research for my patron,” she said. “Hardly anyone remembers it, so it’s perfect for a song. It’s not like the world needs another story about Oren Velciter. I’ll never make my mark repeating what other musicians have already hashed over a hundred times before.”

Denna gave me a curious look. “I thought I was going to be able to surprise you with something new. I never would have guessed you’d heard of Lanre.”

“I heard it years ago,” I said numbly. “From an old storyteller in Tarbean.”

“If I had half your luck . . .” Denna shook her head in dismay. “I had to piece it together out of a hundred little scraps.” She made a conciliatory gesture. “Me and my patron, I should say. He’s helped.”

“Your patron,” I said. I felt a spark of emotion when she mentioned him. Hollow as I was, it was surprising how quickly the bitterness spread through my gut, as if someone had kindled a fire inside me.

Denna nodded. “He fancies himself a bit of a historian,” she said. “I think he’s angling for a court appointment. He wouldn’t be the first to ingratiate himself by shining a light on someone’s long-lost heroic ancestor. Or maybe he’s trying to invent a heroic ancestor for himself. That would explain the research we’ve been doing in old genealogies.”

She hesitated for a moment, biting her lips. “The truth is,” she said, as if confessing something. “I half suspect the song is for Alveron himself. Master Ash has implied he’s had dealings with the Maer.” She gave a mischievous grin. “Who knows? Running in the circles you do, you might have already met my patron and not even known it.”

My mind flickered over the hundreds of nobles and courtiers I’d met in passing over the last month, but it was hard to focus on their faces. The fire in my gut was spreading until my whole chest was full of it.

“But enough of this,” Denna said, waving her hands impatiently. She pushed her harp away and folded her legs to sit cross-legged on the grass. “You’re teasing me. What did you think of it?”

I looked down at my hands and idly fingered the flat braid of green grass I’d woven. It was smooth and cool between my fingers. I couldn’t remember how I’d planned to join the ends together to form a ring.

“I know it’s got some rough patches,” I heard Denna say, her voice brimming with nervous excitement. “I’ll have to fix that name you mentioned, if you’re sure it’s the right one. The beginning is rough, and the seventh verse is a shambles, I know. I need to expand the battles and his relationship with Lyra. The ending needs tightening. But overall, what did you think?”

Once she smoothed it out, it would be brilliant. As good a song as my parents might have written, but that just made it worse.

My hands were shaking, and I was amazed at how hard it was to make them stop. I looked away from them, up at Denna. Her nervous excitement faded when she saw my face.

“You’re going to have to rework more than just the name.” I tried to keep my voice calm. “Lanre wasn’t a hero.”

She looked at me oddly, as if she couldn’t tell if I was making a joke. “What?”

“You’ve got the whole thing wrong,” I said. “Lanre was a monster. A traitor. You need to change it.”

Denna tossed back her head and laughed. When I didn’t join her, she cocked her head, puzzled. “You’re serious?”

I nodded.

Denna’s face went stiff. Her eyes narrowed and her mouth made a thin line. “You have to be kidding.” Her mouth worked silently for a moment, then she shook her head. “It wouldn’t make any sense. The whole story falls apart if Lanre isn’t the hero.”

“It’s not about what makes a good story,” I said. “It’s about what’s true.”

“True?” She looked at me incredulously. “This is just some old folk story. None of the places are real. None of the people are real. You might as well get offended at me for coming up with a new verse for ‘Tinker Tanner.’ ”

I could feel words rising in my throat, hot as a chimney fire. I swallowed down hard against them. “Some stories are just stories,” I agreed. “But not this one. It’s not your fault. There’s no way you could have—”

“Oh well, thank you,” she said bitingly. “I’m so glad this isn’t my fault.”

“Fine,” I said sharply. “It is your fault. You should have done more research.”

“What do you know about the research I did?” she demanded. “You haven’t the slightest idea! I’ve been all over the world digging up pieces of this story!”

It was the same thing my father had done. He’d started writing a song about Lanre, but his research led him to the Chandrian. He’d spent years chasing down half-forgotten stories and digging up rumors. He wanted his song to tell the truth about them, and they had killed my entire troupe to put an end to it.

I looked down at the grass and thought about the secret I had kept for so long. I thought of the smell of blood and burning hair. I thought of rust and blue fire and the broken bodies of my parents. How could I explain something so huge and horrible? Where would I even begin? I could feel the secret deep inside me, huge and heavy as a stone.

“In the version of the story I heard,” I said, touching the far edge of the secret. “Lanre became one of the Chandrian. You should be careful. Some stories are dangerous.”

Denna stared at me for a long moment. “The Chandrian?” she said incredulously. Then she laughed. It was not her usual delighted laugh. This was sharp and full of derision. “What kind of a child are you?”

