Free The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss

smile. “Come now, is three days really so unusual?”
    Chronicler’s serious expression returned. “Three
days is quite unusual. But then again—” Some of the self-importance seemed to
leak out of him. “Then again,” he made a gesture as if to show how useless
words were. “You are Kvothe.”
    The man who called himself Kote looked up from
behind his bottles. A full-lipped smile played about his mouth. A spark was
kindling behind his eyes. He seemed taller.
    “Yes, I suppose I am,” Kvothe said, and his voice
had iron in it.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    Of Beginnings and
the Names of Things
    S UNLIGHT
POURED INTO THE Waystone. It was a cool, fresh light, fitted for beginnings. It
brushed past the miller as he set his waterwheel turning for the day. It lit
the forge the smith was rekindling after four days of cold metal work. It
touched draft horses hitched to wagons and sickle blades glittering sharp and
ready at the beginning of an autumn day.
    Inside the Waystone, the light fell across
Chronicler’s face and touched a beginning there, a blank page waiting the first
words of a story. The light flowed across the bar, scattered a thousand tiny
rainbow beginnings from the colored bottles, and climbed the wall toward the
sword, as if searching for one final beginning.
    But when the light touched the sword there were no
beginnings to be seen. In fact, the light the sword reflected was dull,
burnished, and ages old. Looking at it, Chronicler remembered that though it
was the beginning of a day, it was also late autumn and growing colder. The
sword shone with the knowledge that dawn was a small beginning compared to the
ending of a season: the ending of a year.
    Chronicler pulled his eyes away from the sword,
aware that Kvothe had said something, but not knowing what. “I beg your
pardon?”
    “How do people normally go about relating their
stories?” Kvothe asked.
    Chronicler shrugged. “Most simply tell me what they
remember. Later, I record events in the proper order, remove the unnecessary
pieces, clarify, simplify, that sort of thing.”
    Kvothe frowned. “I don’t think that will do.”
    Chronicler gave him a shy smile. “Storytellers are
always different. They prefer their stories be left alone. But they also prefer
an attentive audience. I usually listen and record later. I have a nearly
perfect memory.”
    “ Nearly perfect doesn’t
quite suit me.” Kvothe pressed a finger against his lips. “How fast can you
write?”
    Chronicler gave a knowing smile. “Faster than a man
can talk.”
    Kvothe raised an eyebrow. “I’d like to see that.”
    Chronicler opened his satchel. He brought out a stack
of fine, white paper and a bottle of ink. After arranging them carefully, he
dipped a pen and looked expectantly at Kvothe.
    Kvothe sat forward in his chair and spoke quickly,
“I am. We are. She is. He was. They will be.” Chronicler’s pen danced and
scratched down the page as Kvothe watched it. “I, Chronicler do hereby avow
that I can neither read nor write. Supine. Irreverent. Jackdaw. Quartz.
Lacquer. Eggoliant. Lhin ta Lu soren hea. ‘There was
a young widow from Faeton, whose morals were hard as a rock. She went to
confession, for her true obsession—’” Kvothe leaned farther forward to watch as
Chronicler wrote. “Interesting—oh, you may stop.”
    Chronicler smiled again and wiped his pen on a
piece of cloth. The page in front of him held a single line of incomprehensible
symbols. “Some sort of cipher?” Kvothe wondered aloud. “Very neatly done, too.
I’ll bet you don’t spoil many pages.” He turned the sheet to look at the
writing more carefully.
    “I never spoil pages,” Chronicler said haughtily.
    Kvothe nodded without looking up.
    “What does ‘eggoliant’ mean?” Chronicler asked.
    “Hmmm? Oh, nothing. I made it up. I wanted to see
if an unfamiliar word would slow you down.” He stretched, and pulled his chair
closer to Chronicler’s. “As soon as you show me how to read this,