No hi ha enllaços per a aquest llibre

“THAT SHOULD DO FOR now, I imagine,” Kvothe said, gesturing for Chronicler to lay down his pen. “We have all the groundwork now. A foundation of story to build upon.”

"THAT SHOULD DO FOR now, I imagine," Kvothe said, gesturing for Chronicler to lay down his pen. "We have all the groundwork now. A foundation of story to build upon."

He paused for a moment, and when he spoke again it was slowly, his eyes far away. "The trouble is, she is unlike anyone I have ever known. There was something intangible about her. Something compelling, like heat from a fire. She had a grace, a spark—"
"She had a crooked nose, Reshi," Bast said, interrupting his master's reverie.

She nodded and looked around at the starry night sky and the crescent moon. "I like it when it's cloudy, too. But this is okay. It's cozy. Like the Underthing."
"Underthing?" I asked. She was rarely this talkative.
"I live in the Underthing," Auri said easily. "It goes all over."
"Do you like it down there?"
Auri's eyes lit up. "Holy God yes, it's marvelous. You can just look forever." She turned to look at me. "I have news," she said teasingly.
"What's that?" I asked.
She took another bite and finished chewing before she spoke. "I went out last night." A sly smile. "On top of things."
"Really?" I said, not bothering to hide my surprise. "How did you like it?"
"It was lovely. I went looking around," she said, obviously pleased with herself. "I saw Elodin."
"Master Elodin?" I asked. She nodded. "Was he on top of things, too?"
She nodded again, chewing.
"Did he see you?"
Her smile burst out again making her look closer to eight than eighteen. "Nobody sees me. Besides, he was busy listening to the wind." She cupped her hands around her mouth and made a hooting noise.
"There was good wind for listening last night," she added confidentially.

The music came easily out of me, my lute like a second voice. I flicked my fingers and the lute made a third voice as well. I sang in the proud powerful tones of Savien Traliard, greatest of the Amyr. The audience moved under the music like grass against the wind. I sang as Sir Savien, and I felt the audience begin to love and fear me.

The Waystone was his, just as the third silence was his. This was appropriate, as it was the greatest silence of the three, wrapping 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.

When Kote’s eyes fell on the chest they did not dart quickly away. They did not slide slyly to the side as if he would pretend it wasn’t there at all. But in a moment of looking, his face regained all the lines the simple pleasures of the day had slowly smoothed away. The comfort of his bottles and books was erased in a second, leaving nothing behind his eyes but emptiness and ache. For a moment fierce longing and regret warred across his face.

Bast hurried over and drew Kote’s arm around his shoulders. Kote leaned on him with every other step as they made their way through the doorway and up the stairs.
“Arrow in the leg?” Bast asked under his breath. “Are you really that embarrassed from taking a little fall?”
“Thank God you’re as gullible as they are,” Kote said sharply as soon as they were out of sight. He began to curse under his breath as he climbed a few more steps, his knee obviously uninjured.
Bast’s eyes widened, then narrowed. Kote stopped at the top of the steps and rubbed his eyes. “One of them knows who I am.” Kote frowned. “Suspects.”

As he was undressing for bed, the fire flared. The red light traced faint lines across his body, across his back and arms. All the scars were smooth and silver, streaking him like lightning, like lines of gentle remembering. The flare of flame revealed them all briefly, old wounds and new. All the scars were smooth and silver except one.

IN THE BEGINNING I was almost like an automaton, thoughtlessly performing the actions that would keep me alive. I ate the second rabbit I caught, and the third. I found a patch of wild strawberries. I dug for roots. By the end of the fourth day, I had everything I needed to survive: a stone-lined fire pit, a shelter for my lute. I had even assembled a small stockpile of foodstuffs that I could fall back on in case of emergency.
I also had one thing I did not need: time. After I had taken care of immediate needs, I found I had nothing to do. I think this is when a small part of my mind started to slowly reawaken itself.
Make no mistake, I was not myself. At least I was not the same person I had been a span of days before. Everything I did I attended to with my whole mind, leaving no part of me free for remembering.

