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Cinder’s Name

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References:

Dal hesitated for a moment, then smiled. He looked intently into the brazier between us, closed his eyes, then gestured to the unlit brazier across the room. “Fire.” He spoke the word like a commandment and the distant brazier roared up in a pillar of flame. 

“Fire?” I said. “That’s it? The name of fire is ‘fire’?”

Elxa Dal smiled and shook his head. “That’s not what I actually said. Some part of you just filled in a familiar word.”

“My sleeping mind translated it?”

“Sleeping mind?” He gave me a puzzled look.

“That’s what Elodin calls the part of us that knows names,” I explained.

Dal shrugged and ran a hand over his short black beard. “Call it what you will. The fact that you heard me say anything is probably a good sign.”

- The Wise Man’s Fear, Chapter 22: Slipping, page 197

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Ferule chill and dark of eye.

- The Wise Man’s Fear, Chapter 128: Names, page 940

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“Because some things can tell when their names are spoken,” Bast swallowed. “They can tell where they’re spoken.”

Kvothe gave a somewhat exasperated sigh. “There’s small harm in saying a name once, Bast.”

- The Wise Man’s Fear, Chapter 129: Interlude - Din of Whispering, page 941

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“You are a tool in my hand,” the shadowed man interrupted gently. “Nothing more.”

A hint of defiance touched Cinder’s expression. He paused. “I wo--”

The soft voice went as hard as a rod of Ramston steel. “Ferula.”

Cinder’s quicksilver grace disappeared. He staggered, his body suddenly rigid with pain.

- The Name of the Wind, Chapter 16: Hope, page 128

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Commentary:

Cinder’s true Name is has been used twice so far. Kvothe first heard it when he was a child, out of his mind with shock and horror. He saw Haliax use the Name to subdue him. When recounting this in the Waystone Inn, he says that Haliax called Cinder “Ferula.”

Then, in Book 2, Shehyn tells Kvothe the Adem’s legend of the Rhinta, and in listing all their Names, she mentions “Ferule.” Bast reacts strongly when Kvothe recites these Names, but Kvothe soothes him saying there is no harm in saying a Name once.

With Names being such a profound and volatile art, the difference between “Ferule” and “Ferula” is probably enough to render one useless. And Kvothe states that he has only said the Names once.

So which is Cinder’s actual Name, and why do we have two different versions of it?

Most of the evidence indicates that “Ferule” is the correct Name. It is passed to Kvothe by Shehyn, observing the Adem’s strict storytelling customs, and is surrounded by enough other true Names to make Bast afraid. When Kvothe tells of Haliax calling Cinder “Ferula,” Bast does not react at all.

When someone calls a Name, the people around them either see their mouths move and hear nothing, or hear a word in their own language. When Elxa Dal calls the Name of fire in front of him, Kvothe hears “Fire,” which isn’t actually what Dal said. He implies that Kvothe hearing anything shows he has made progress toward becoming a Namer.

So it seems unlikely that child Kvothe would have been able to understand what Haliax called Cinder. It could be possible if the trauma awakened his sleeping mind, which then translated the Name for him. But either way, based on Bast’s reaction during his retelling in the Waystone Inn, Kvothe makes up “Ferula.”

This tells me two things: the first is that Kote has not lost his sense of humor, and wants to reward a close reader of his story with a small hint of a Name. He knows that saying the correct Name multiple times is dangerous, so he tweaks one. This is the second thing, that though Kvothe promises he is telling Chronicler his true story, he is intentionally changing some details.

It’s like Skarpi said, “You have to be a bit of a liar to tell a story the right way. Too much truth confuses the facts. Too much honesty makes you sound insincere” (Name of the Wind, Chapter 26: Lanre Turned, page 203).

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TL;DR: Ferule is Cinder’s true Name (not Ferula), and Kvothe thinks he is very clever.

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Twenty-five talents is a lot of money. Safety and peace of mind shouldn't only be available to those with heavy purses. I think eight would be a great plenty.

Kvothe, when pricing the Bloodless (The Wise Man’s Fear, Chapter 44: The Catch, pg 359). By Patrick Rothfuss

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I am Feija. Clan Uniter, Foe Slayer. Those before me bravely fled, Or bravely stood and bravely bled.

Patrick Rothfuss, talking about the first Vintish King

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Kvothe, I am telling you three times. Shut the fuck up.

probably almost everyone at some point

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Knackers profit from a plague.

