Kernels of Truth

“I S THAT THE END?” Simmon asked after a polite pause. He was on his back, looking up at the stars.

“Yes.”

“It didn’t end the way I thought it would,” he said.

“What did you expect?”

“I was waiting to find out who the beggar really was. I thought as soon as someone was nice to him, he would turn out to be Taborlin the Great. Then he would give them his walking stick and a sack of money and . . .I don’t know. Make something magical happen.”

Wilem spoke up. “He’d say, ‘Whenever you are in danger knock this stick on the ground and say “stick be quick,” ’ and then the stick would whirl around and defend them from whoever was attacking them.” Wilem was lying on his back in the tall grass, too. “I didn’t think he was really an old beggar.”

“Old beggars in stories are never really old beggars,” Simmon said with hint of accusation in his voice. “They’re always a witch or a prince or an angel or something.”

“In real life old beggars are almost always old beggars,” I pointed out. “But I know what kind of story you two are thinking about. Those are stories we tell other people to entertain them. This story is different. It’s one we tell each other.”

“Why tell a story if it’s not entertaining?”

“To help us remember. To teach us—” I made a vague gesture. “Things.”

“Like exaggerated stereotypes?” Simmon asked.

“What do you mean by that?” I asked, nettled.

“ ‘Tie him to the wagon and make him pull’?” Simmon made a disgusted noise. “I’d be offended if I didn’t know you.”

“If I didn’t know you ,” I said hotly,“I’d be offended. Do you know Aturans used to kill people if they found them living on the road? One of your emperors declared them to be detrimental to the empire. Most were little more than beggars who had lost their homes because of the wars and taxes. Most were simply press-ganged into military service.”

I tugged at the front of my shirt. “But the Edema were especially prized. They hunted us like foxes. For a hundred years Ruh-hunt was a favorite pastime among the Aturan upper crust.”

A profound silence fell. My throat hurt, and I realized I’d been shouting.

Simmon’s voice was muffled. “I didn’t know that.”

I kicked myself mentally and sighed. “I’m sorry Simmon. It’s a . . . It was a long time ago. And it’s not your fault. It’s an old story.”

“It would have to be, to have a reference to the Amyr,” Wilem said, obviously trying to change the subject. “They disbanded what? Three hundred years ago?”

“Still,” I said. “There’s some truth in most stereotypes. A seed they sprouted from.”

“Basil is from Vintas,” Wil said. “And he is odd about certain things. Sleeps with a penny underneath his pillow, that sort of thing.”

“On my way to the University I traveled with a pair of Adem mercenaries,” Simmon said. “They didn’t talk to anyone except each other. And they were restless and fidgety.”

Wilem spoke hesitantly. “I will admit to knowing many Cealdim who take great care to line their boots with silver.”

“Purses,” Simmon corrected him. “Boots are for putting your feet in.” He wiggled a foot to illustrate.

“I know what a boot is,” Wilem said crossly. “I speak this vulgar language better than you do. Boot is what we say, Patu . Money in your purse is for spending. Money you plan to keep is in your boot.”

“Oh,” Simmon said thoughtfully. “I see. Like saving it for a rainy day, I guess.”

“What do you do with money when it rains?” Wilem asked, genuinely puzzled.

“And there’s more to the story than you think,” I interjected quickly before things digressed any further. “The story holds a kernel of truth. If you promise to keep it to yourselves, I will tell you a secret.”

I felt their attention sharpen onto me. “If you ever accept the hospitality of a traveling troupe, and they offer you wine before anything else, they are Edema Ruh. That part of the story is true.” I held up a finger to caution them. “But don’t take the wine.”

“But I like wine,” Simmon said piteously.

“That doesn’t matter,” I said. “Your host offers you wine, but you insist on water. It might even turn into a competition of sorts, the host offering more and more grandly, the guest refusing more and more politely. When you do this, they will know you are a friend of the Edema, that you know our ways. They will treat you like family for the night, as opposed to being a mere guest.”

The conversation lulled as they absorbed this piece of information. I looked up at the stars, tracing the familiar constellations in my head. Ewan the hunter, the crucible, the young-again mother, the fire-tongued fox, the broken tower. . . .

“Where would you go if you could go anywhere?” Simmon’s question came out of the blue.

“Across the river,” I said. “Bed.”

“No no,” he protested, “I mean if you could go anywhere in the world.”

“Same answer,” I said. “I’ve been a lot of places. This is where I’ve always wanted to go.”

“But not forever,” Wilem said. “You don’t want to be here forever, do you?”

“That’s what I meant,” Simmon added. “We all want to be here. But none of us want to be here forever.”

“Except Manet,” Wil said.

“Where would you go?” Simmon pursued his point doggedly. “For adventure?”

I thought for a moment, quietly. “I guess I’d to go to the Tahlenwald,” I said.

“Among the Tahl?” Wilem asked. “They’re a primitive nomadic people, from what I’ve heard.”

“Technically speaking, the Edema Ruh are a nomadic people,” I said dryly. “I heard a story once that said the leaders of their tribes aren’t great warriors, they’re singers. Their songs can heal the sick and make the trees dance.” I shrugged. “I’d go there and find out if it was true.”

“I would go to the Faen Court,” Wilem said.

Simmon laughed. “You can’t pick that.”

“Why not?” Wilem said with a quick anger. “If Kvothe can go to a singing tree, I can go into Faen and dance with Embrula . . . with Faen women.”

“The Tahl is real,” Simmon protested. “Faerie stories are for drunks, halfwits, and children.”

“Where would you go?” I asked Simmon to keep him from antagonizing Wilem.

There was a long pause. “I don’t know,” he said, his voice oddly empty of any inflection. “I haven’t been anywhere, really. I only came to the University because after my brothers inherit and my sister gets her dowry there isn’t going to be much for me except the family name.”

“You didn’t want to come here?” I asked, disbelief coloring my voice.

Sim made a noncommittal shrug, and I was about to ask him something else when I was interrupted by the sound of Wilem getting noisily to his feet. “Are we feeling up to the bridge now?”

My head felt remarkably clear. I got to my feet with only a slight wobble. “Fine by me.”

“Just a second.” Simmon started to undo his pants as he moved toward the trees.

As soon as he was out of sight, Wilem leaned close to me. “Don’t ask about his family,” he said quietly. “It is not easy for him to speak about. Worse when he is drunk.”

“What—”

He made a sharp motion with his hand, shaking his head. “Later.”

Simmon bumbled back into the clearing, and the three of us made our silent way back to the road, then over Stonebridge and into the University.

Date: 2015-02-03; view: 775