I grew thinner and more ragged. I slept in rain or sun, on soft grass, moist earth, or sharp stones with an intensity of indifference that only grief can promote. The only notice I took of my surroundings was when it rained, because then I could not bring out my lute to play, and that pained me.
Of course I played. It was my only solace.
By the end of the first month, my fingers had calluses hard as stones and I could play for hours upon hours. I played and played again all of the songs I knew from memory. Then I played the half-remembered songs as well, filling in the forgotten parts as best I could.
Eventually I could play from when I woke until the time I slept. I stopped playing the songs I knew and started inventing new ones. I had made up songs before; I had even helped my father compose a verse or two. But now I gave it my whole attention. Some of those songs have stayed with me to this day.
Soon after that I began playing … how can I describe it?
I began to play something other than songs. When the sun warms the grass and the breeze cools you, it feels a certain way. I would play until I got the feeling right. I would play until it sounded like Warm Grass and Cool Breeze.
I was only playing for myself, but I was a harsh audience. I remember spending nearly three whole days trying to capture Wind Turning a Leaf.
By the end of the second month, I could play things nearly as easily as I saw and felt them: Sun Setting Behind the Clouds, Bird Taking a Drink, Dew in the Bracken.
Somewhere in the third month I stopped looking outside and started looking inside for things to play. I learned to play Riding in the Wagon with Ben, Singing with Father by the Fire, Watching Shandi Dance, Grinding Leaves When it Is Nice Outside, Mother Smiling… .

Needless to say, playing these things hurt, but it was a hurt like tender fingers on lute strings. I bled a bit and hoped that I would callous soon.
Toward the end of summer, one of the strings broke, broke beyond repair. I spent the better part of the day in a mute stupor, unsure of what to do. My mind was still numb and mostly asleep. I focused with a dim shadow of my usual cleverness on my problem. After realizing that I could neither make a string nor acquire a new one, I sat back down and began to learn to play with only six strings.
In a span I was nearly as good with six strings as I had been with seven. Three span later I was trying to play Waiting While it Rains when a second string broke.
This time I didn’t hesitate, I stripped off the useless string and started to learn again.
It was midway through Reaping when the third string broke. After trying for nearly half a day, I realized that three broken strings were too many. So I packed a small dull knife, half a ball of string, and Ben’s book into a tattered canvas sack. Then I shouldered my father’s lute and began to walk.

I LEARNED MANY THINGS those first months in Tarbean. I learned which inns and restaurants threw away the best food, and how rotten food needed to be before it made you sick to eat it.
I learned that the walled complex of buildings near the docks was the Temple of Tehlu. The Tehlins sometimes gave out bread, making us say prayers before we could take our loaf. I didn’t mind. It was easier than begging. Sometimes the grey-robed priests tried to get me to come into the church to say the prayers, but I’d heard rumors and ran away whenever I was asked, whether I had my loaf or no.
I learned how to hide. I had a secret place atop an old tannery where three roofs met, making a shelter from the wind and rain. Ben’s book I secreted away under the rafters, wrapped in canvas. I handled it only rarely, like a holy relic. It was the last solid piece of my past, and I took every precaution to keep it safe.
I learned that Tarbean is vast. You cannot understand if you have not seen it yourself. It is like the ocean. I can tell you of the waves and water, but you don’t begin to get an inkling of its size until you stand on the shore. You don’t really understand the ocean until you are in the midst of it, nothing but ocean on all sides, stretching away endlessly. Only then do you realize how small you are, how powerless.

Part of Tarbean’s vastness is the fact that it is divided into a thousand small pieces, each with its own personality. There was Downings, Drover Court, the Wash, Middletown, Tallows, Tunning, Dockside, the Tarway, Seamling Lane… . You could live your whole life in Tarbean and never know all its parts.
But for most practical purposes Tarbean had two pieces: Waterside and Hillside. Waterside is where people are poor. That makes them beggars, thieves, and whores. Hillside is where people are rich. That makes them solicitors, politicians, and courtesans.