Kvothe, The Name of the Wind, Chapter Seventy-Two: Borrorill, page 553

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She picked up a long piece of dark silk and wound it around her torso, over her shoulders and across her naked breasts, supporting and holding them close to her chest. Then she tucked the end of the cloth into itself and it somehow remained tightly secured. I had seen her do this several times before,  but how it actually worked was still a mystery to me. - Wise Man’s Fear, Chapter 122: Leaving, pg 890

Most pressing mystery I want answered in the third book: How the Adem bras work.

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Valaritas

a crack post

Valaritas - The word inscribed over the Four-Plate Door in the Archives at the University. There are hundreds of theories of its significance and origin. Students have driven themselves crazy pondering it for centuries.

Vorfelan Rhinata Morie - "The desire for knowledge shapes a man, or something like that,” according to Wilem. Possibly the University’s motto, possibly a clue about deeper secrets it is hiding.

These mysterious phrases are connected by their proximity: They are both inscribed at the Archives.

So what if “valaritas” is a cipher we can use to decode “vorfelanrhinatamorie”?

To do this, I’m going to cross out all the letters in “vorfelanrhinatamorie” that appear in “valaritas.”

This leaves us with “ofenhnmoe,” and a leftover “s” that doesn’t get cancelled out.

Now, I suck at anagrams, so I used unscramble.net to help out with this one. There is one obvious solution for the meaning of these letters in English:

OMEN OF HENS

In conclusion: the tide of evil hidden behind the Four-Plate door sealed in the University, the destruction that Kvothe unleashes on the world: Hens.

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Ben took a deep breath and tried again. “Suppose you have a thoughtless six-year-old. What harm can he do?”

I paused, unsure what sort of answer he wanted. Straightforward would probably be best. “Not much.”

“Suppose he’s twenty, and still thoughtless, how dangerous is he?”

I decided to stick with obvious answers. “Still not much, but more than before.”

“What if you give him a sword?”

Realization started to dawn on me, and I closed my eyes. “More, much more. I understand, Ben. Really I do. Power is okay, and stupidity is usually harmless. Power and stupidity together are dangerous.” - The Name of the Wind, Chapter 14: The Name of the Wind, pg 114

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“Master Elodin!” I called as I saw him approaching a side door to the Masters’ Hall. It was one of the few buildings I hadn’t spent much time in, as it contained little more than living quarters for the masters, the resident gillers, and guest rooms for visiting arcanists. - Wise Man’s Fear, Chapter 8: Questions, pg 85

Abenthy proceeded to give me a brief overview of each of the sciences. While his main love was for chemistry, he believed in a rounded education. I learned how to work the sextant, the compass, the slipstick, the abacus. More important, I learned to do without. - Name of the Wind, Chapter 9: Riding in the Wagon with Ben, pg 75

“Once there was a learned arcanist. He knew all of sympathy and sygaldry and alchemy. He had ten dozen names tucked neatly into his head, spoke eight languages, and had exemplary penmanship. Really, the only thing that kept him from being a master was poor timing and a certain lack of social grace.” Dal took a sip of wine. “So this fellow went chasing the wind for a while, hoping to find his fortune out in the wide world.” - Wise Man’s Fear, Chapter 49: The Ignorant Edema, pg 384

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I like your headcanon! I would love to see Abenthy come back into the story to teach a guest lecture of some sort. I think his reunion with Kvothe after all those years would be as powerful as the reunion with Trapis at the end of Wise Man’s Fear.

I included these quotes to show it’s very likely Ben could return to the University. I think is unlikely that he was a master before he met Kvothe’s troupe. If he was, it was many, many years before Kvothe arrives, and probably before any of the currently-serving masters. Kvothe name-drops him during his first admissions interview when the Chancellor asks if any arcanist is sponsoring him. They give no reaction to his name, so it’s unlikely Abenthy used to be a master (NotW, Chapter 36, pg 249). It’s never stated how old Ben is, but it’s unlikely he’s older than Arwyl, who’s basically ancient.

