The Wise Man's Fear Part 113

"But if you take the anger from a man in s.e.x," I said, struggling to concentrate, "doesn't that mean the more s.e.x you have, the more you want?"

"It is like the water one uses to prime a pump," she said hotly against my ear. "Come now, I will have all of it, even if it takes us all day and half the night."

We eventually moved from the gra.s.sy field to the baths, and then to Penthe's house of two snug rooms built against the side of a bluff. The moon was in the sky and had been watching us for some time through the window, though I doubt we showed her anything she hadn't seen before.

"Is that enough for you?" I said breathlessly. We were side by side in her pleasantly capacious bed, the sweat drying off our bodies. "If you take much more of it, I might not have enough anger left to speak or breathe."

My hand lay on the flat plane of her belly. Her skin was soft and smooth, but when she laughed I could feel the muscles of her stomach jump, going hard as sheets of steel.

"It is enough for now," she said, exhaustion plain in her voice. "It would upset Vashet if I left you empty as a fruit with all the juice pressed out."

Despite my long day, I was oddly wakeful, my thoughts bright and clear. I remembered something she had said earlier. "You mentioned that a woman has many uses for her anger. What use does a woman have for it that a man does not?"

"We teach," she said. "We give names. We track the days and tend to the smooth turning of things. We plant. We make babies." She shrugged. "Many things."

"A man can do those things as well," I said.

Penthe chuckled. "You have the wrong word," she said, rubbing at my chin. "A beard is what a man makes. A baby is something different, and that you have no part of."

"We don't carry the baby," I said, slightly offended. "But still, we play our part in making it."

Penthe turned to look at me, smiling as if I had made a joke. Then her smile faded. She propped herself up on her elbow and looked at me for another long moment. "Are you in serious?"

Seeing my perplexed expression, her eyes grew wide with amazement and she sat upright on the bed. "It is true!" she said. "You believe in man-mothers !" She giggled, covering the bottom half of her face with both hands. "I never believed it was true!" She lowered her left hand, revealing an excited grin as she gestured amazed delight amazed delight.

I felt I should be irritated, but I couldn't quite muster the energy. Perhaps some of what she said about men giving away their anger had some truth to it. "What is a man-mother?" I asked.

"Are you not making a joke?" she asked, one hand still half-covering her smile. "Do you truly believe a man puts a baby in a woman?"

"Well ... yes," I said a little awkwardly. "In a manner of speaking. It takes a man and a woman to make a baby. A mother and a father."

"You have a word for it!" she said, delighted. "They told me this too. With the stories of dirt soup. But I never thought it a real story!"

I sat up myself at this point, growing concerned. "You do know how babies are made, don't you?" I asked, gesturing serious earnestness serious earnestness. "What we have been doing for most of the day is what makes a baby."

She looked at me for a moment in stunned silence, then dissolved helplessly into laughter, trying to speak several times only to have it overwhelm her again when she looked up at the expression on my face.

Penthe put her hands on her belly, prodding it as if puzzled. "Where is my baby?" She looked down at her flat belly. "Perhaps I have been s.e.xing wrong these years." When she laughed, the muscles across her stomach flickered, making a pattern like a turtle's sh.e.l.l. "I should have a hundred babies if what you say is true. Five hundred babies!"

"It does not happen every time there is s.e.x," I said. "There are only certain times when a woman is ripe for a baby."

"And have you done this?" she asked, looking at me with mock seriousness while a smile tugged at her mouth. "Have you made a baby with a woman?"

"I have been careful not to do such a thing," I said. "There is an herb called silphium. I chew it every day, and it keeps me from putting a baby in a woman."

Penthe shook her head. "This is more of your barbarian s.e.x rituals," she said. "Does bringing a man to the flowers also make a baby where you come from?"

I decided to take a different tack. "If men do not help with making babies, how do you explain that babies look like their fathers?"

"Babies look like angry old men," Penthe said. "All bald and with ... " She hesitated, touching her cheek. "... with face lines. Perhaps the old men are the only ones making babies then?" She smirked.

"What about kittens?" I asked. "You have seen a litter of kittens. When a white cat and a black cat have s.e.x, you get kittens both white and black. And kittens of both colors."

"Always?" she asked.

"Not always." I admitted. "But most times."

"What if there is a yellow kitten?" she asked.

Before I could put together an answer, she waved the question away. "Kittens have little to do with this," she said. "We are not like animals. We do not go into season. We do not lay eggs. We do not make coc.o.o.ns, or fruit, or seeds. We are not dogs or frogs or trees."

Penthe gave me a serious look. "You are committing a false thinking. You could as easily say two stones make baby stones by banging against each other until a piece breaks off. Therefore two people make baby peoples in the same way."

I fumed, but she was right. I was committing a fallacy of a.n.a.logy. It was faulty logic.

