The seven of us discussed, argued, tried, failed, tried again. At the end of fifteen minutes we were frustrated. Myself especially. I hate problems I cannot solve.
Elodin looked to us as a group. “So what can you tell me?”
Some of us started to give our half-answers or best guesses, but he waved us into silence. “What can you tell me with certainty?”
After a moment Fela spoke up, “We don’t know how the stone will fall.”
Elodin clapped his hands approvingly. “Good! That is the right answer. Now watch.”
He went to the door and stuck his head out. “Henri!” he shouted. “Yes you. Come here for a second.” He stepped back from the door and ushered in one of Jamison’s runners, a boy no more than eight years old.
Elodin took a half-dozen steps away and turned to face the boy. He squared his shoulders and grinned a mad grin. “Catch!” he said, lofting the stone at the boy.
Startled, the boy snatched it out of the air.
Elodin applauded wildly, then congratulated the bewildered boy before reclaiming the stone and hurrying him back out the door.
Our teacher turned to face us. “So,” Elodin asked. “How did he do it? How could he calculate in a second what seven brilliant members of the Arcanum could not figure in a quarter hour? Does he know more geometry than Fela? Are his numbers quicker than Uresh’s? Should we bring him back and make him a Re’lar?”
We laughed a bit, relaxing.
“My point is this. In each of us there is a mind we use for all our waking deeds. But there is another mind as well, a sleeping mind. It is so powerful that the sleeping mind of an eight-year-old can accomplish in one second what the waking minds of seven members of the Arcanum could not in fifteen minutes.”
He made a sweeping gesture. “Your sleeping mind is wide and wild enough to hold the names of things. This I know because sometimes this knowledge bubbles to the surface. Inyssa has spoken the name of iron. Her waking mind does not know it, but her sleeping mind is wiser. Something deep inside Fela understands the name of the stone.”
Elodin pointed at me. “Kvothe has called the wind. If we are to believe the writings of those long dead, his is the traditional path. The wind was the name aspiring namers sought and caught when things were studied here so long ago.”
He went quiet for a moment, looking at us seriously, his arms folded. “I want each of you to think on what name you would like to find. It should be a small name. Something simple: iron or fire, wind or water, wood or stone. It should be something you feel an affinity toward.”
Elodin strode toward the large slate mounted on the wall and began to write a list of titles. His handwriting was surprisingly tidy. “These are important books,” he said. “Read one of them.”
After a moment, Brean raised her hand. Then she realized it was pointless as Elodin still had his back to us. “Master Elodin?” she asked hesitantly. “Which one should we read?”
He looked over his shoulder, not pausing in his writing at all. “I don’t care,” he said, plainly irritated. “Pick one. The others you should skim in a desultory fashion. Look at the pictures. Smell them if nothing else.” He turned back to look at the slate.
The seven of us looked at each other. The only sound in the room was the tapping of Elodin’s chalk. “Which one is the most important?” I asked.
Elodin made a disgusted noise. “I don’t know,” he said. “I haven’t read them.” He wrote En Temerant Voistra on the board and circled it. “I don’t even know if this one is in the Archives at all.” He put a question mark next to it and continued to write. “I will tell you this. None of them are in Tomes. I made sure of that. You’ll have to hunt for them in the Stacks. You’ll have to earn them.”
He finished the last title and took a step back, nodding to himself. There were twenty books in all. He drew stars next to three of them, underlined two others, and drew a sad face next to the last one on the list.
Then he left, striding out of the room without another word, leaving us thinking on the nature of names and wondering what we had gotten ourselves into.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Hunt
Determined to make a good showing of myself in Elodin’s class, I tracked down Wilem and negotiated an exchange of future drinks for his help navigating the Archives.
We made our way through the cobbled streets of the University together, the wind gusting as the huge, windowless shape of the Archives loomed above us across the courtyard. The words Vorfelan Rhinata Morie were chiseled into the stone above the massive stone doors.
As we came closer, I realized my hands were sweaty. “Lord and lady, hold on for a second.” I said as I stopped walking.
Wil raised an eyebrow at me.
“I’m nervous as a new whore,” I said. “Just give me a moment.”
“You said Lorren lifted his ban two days ago,” Wilem said. “I thought you’d be inside as soon as you had permission.”
“I was waiting for them to update the ledgers.” I wiped my damp hands on my shirt. “I know something’s going to happen,” I said anxiously. “My name won’t be in the book. Or Ambrose will be at the desk and I’ll have some sort of relapse from that plum drug and end up kneeling on his throat and screaming.”
“I’d like to see that,” Wil said. “But Ambrose doesn’t work today.”
“That’s something,” I admitted, relaxing a bit. I pointed to the words above the door. “Do you know what that means?”
Wil glanced up. “The desire for knowledge shapes a man,” he said. “Or something close to that.”
“I like that.” I took a deep breath. “Right. Let’s go.”
I pulled open the huge stone doors and entered a small antechamber, then Wil tugged open the inner doors and we stepped into the entry hall. In the middle of the room was a huge wooden desk with several large, leather-bound ledgers open atop it. Several imposing doors led off in different directions.
Fela sat behind the desk, her curling hair pulled back into a tail. The red light from the sympathy lamps made her look different, but no less pretty. She smiled.
“Hello Fela,” I said, trying not to sound as nervous as I felt. “I heard I’m back in Lorren’s good books. Could you check for me?”
She nodded and began to flip through the ledger in front of her. Her face brightened, and she pointed. Then her expression went dark.
I felt a sinking sensation in my stomach, “What is it?” I asked. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” she said. “Nothing’s wrong.”
“You look like something’s wrong,” Wil grumbled. “What does it say?”
Fela hesitated, then spun the book around so we could read it: Kvothe, Arliden’s son. Red-haired. Fair complected. Young. Written next to this in the margin in a different script were the words, Ruh Bastard.
I grinned at her. “Correct on all counts. Can I go in?”
She nodded. “Do you need lamps?” she asked, opening a drawer.
“I do,” Wil said, already writing his name in a separate ledger.
“I’ve got my own,” I said, pulling my small lamp from a pocket of my cloak.
Fela opened the admittance ledger and signed us in. My hand shook as I wrote, skittering the pen’s nib embarrassingly, so it flicked ink across the page.
Fela blotted it away and closed the book. She smiled up at me. “Welcome back,” she said.
I let Wilem lead the way through the Stacks and did my best to look properly amazed.
It wasn’t a hard part to play. While I’d had access to the Archives for some time, I’d been forced to creep around like a thief. I had kept my lamp on its dimmest setting and avoided the main hallways for fear of accidentally running into someone.
Shelves covered every bit of the stone walls. Some hallways were broad and open with high ceilings, while others formed narrow lanes barely wide enough for two people to pass if they both turned sideways. The air was heavy with the smell of leather and dust, of old parchment and binding glue. It smelled of secrets.