However, as of the end of Wise Man’s Fear, the Chancellor is gravely ill. We know from Dal’s story that it’s very hard to become a master. You can have all the requisite knowledge and skills, but if all nine positions are full, you’re out of luck. It’s also implied that a new master can only be chosen if the previous master is dead (The Chancellor has a slip of the tongue when Kvothe is on the horns for burning Hemme in class. He says, “All eight...Sorry. Strike that. All nine masters are present”[NotW, Chapter 40, pg 289]. The previously missing master was Elodin, who had spent the last few years in Haven, unable to serve. They didn’t replace him in the two years he was indisposed, and let him return as Master Namer when he got better, implying he still had some claim to the title.)

So if, and only if, the Chancellor dies, they’ll have to fill the position of Master Linguist. Ben’s specialty was chemistry, not languages. Unless Mandrag dies, or steps down, he can’t become the Master Alchemist. But he has been chasing the wind for a long, long time now. He’s picked up things they don’t teach at the University, well enough to teach them to Kvothe. Maybe he’s qualified by now to take over for Herma, but he’s definitely qualified to teach some classes.

But here’s the way I think it’s most likely for us to see Ben again: The Chancellor dies, and none of his gillers are ready to ascend to his position. So the University puts out an invitation: All guildered arcanists return to the Univeristy for the opportunity to be chosen as the next Master Linguist, or join the festivities of a new master being chosen. I bet arcanists throw incredible parties, and Ben is at heart a brewer. He would come with his supply and share it with the rest.

Whether he’s invited or not, we all know Kvothe would not miss the opportunity to meet with hundreds of arcanists who have been making their fortunes in the world. And while he’s there, mingling and trying to get into people’s libraries, he has some of the ale. Maybe the taste makes him remember the tune to Riding in the Wagon with Ben. Maybe he hears him singing, a reckless tenor that wanders around looking for notes in the wrong places. Maybe someone just introduces them, and Kvothe finds himself face-to-face with an old, kind face with singed-off eyebrows...

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I’m gonna go off and cry about Kvothe being reunited with the one person still alive from before his life went to shit. Thank you for sharing your headcanon <3

Anyone else convinced Abenthy was a Master for a while at the University? 

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I was glad I hadn't mentioned Tempi's desire to learn the lute to anyone. How ashamed he must have felt for such an innocent impulse. I thought of a young Tempi wanting to make music but never telling anyone because he knew it was dirty. It broke my heart."

Kvothe, The Wise Man’s Fear, Chapter 113: Barbarian Tongue, pg 829 By Patrick Rothfuss

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The Name of Sympathy

“Forgive me, but I am starting today with a review of the very basics. Bear with me for these first few minutes, and you will understand.

As you know, sympathy requires an Arcanist to use their Alar to “remind” different things that they are, in fact, the same. When done correctly, this joins them. The classic example is to take two coins of the same size, shape, and material, and by placing a binding upon them, the Arcanist can lift one and watch the other move as well. This happens because the coins, which are identical in all but spatial location, have been convinced that they are joined, and so they both must respond to the forces acted upon just one.

But why is it called sympathy? What does the concept of “sympathy” have to do with this type of magic?

Our Master Linguist would tell you that sympathy is something that usually happens between people, or a person and an animal, object, or cause. Semantic definitions aside, sympathy is when one person feels or understands the feelings of another, often when in distress. It is a type of connection between people, a link between their emotional energies, and it can cause one to act on behalf of another, even to the point of personal harm.

Of course, two coins would not feel any emotions for each other, nor would a sensible Arcanist feel pity for the state of a coin. So, aside from being a clever play of words, where does the name Sympathy come from?

This is what we will discuss today. In part because I find it fascinating, but also to spare you all an hour of Re’lar Kvothe’s ruthless domination.

Some say that in the early days of the University, the magic we practiced was different. Stronger, harsher, deeper - now we have only diluted memories of that true magic. These days, we teach sympathy. But the old masters knew it in a broader sense. They taught Sympathy.

You see, Sympathy was not originally used for coins, or breaking glass, or even malfeasance. These are uses we developed for it when we forgot how to use it for its true power.

For this to make sense, you must remember that the old magics were all equal. These days, Naming stands above the rest: harder to achieve and infinitely more powerful. Our modern sympathy can do nothing against a true Namer. Sympathy back then was a kind of Knowing, but not for wind, or fire, or iron. Sympathy was a knowing of the heart.

You see, we are all thinking, feeling beings. Our hearts beat. They ache. They long. When I see my lover, I feel warmth. That feeling is exactly the same as the love another would have for their partner. We share these things. They are as human as laughing.

So then, it is not so hard to convince separate hearts that they are, in fact, connected. It happens by accident all the time. And taking control of that, applying your own will to it, that is Sympathy.