The voice came from a man who sat apart from the rest, wrapped in shadow at the edge of the fire. Though the sky was still bright with sunset and nothing stood between the fire and where he sat, shadow pooled around him like thick oil. The fire snapped and danced, lively and warm, tinged with blue, but no flicker of its light came close to him. The shadow gathered thicker around his head. I could catch a glimpse of a deep cowl like some priests wear, but underneath the shadows were so deep it was like looking down a well at midnight.

…

There was one demon that stood above the others. Encanis, the swallowing darkness. No matter where he walked, shadows hid his face, and scorpions that stung him died of the corruption they had touched.

…

“I do not regret! If I had my choice again, I would only change how fast I ran. Your people are like cattle my kind feed on! Bite and break you, if you gave me half an hour I would do such things that these wretched gawping peasants would go mad with fear. I would drink their children’s blood and bathe in women’s tears.”

Now Tehlu, who made the world and who is lord over all, watched the world of men. He saw that demons made sport of us and killed us and ate our bodies. Some men he saved, but only a few. For Tehlu is just and saves only the worthy, and in these times few men acted even for their own good, let alone the good of others.

I was sleeping on the rooftops, snugged tightly into my secret place where three roofs met. I awoke from a deep sleep to the sound of harsh laughter and pounding feet in the alley below me.
The slapping footsteps stopped and more laughter followed the sound of ripping cloth. Slipping to the edge of the roof, I looked down to the alley below. I saw several large boys, almost men. They were dressed as I was, rags and dirt. There may have been five, maybe six of them. They moved in and out of the shadows like shadows themselves. Their chests heaved from their run and I could hear their breath from the roof above.
The object of the chase was in the middle of the alley: a young boy, eight years old at the most. One of the older boys was holding him down. The young boy’s bare skin shone pale in the moonlight. There was another sound of ripping cloth, and the boy gave a soft cry that ended in a choked sob.
The others watched and talked in low urgent tones with each other, wearing hard, hungry smiles.
I’d been chased before at night, several times. I’d been caught too, months ago. Looking down, I was surprised to find a heavy red roof tile in my hand, ready to throw.
Then I paused, looking back to my secret place. I had a rag blanket and a half a loaf of bread there. My rainy-day money was hidden here, eight iron pennies I had hoarded for when my luck turned bad. And most valuable of all, Ben’s book. I was safe here. Even if I hit one of them, the rest would be on the roof in two minutes. Then, even if I got away, I wouldn’t have anywhere to go.
I set down the tile. I went back to what had become my home, and curled myself into the shelter of the niche underneath the overhanging roof. I twisted my blanket in my hands and clenched my teeth, trying to shut out the low rumble of conversation punctuated by coarse laughter and quiet, hopeless sobbing from below.

In the midst of silence Lyra stood by Lanre s body and spoke his name. Her voice was a commandment. Her voice was steel and stone. Her voice told him to live again. But Lanre lay motionless and dead.
In the midst of fear Lyra knelt by Lanre s body and breathed his name. Her voice was a beckoning. Her voice was love and longing. Her voice called him to live again. But Lanre lay cold and dead.
In the midst of despair Lyra fell across Lanre’s body and wept his name. Her voice was a whisper. Her voice was echo and emptiness. Her voice begged him to live again. But Lanre lay breathless and dead.

“Do you know many stories?”
He smiled, and the network of lines that crossed his face turned to make themselves part of that smile. “I only know one story. But oftentimes small pieces seem to be stories themselves.” He took a drink. “It’s growing all around us. In the manor houses of the Cealdim and in the workshops of the Cealdar, over the Stormwal in the great sand sea. In the low stone houses of the Adem, full of silent conversation. And sometimes.” He smiled. “Sometimes the story is growing in squalid backstreet bars, Dockside in Tarbean.”

