The Wise Man's Fear - The Kingkiller Chronicle 2 by Patrick Rothfuss

The Wise Man's Fear - The Kingkiller Chronicle 2 by Patrick Rothfuss

Author:Patrick Rothfuss [Rothfuss, Patrick]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

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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.


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