An example then, for I can see you straying. You and I are riding in our wagon. On the side of the road, a farmer waves to us for help. His mare has got herself stuck in a pit, he says. He needs our help to rescue her. You’re willing to help, but I am tired. It’s been a long day and I just want to keep plodding down the road until we find somewhere to rest. You try to move me with words, with bribes, with concern for my fellow being. But I, as you know well, am a stubborn twit.

So you focus your Alar. You bring forth your pity like a tangible thing, a weapon in your hand. My heart has known that feeling before. Whose hasn’t? You just need to remind it. You say your binding, bring your Alar to bear on me. Convince my heart that the pity in your heart is the same as the pity in mine. And our hearts forget that they were ever separate. I feel the same as you, and moved by the turnings of my own heart, I agree to help the farmer.

This may sound to you like calling my true Name. It was not anywhere near as complex as that. You did not need to know my Name at all. Only the name of Pity, which each of us has felt at some point in our lives. Pity does not change between people. Nor does Love, or Anger, or Sadness.

Such a weapon this could be. With a thought, you could raise in me whatever feeling you wanted. I may not even know you were doing it. At least with words, or music, or any of the normal things we use to change each other’s hearts, I would be aware of your intent. In Sympathy, I wouldn’t.

Of course, it had a risk. Sympathy required the heart to awaken and, as such, made it vulnerable. Emotions could recoil back on the Arcanist, slip into something unrecognizeable, or produce a form of mental binder’s chills. Each of us would be feeling the pity of two people, which would quickly become exhausting. If the subject was aware of your influence, they could also resist you, in an emotional form the dueling we do in class.

To be honest, even I don’t know all the risks of that ancient Sympathy. It has been a dead art for so long, not even the dangers of it are remembered. I can’t teach you the bindings, or the craft of it, or even why it disappeared.

Instead, I give this lecture as a warning. The sympathy of today is still powerful and dangerous. You know this. You can die in this class as easily as you can in the Fishery, and with less excuse of carelessness.

The warning is this: Everything is connected. If your mind can draw a link between things, your Alar can forge it into being. You are bound only by your own understanding. So know your mind and heart. Know them like you would a song. Know yourself, and you can’t fall prey to other people’s influence, even in a form you’re not prepared for.

That is all. For next lesson, please practice with the binding of Thaumicokinetic Transference Along a Variable Trajectory.”

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Avatar the Last Airbender + Kingkiller Women

Water—Devi

“My Alar is like the ocean in storm.” Wise Man’s Fear, Chapter 26: Trust, pg 236

Earth—Vashet

“I am that which shapes and sharpens, or destroys.” Wise Man’s Fear, Chapter 112: The Hammer, pg 812

Fire—Denna

“There’s always a price.” Wise Man’s Fear, Chapter 72: Horses, pg 540

Air—Auri

“It is like having a flower in my heart.” Wise Man’s Fear, Chapter 11: Haven, pg 117

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warnings for canon rape, sexual assault, prostitution, and graphic violence

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We headed back down into the canyon. This time as I emerged from the narrow passageway, I saw the evaporating pans in a different light. Now each of them was the equivalent of a heavy coin in my pocket. Next term’s tuition, new clothes, freedom from my debt with Devi....

I saw Denna looking at the trays with the same fascination, though hers was somewhat more glassy-eyed than mine. “I could live comfortably for a year off this,” she said. “And not be beholden to anyone.” - Name of the Wind, Chapter 77: Bluffs, pg 614 -------------

Denna continued, “So if you’re going to be a whore, you do it smart. You don’t want to be some dockside drab, you want to be a duchess. You want men to court you. Send you gifts...

“Yes, gifts. If they pay, they’ll feel like they own you. You saw how that turned out tonight. You can keep your accent and that low bodice and have sailors paw you for ha’penny a throw. Or you can learn some manners, get your hair done, and start entertaining gentlemen callers. If you’re interesting, and pretty, and you know how to listen, men will desire your company. They’ll want to take you dancing as much as take you to bed. Then you have the control. Nobody makes a duchess pay for her room in advance. Nobody bends a duchess over a barrel in an alley and kicks out her teeth once he’s had his fun.”

Murmur.

“No.” Denna said, her voice grim. “Don’t lie to yourself. Even the fanciest horse is still a horse. That means sooner or later, you’re going to get ridden.”