Our conversation continued along this vein for some time. I asked her if she had ever known a woman to get pregnant who had not had s.e.x in the previous months. She said she didn't know of any woman who would willingly go three months without s.e.x, except those who were traveling among the barbarians, or very ill, or very old.

Eventually Penthe waved a hand to stop me, gesturing exasperation. "Do you hear your own excuses? s.e.x makes babies, but not always. Babies look like man-mothers, but not always. The s.e.x must be at the right time, but not always. There are plants that make it more likely, or less likely." She shook her head. "You must realize what you say is thin as a net. You keep sewing new threads, hoping it will hold water. But hoping does not make it true."

Seeing me frown, she took my hand and gestured comfort comfort into it as she had before in the dining hall, all the laughter gone out of her face. "I can see you think this truly. I can understand why barbarian men would want to believe it. It must be comforting to think you are important in this way. But it is simply not." into it as she had before in the dining hall, all the laughter gone out of her face. "I can see you think this truly. I can understand why barbarian men would want to believe it. It must be comforting to think you are important in this way. But it is simply not."

Penthe looked at me with something close to pity. "Sometimes a woman ripens. It is a natural thing, and men have no part in it. That is why more women ripen in the fall, like fruit. That is why more women ripen here in Haert, where it is better to have a child."

I tried to think of some other convincing argument, but none would come to mind. It was frustrating.

Seeing my expression, Penthe squeezed my hand and gestured concession concession. "Perhaps it is different for barbarian women," she said.

"You are only saying that to make me feel better," I said sullenly and was overcome with a jaw-popping yawn.

"I am," she admitted. Then she gave me a gentle kiss and pushed at my shoulders, encouraging me to lie back down on the bed.

I did, and she nestled into the crook of my arm again, resting her head on my shoulder. "It must be hard to be a man," she said softly. "A woman knows she is part of the world. We are full of life. A woman is the flower and the fruit. We move through time as part of our children. But a man ..." She turned her head and looked up at me with gentle pity in her eyes. "You are an empty branch. You know when you die, you will leave nothing of any import behind."

Penthe stroked my chest fondly. "I think that is why you are so full of anger. Maybe you do not have more than women. Maybe the anger in you simply has no place to go. Maybe it is desperate to leave some mark. It hammers at the world. It drives you to rash action. To bickering. To rage. You paint and build and fight and tell stories that are bigger than the truth."

She gave a contented sigh and rested her head on my shoulder, snugging herself firmly into the circle of my arm. "I am sorry to tell you this thing. You are a good man, and a pretty thing. But still, you are only a man. All you have to offer the world is your anger."

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-EIGHT.

Names IT WAS THE DAY that I would either stay or leave. I sat with Vashet on a green hill, watching the sun rise out of the clouds to the east.

"Saicere means to fly, to catch, to break," Vashet said softly, repeating herself for the hundredth time. "You must remember all the hands that have held her. Many hands, all following the Lethani. You must never use her in an improper way."

"I promise," I said for the hundredth time, then hesitated before bringing up something that had been bothering me. "But Vashet, you used your sword to trim the willow branch you beat me with. I saw you use it to hold your window open once. You pare your nails with it ..."

Vashet gave me a blank look. "Yes?"

"Isn't that improper?" I asked.

She c.o.c.ked her head, then laughed. "You mean I should only use it for fighting?"

I gestured obvious implication obvious implication.

"A sword is sharp," she said. "It is a tool. I carry it constantly, how is using it improper?"

"It seems disrespectful disrespectful, " I clarified.

"You respect a thing by putting it to good use," she said. "It may be years before I return to the barbarian lands and fight. How does it harm my sword if it cuts kindling and carrots in the meantime?" Vashet's eyes grew serious. "To carry a sword your whole life, knowing it was only for killing ..." She shook her head. "What would that do to a person's mind? It would be a horrible thing."

Vashet had returned to Haert last night, dismayed that she had missed my stone trial. She said I was right to lay aside my sword when Carceret did, and that I had made her proud.

Yesterday, Shehyn had formally invited me to stay and train at the school. In theory, I already had earned that right, but everyone knew that was more of a political fiction than anything. Her offer was a flattering one, an opportunity I knew I would likely never have again.

We watched a boy herd a flock of goats down the side of a hill. "Vashet, is it true that the Adem have no concept of fatherhood?"

Vashet nodded easily, then paused. "Tell me you did not embarra.s.s both of us by talking about this with everyone while I was gone," she said with a sigh.

"Only with Penthe," I said. "She thought it was the funniest thing she had heard in ten months' time."

"It is fairly amusing at that," Vashet said, her mouth curving a little.

"It's true then?" I asked. "Even you believe this? You've ..."

Vashet held up a hand and I trailed off. "Peace," she said. "Think whatever you wish about your man-mothers. It is all the same to me." She gave a soft smile of remembrance. "My poet king actually believed a woman was nothing more than the ground in which a man might plant a baby."