I knew exactly how childish it made me sound. I felt myself flush hot with embarrassment, my whole body suddenly prickling with sweat. I opened my mouth to speak, and it felt like cracking open the door of a furnace. “I’m like a child?” I spat. “What do you know about anything, you stupid . . .” I almost bit off the end of my tongue to keep from shouting the word whore.

“You think you know everything, don’t you?” she demanded. “You’ve been to the University so you think the rest of us are—”

“Quit looking for excuses to be upset and listen to me!” I snapped. The words poured out of me like molten iron. “You’re having a snit like a spoiled little girl!”

“Don’t you dare.” She jabbed a finger at me. “Don’t talk to me like I’m some sort of witless farm girl. I know things they don’t teach at your precious University! Secret things! I’m not an idiot!”

“You’re acting like an idiot!” I shouted so loudly the words hurt my throat. “You won’t shut up long enough to listen to me! I’m trying to help you!”

Denna sat in the center of a chilly silence. Her eyes were hard and flat. “That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?” she said coldly. Her fingers moved in her hair, every flick of her fingers stiff with irritation. She untied her braids, smoothed them out, then absentmindedly retied them in a different pattern. “You hate that I won’t take your help. You can’t stand that I won’t let you fix every little thing in my life, is that it?”

“Well maybe someone needs to fix your life,” I snapped. “You’ve made a fair mess of it so far, haven’t you?”

She continued to sit very still, her eyes furious. “What makes you think you know anything about my life?”

“I know you’re so afraid of anyone getting close that you can’t stay in the same bed four days in a row,” I said, hardly knowing what I was saying anymore. Angry words poured out of me like blood from a wound. “I know you live your whole life burning bridges behind you. I know you solve your problems by running—”

“What makes you think your advice is worth one thin sliver of a damn, anyway?” Denna burst out. “Half a year ago you had one foot in the gutter. Hair all shaggy and only three raggedy shirts. There isn’t a noble in a hundred miles of Imre that would piss on you if you were on fire. You had to run a thousand miles to have a chance of a patron.”

My face burned with shame at her mention of my three shirts, and I felt my temper flare hot again. “You’re right of course,” I said scathingly. “You’re much better off. I’m sure your patron would be perfectly happy to piss on you—”

“Now we get to the heart of it,” she said, throwing her hands up in the air. “You don’t like my patron because you could get me a better one. You don’t like my song because it’s different from the one you know.” She reached for her harp case, her movements stiff and angry. “You’re just like all the rest.”

“I’m trying to help you!”

“You’re trying to fix me,” Denna said crisply as she put away her harp. “You’re trying to buy me. To arrange my life. You want to keep me like I’m your pet. Like I’m your faithful dog.”

“I’d never think of you as a dog,” I said, giving her a bright and brittle smile. “A dog knows how to listen. A dog has sense enough not to bite a hand that’s trying to help.”

Our conversation spiraled downward from there.

At this point in the story I’m tempted to lie. To say I spoke these things in an uncontrollable rage. That I was overwhelmed with grief at the memory of my murdered family. I’m tempted to say I tasted plum and nutmeg. Then I would have some excuse. . . .

But they were my words. In the end, I was the one who said those things. Only me.

Denna responded in kind, hurt and furious and sharp-tongued as myself. We were both proud and angry and filled with the unshakable certainty of youth. We said things we never would have said otherwise, and when we left, we did not leave together.

My temper was hot and bitter as a bar of molten iron. It seared at me as I walked all the way back to Severen. It burned as I made my way through the city and waited for the freight lifts. It smoldered as I stalked through the Maer’s estates and slammed the door to my rooms behind me.

It was only hours later that I cooled enough to regret my words. I thought of what I might have said to Denna. I thought of telling her of how my troupe was killed, about the Chandrian.

I decided I would write her a letter. I would explain it all, no matter how foolish or unbelievable it seemed. I brought out pen and ink and laid a sheet of fine white paper on the writing desk.

I dipped the pen and tried to think of where I could begin.

My parents had been killed when I was eleven. It was an event so huge and horrifying it had driven me nearly mad. In the years since, I had never told a soul of those events. I had never so much as whispered them in an empty room. It was a secret I had clutched so tightly for so long that when I dared think of it, it lay so heavy in my chest that I could barely breathe.

I dipped the pen again, but no words came. I opened a bottle of wine, thinking it might loosen the secret inside me. Give me some fingerhold I could use to pry it up. I drank until the room spun and the nib of the pen was crusted with dry ink.

Hours later the blank sheet still stared at me, and I beat my fist against the desk in fury and frustration, striking it so hard my hand bled. That is how heavy a secret can become. It can make blood flow easier than ink.