The Wise Man's Fear

Patrick Rothfuss
July 25, 2020
The Kingkiller Chronicle



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Wilem snorted. “That doesn’t sound suspicious at all,” he said. “And you wonder why people talk about you.” “I don’t wonder why they talk,” I said. “I wonder what they say.”
Alveron motioned me closer, and I leaned a bit. “Here is a great secret. Even my title, my riches, my control over people and the land. They are only granted power. It all belongs to me no more than does the strength of your arm.” He patted my hand and smiled at me. “But I know the difference, and that is why I am always in control.”
And, apparently, the small soft cheese I’d been served possessed a rind. A rind any civilized person would have recognized as inedible and meant to be pared away. Barbarian that I am, I had eaten all of it. It had tasted quite nice too. Still, I took note of this fact and resigned myself to throw away half of a perfectly good cheese if it was set in front of me. Such is the price of civilization.
She shook her head. “no calling of names here. I will not speak of that one, though he is shut beyond the doors of stone.”
I couldn’t hear what was said, but their body language spoke volumes. Celean looked down and shuffled her feet. Vashet shook a finger and cuffed the young girl on the side of her head. It was the same scolding any child receives. Stay out of the neighbor’s garden. Don’t tease the Bentons’ sheep. Don’t play tag among the thousand spinning knives of your people’s sacred tree.