“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.”

I hopped the rail myself and followed him to the edge of the roof. We were only about twenty feet up, but the gardens and fountains spreading out on all sides made for a spectacular view. Elodin stood perilously near the edge, his master’s robe flapping around him like a dark flag. He looked rather impressive, actually, if you were willing to ignore the fact that he was still only wearing one sock.
I went to stand beside him on the edge of the roof. I knew what my third question had to be. “What do I have to do,” I asked, “to study naming under you?”
He met my eye calmly, appraising me. “Jump,” he said. “Jump off this roof.”
That’s when I realized that all of this had been a test. Elodin had been taking my measure ever since we met. He had a grudging respect for my tenacity, and he had been surprised that I noticed something odd about the air in his room. He was on the verge of accepting me as a student.

But he needed more, proof of my dedication. A demonstration. A leap of faith.
And as I stood there, a piece of story came to mind. So Taborlin fell, but he did not despair. For he knew the name of the wind, and so the wind obeyed him. It cradled and caressed him. It bore him to the ground as gently as a puff of thistledown. It set him on his feet softly as a mother’s kiss.
Elodin knew the name of the wind.
Still looking him in the eye, I stepped off the edge of the roof.
Elodin’s expression was marvelous. I have never seen a man so astonished. I spun slightly as I fell, so he stayed in my line of vision. I saw him raise one hand slightly, as if making a belated attempt to grab hold of me.
I felt weightless, like I was floating.
Then I struck the ground. Not gently, like a feather settling down. Hard. Like a brick hitting a cobblestone street. I landed on my back with my left arm beneath me. My vision went dark as the back of my head struck the ground and all the air was driven from my body.
I didn’t lose consciousness. I just lay there, breathless and unable to move. I remember thinking, quite earnestly, that I was dead. That I was blind.

Eventually my sight returned, leaving me blinking against the sudden brightness of the blue sky. Pain tore through my shoulder and I tasted blood. I couldn’t breathe. I tried to roll off my arm, but my body wouldn’t listen to me. I had broken my neck … my back …
After a long, terrifying moment, I managed to gasp a shallow breath, then another. I gave a sigh of relief and realized that I had at least one broken rib in addition to everything else, but I moved my fingers slightly, then my toes. They worked. I hadn’t broken my spine.
As I lay there, counting my blessings and broken ribs, Elodin stepped into my field of vision.
He looked down at me. “Congratulations,” he said. “That was the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen.” His expression was a mix of awe and disbelief.
“Ever.”
And that is when I decided to pursue the noble art of artificing. Not that I had a lot of other options. Before helping me limp to the Medica, Elodin made it clear that anyone stupid enough to jump off a roof was too reckless to be allowed to hold a spoon in his presence, let alone study something as “profound and volatile” as naming.

“Do you know many stories?”
He smiled, and the network of lines that crossed his face turned to make themselves part of that smile. “I only know one story. But oftentimes small pieces seem to be stories themselves.” He took a drink. “It’s growing all around us. In the manor houses of the Cealdim and in the workshops of the Cealdar, over the Stormwal in the great sand sea. In the low stone houses of the Adem, full of silent conversation. And sometimes.” He smiled. “Sometimes the story is growing in squalid backstreet bars, Dockside in Tarbean.”.

—¿Sabe muchas historias?
Skarpi sonrió, y el entramado de arrugas que le surcaba la cara se movió hasta componer una sonrisa.
—Solo sé una historia. Pero muchas veces, los pequeños frag¬mentos parecen historias independientes. —Tomó un sorbo de cerveza—. Crece alrededor de nosotros. En las mansiones de los ceáldimos y en los talleres de los ceáldaros, más allá del Stormwal, en el gran mar de arena. En las casitas de piedra de los Adem, lle¬nas de silenciosas conversaciones. Y a veces... —sonrió— a veces la historia crece en sórdidas tabernas, en el barrio del Puerto de Tarbean.