Vashet made an amused huffing sound that wasn't quite a laugh. "He was so sure he was right. Nothing could sway him. Years ago I decided arguing such things with a barbarian is a long, weary waste of my time." She shrugged. "Think what you want about making babies. Believe in demons. Pray to a goat. So long as it doesn't bruise me, why should I bother myself?"

I chewed it over for a moment. "There's wisdom in that," I said.

She nodded.

"But either a man helps with a baby or he does not," I pointed out. "There can be many opinions on a thing, but there is only one truth."

Vashet smiled lazily. "And if the pursuit of truth was my goal, that would concern me." She gave a long yawn, stretching like a happy cat. "Instead I will focus on the joy in my heart, the prosperity of the school, and understanding the Lethani. If I have time left after that, I will put it toward worrying on the truth."

We watched the sunrise for a while longer in silence. It occurred to me Vashet was quite a different person when she wasn't struggling to cram the Ketan and all of Ademic into my head as quickly as possible.

"That said," Vashet added, "if you persist in clinging to your barbarian beliefs about man-mothers, you would do well to keep quiet about it. Amus.e.m.e.nt is the best you can hope for. Most will simply a.s.sume you an idiot for thinking such things."

I nodded. After a long moment, I decided to finally ask the question I had been holding off for days. "Magwyn called me Maedre. What does it mean?"

"It is your name," she said. "Speak of it to no one."

"It is a secret thing?" I asked.

She nodded. "It is a thing for you and your teachers and Magwyn. It would be dangerous to let others know what it is."

"How could it be dangerous?"

Vashet looked at me as if I were daft. "When you know a name you have power over it. Surely you know this?"

"But I know your name, and Shehyn's and Tempi's. What danger is in that?"

She waved a hand. "Not those names. Deep names. Tempi is not the name he was given by Magwyn. Just as Kvothe is not yours. Deep names have meanings."

I already knew what Vashet's name meant. "What does Tempi mean?"

"Tempi means 'little iron.' Tempa means iron, and it means to strike iron, and it means angry. Shehyn gave him that name years ago. He was a most troublesome student."

"In Aturan temper means angry." I pointed it out rather excitedly, amazed at the coincidence. "And it is also something you do with iron when forging it into steel."

Vashet shrugged, unimpressed. "That is the way of names. Tempi is a small name, and still it holds much. That is why you should not speak of yours, even to me."

"But I do not know your language well enough to tell what it means myself," I protested. "A man should know the meaning of his own name."

Vashet hesitated, then relented. "It means flame, and thunder, and broken tree."

I thought for a while and decided I liked it. "When Magwyn gave it to me, you seemed surprised. Why is that?"

"It is not proper for me to comment on another's name." Absolute refusal Absolute refusal. Her gesture was so sharp it almost hurt to look at. She came to her feet, then brushed her hands against her pants. "Come, it is time you gave your answer to Shehyn."

Shehyn motioned for us to sit as we entered her room. Then she took a seat herself, startling me by showing the smallest of smiles. It was a terribly flattering gesture of familiarity. "Have you decided?" she asked.

I nodded. "I thank you, Shehyn, but I cannot stay. I must return to Severen to speak with the Maer. Tempi fulfilled his obligation when the road was made safe, but I am bound to return and explain everything that happened." I thought of Denna as well, but didn't mention her.

Shehyn gestured an elegant mingling of approval approval and and regret regret. "Fulfilling one's duty is of the Lethani." She gave me a serious look. "Remember, you have a sword and a name, but you must not hire yourself out as if you had taken the red."

"Vashet has explained everything to me," I said. Rea.s.surance Rea.s.surance. "I will make arrangements for my sword to be returned to Haert if I am killed. I will not teach the Ketan or wear the red." Carefully attentive curiosity Carefully attentive curiosity. "But I am permitted to tell others I have studied fighting with you?"

Reserved agreement. "You may say you have studied with us. But not that you are one of us."

"Of course," I said. "And not that I am equal to you."

Shehyn gestured content satisfaction content satisfaction. Then her hands s.h.i.+fted and she made a small gesture of embarra.s.sed admission embarra.s.sed admission. "This is not entirely a gift," she said. "You will be a better fighter than many barbarians. If you fight and win, the barbarians will think: Kvothe studied only slightly the Adem's arts, and still he is formidable. How much more skilled must they themselves be?" However However. "If you fight and lose, they will think: He only learned a piece of what the Adem know."

The old woman's eyes twinkled ever so slightly. She gestured amus.e.m.e.nt amus.e.m.e.nt. "No matter what, our reputation thrives. This serves Ademre."

I nodded. Willing acceptance Willing acceptance. "It will not hurt my reputation either," I said. Understatement Understatement.