“Good question,” Elodin said. “The obvious answer is that it can’t be done. That even the simplest of names is well beyond our reach.” He held up a hand. “Remember, I am not speaking of the small names we use every day. The calling names like ‘tree’ and ‘fire’ and ‘stone.’ I am talking about something else entirely.”
He reached into a pocket and pulled out a river stone, smooth and dark. “Describe the precise shape of this. Tell me of the weight and pressure that forged it from sand and sediment. Tell me how the light reflects from it. Tell me how the world pulls at the mass of it, how the wind cups it as it moves through the air. Tell me how the traces of its iron will feel the calling of a loden-stone. All of these things and a hundred thousand more make up the name of this stone.” He held it out to us at arm’s length. “This single, simple stone.”
Elodin lowered his hand and looked at us. “Can you see how complex even this simple thing is? If you studied it for a long month, perhaps you would come to know it well enough to glimpse the outward edges of its name. Perhaps.
“This is the problem namers face. We must understand things that are beyond our understanding. How can it be done?”
He didn’t wait for an answer and instead picked up some of the paper he’d brought in with him, handing each of us several sheets. “In fifteen minutes I will toss this stone. I will stand here,” he set his feet. “Facing thus.” He squared his shoulders. “I will throw it underhand with about three grip of force behind it. I want you to calculate in what manner it will move through the air so you can have your hand in the proper place to catch it when the time comes.”
Elodin set the stone on a desk. “Proceed.”
I set to the problem with a will. I drew triangles and arcs, I calculated, guessing at formulas I couldn’t quite remember. It wasn’t long before I grew frustrated at the impossibility of the task. Too much was unknown, too much was simply impossible to calculate.
After five minutes on our own, Elodin encouraged us to work as a group. That was when I first saw Uresh’s talent with numbers. His calculations had outstripped mine to such a degree that I couldn’t understand much of what he was doing. Fela was much the same, though she had also sketched a detailed series of parabolic arcs.
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 Wi
l 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.
Wilem led me through twisting shelves, up some stairs then through a long, wide hallway lined with books bound all in identical red leather. Finally we came to a door with dim red light showing around the edges.
“There are rooms set aside for private study,” Wilem said softly. “Reading holes. Sim and I use this one a lot. Not many people know about it.” Wil knocked briefly on the door before he opened it to reveal a windowless room barely larger than the table and chairs it contained.
Sim sat at the table, the red light of his sympathy lamp making his face look ruddier than usual. His eyes grew wide when he saw me. “Kvothe? What are you doing in here?” He turned to Wilem, horrified. “What is he doing in here?”
“Lorren lifted his ban, ”Wilem said. “Our young boy has a reading list. He’s planning his first book hunt.”
“Congratulations!” Sim beamed at me. “Can I help? I’m falling asleep here.” He held out his hand.
I tapped my temple. “The day I can’t memorize twenty titles is the day I don’t belong in the Arcanum,” I said. Though that was only half the truth. The full truth was that I only owned a half-dozen precious sheets of paper. I couldn’t afford to waste one on something like this.
Sim pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket along with a nub of pencil. “I need things written down,” he said. “Not all of us memorize ballads for fun.”
I shrugged and began to jot them down. “It will probably go faster if we split my list three ways,” I said.
Wilem gave me a look. “You think you can just walk around and find books by yourself?” He looked at Sim, who was grinning widely.
Of course. I wasn’t supposed to know anything about the layout of the Stacks. Wil and Sim didn’t know I’d been sneaking in at nights for almost a month.
It’s not that I didn’t trust them, but Sim couldn’t lie to save his life, and Wil worked as a scriv. I didn’t want to force him to choose between my secret and his duty to Master Lorren.
So I decided to play dumb. “Oh, I’ll muddle through,” I said nonchalantly. “It can’t be that hard to figure out.”
“There are so many books in the Archives,” Wil said slowly, “that merely reading all the titles would take you a full span.” He paused, looking at me intently. “Eleven full days without pause for food or sleep.”
“Really?” Sim asked. “That long?”
Wil nodded. “I worked it out a year ago. It helps stop the E’lir’s mewling when they must wait for me to fetch them a book.” He looked at me. “There are books without titles too. And scrolls. And clays. And many languages.”
“What’s a clay?” I asked.
