Free The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss Page A

particular emphasis. “He only took two days.”
    â€œThat is my offer,” the innkeeper said simply. “I’ll do this properly or not at all.”
    â€œWait!” Chronicler brightened suddenly. “I’ve been thinking about this all backward,” he said, shaking his head at his own foolishness. “I’ll just visit the earl, then come back. You can have all the time you like then. I could even bring Skarpi back with me.”
    Kote gave Chronicler a look of profound disdain. “What gives you the slightest impression that I would be here when you came back?” he asked incredulously. “For that matter, what makes you think you’re free to simply walk out of here, knowing what you know?”
    Chronicler went very still. “Are—” He swallowed and started again. “Are you saying that—”
    â€œThe story will take three days,” Kote interrupted. “Starting tomorrow. That is what I am saying.”
    Chronicler closed his eyes and ran his hand over his face. The earl would be furious, of course. No telling what it might take to get back in his good graces. Still…“If that’s the only way that I can get it, I accept.”
    â€œI’m glad to hear it.” The innkeeper relaxed into a half 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.
    â€œYes, 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?”
    â€œHow 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.”
    â€œ 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