“Clay tablet,” Wil explained. “They were some of the only things to survive when Caluptena burned. Some have been transcribed, but not all.”
“All that’s beside the point,” Sim interjected. “The problem is the organization.”
“Cataloging,” Wil said. “There have been many different systems over the years. Some masters prefer one, some prefer another.” He frowned. “Some create their own systems for organizing the books.”
I laughed. “You sound like they should be pilloried for it.”
“Perhaps,” Wil grumbled. “I would not weep over such a thing.”
Sim looked at him. “You can’t blame a master for trying to organize things in the best way possible.”
“I can,” Wilem said. “If the Archives were organized badly, it would be a uniform unpleasantness we could work with. But there have been so many different systems in the last fifty years. Books mislabeled. Titles mistranslated.”
He ran his hands through his hair, sounding suddenly weary. “And there are always new books coming in, needing to be cataloged. Always the lazy E’lir in Tombs who want us to fetch for them. It is like trying to dig a hole in the bottom of a river.”
“So what you’re saying,” I said slowly, “is that you find your time spent as a scriv to be both pleasant and rewarding.”
Sim muffled a laugh in his hands.
“And then there are you people.” Wil looked at me, his voice dangerous and low. “Students given the freedom in the Stacks. You come in, read half a book, then hide it so you can continue later at your own convenience. ”Wil’s hands made gripping motions as if clutching at the front of someone’s shirt. Or perhaps a throat. “Then you forget where you have put the book, and it is gone as surely as if you had burned it.”
Wil pointed a finger at me. “If I ever discover you have done such a thing,” he said, smoldering with anger, “no God will keep you safe from me.”
I thought guiltily about three books I had hidden in just this way while I was studying for exams. “I promise,” I said. “I won’t ever do that.” Again.
Sim stood up from the table, rubbing his hands together briskly. “Right. Simply said, it’s a mess in here, but if you stick to the books they have listed in Tolem’s catalog, you should be able to find what you’re looking for. Tolem is the system we use now. Wil and I will show you where they keep the ledgers.”
“And a few other things,” Wil said. “Tolem is hardly comprehensive. Some of your books might require deeper digging.” He turned to open the door.
As it turned out, only four books on my list were in the Tolem ledgers. After that, we were forced to leave the well-organized parts of the Stacks behind. Wil seemed to take the list as a personal challenge, so I learned a great deal about the Archives that day. Wil took me to the Dead Ledgers, the Backward Stair, the Bottom Wing.
Even so, at the end of four hours we’d only managed to track down the locations of seven books. Wil seemed frustrated by this, but I thanked him heartily, telling him he’d given me everything I
needed to continue the search on my own.
Over the next several days, I spent almost every free moment I had in the Archives, hunting the books on Elodin’s list. I wanted nothing more than to start this class with my best foot forward, and I was determined to read every book he had given us.
The first was a travelogue I found rather enjoyable. The second was some rather bad poetry, but it was short, and I forced my way through by gritting my teeth and occasionally closing one eye so as not to damage the entirety of my brain. Third was a book of rhetorical philosophy, ponderously written.
Then came a book detailing wildflowers in northern Atur. A fencing manual with some rather confusing illustrations. Another book of poetry, this one thick as a brick and even more self-indulgent than the first.
It took hours, but I read them all. I even went so far as to take notes on two of my precious pieces of paper.
Next came, as near as I could tell, the journal of a madman. While it sounds interesting, it was really only a headache pressed between covers. The man wrote in a tight script with no spaces between the words. No breaks for paragraphs. No punctuation. No consistent grammar or spelling.
That was when I began to skim. The next day when confronted with two books written in Modegan, a series of essays concerning crop rotation and a monograph on Vintish mosaics, I stopped taking notes.
The last handful of books I merely flipped through, wondering why Elodin would want us to read a two-hundred-year-old tax ledger from a barony in the Small Kingdoms, an outdated medical text, and a badly translated morality play.
While I quickly lost my fascination with reading Elodin’s books, I still delighted in hunting them down. I irritated more than a few scrivs with my constant questions:Who was in charge of reshelving? Where were the Vintish dictums kept? Who had the keys to the fourth basement scroll storage? Where did the damaged books go while they were waiting to be repaired?
In the end, I found nineteen of the books. All of them except En Temerant Voistra. And that one was not from lack of trying. At my best guess, the entire venture took nearly fifty hours of searching and reading.