A questioning murmur.

“Then you leave,” Denna said. “If they want more than you’re willing to give, that’s the only way. You leave, quick and quiet in the night. But if you do, you’ll burn your bridges. That’s the price you pay.” - Wise Man’s Fear, Chapter 72: Horses, pgs 539-540

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“There are two types of power: inherent and granted,” Alveron said.... “Inherent power you possess as a part of yourself. Granted power is lent or given by other people....Which do you think is the greater type of power?”

I only had to think for a second. “The inherent, your grace.”

“Interesting. Why do you say that?”

“Because a power you possess yourself cannot be taken away, your grace.” - Wise Man’s Fear, Chapter 56: Power, pgs 419-420 -------------

I felt the snap as four years of my life slid away. Suddenly I was back on the streets of Tarbean. Three boys, bigger than me with greasy hair and piggish eyes had dragged me from the broken crate where I’d been sleeping. Two of them held me down, pinning my arms. I lay in a stagnant puddle that was bitterly cold. It was early in the morning and the stars were out.

One of them had his hand over my mouth. It didn’t matter. I had been in the city for months. I knew better than to yell for help. At best no one would come. At worst someone would, and then there would be more of them.

Two of them held me down. The third cut my clothes off my body. He cut me. They told me what they were going to do. Their breath was horribly warm against my face. They laughed.

There in Tarbean, half-naked and helpless, I felt something well up inside me. I bit two fingers off the hand over my mouth. I heard a scream and swearing as one of them staggered away. I strained and strained against the one who was still on top of me. I heard my own arm break, and his grip loosened. I started to howl.

I threw him off. Still screaming I stood, my clothes hanging in rags around me. I knocked one of them to the ground. My scrabbling hand found a loose cobblestone and I used it to break one of his legs. I remember the noise it made. I flailed until his arms were broken, then I broke his head.

When I looked up, I saw the one who had cut me was gone. The third huddled against a wall. He clutched his bloody hand to his chest. His eyes were white and wild. Then I heard footsteps approaching, and I dropped the stone and ran and ran and ran.... - Wise Man’s Fear, Chapter 97: Blood and Bitter Rue, pgs 710-711

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To Summarize:

Kvothe and Denna have both learned that they need to protect themselves with their own power, and can’t rely on others. When Denna disappears, it is because she has learned to never stay near a person who asks more of her than she is willing to give. Better to leave at the first hint of danger than risk it getting worse. Kvothe is constantly driven to learn more and strengthen his Alar because he never again wants to be helpless like he was in Tarbean. 

So far, we’ve seen Denna compromise on this. Even after the ordeal with Ambrose, she hangs around Imre because of Kvothe. She disappears several times, but always comes back to find him. Eventually, she will have to choose which is more important to her, and no matter what she chooses, she will be sacrificing something.

Kvothe was almost powerless against Felurian. After reliving the trauma of Tarbean, he reached a greater awakening of his Sleeping Mind than he ever had, and was able to remain himself in her presence. But even Felurian is afraid of the Chandrian.

One way or the other, Kvothe will fail in his revenge against the Chandrian. We know this story is a tragedy. We know he becomes Kote, hiding in his inn without music or magic. Kvothe knows that he is the only person he can rely on. And in the end, he fails. So he can only blame himself.

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TL;DR

Kvothe and Denna are very similar, and both doomed.

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So this is the difference between telling a story and being in one: the fear.

Chronicler, The Name of the Wind, Chapter 6: The Price of Remembering, pg 49

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The Name of Stone

Elodin learns the Name of Stone while imprisoned in Haven. A character study.

Word length: 1300

Also on AO3

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The wind tickled the trees. Leaves twirled in sparks of sunlight, tiny amber ballerinas dancing just to taunt him.

Elodin paced over the cool stone floor of his prison chambers. Haven’s most luxurious suite, built to hold a Namer. To hold him.

He stopped again and watched the wind. But he could not feel it. Could not smell the flowers or hear the bees or taste the storm approaching. Black clouds swirled across his forehead as he pressed his face to the glass, just to feel something of the outside world. But he was shut in.

It became too much. His isolation was absolute except for the orderlies. And even they did not stay with him much. He could sense their fear when they brought him food and water. The Masters never visited. Oh, what he would do to them if they dared.

What he could get away with in this deafening silence, where even God could not hear him.

The wind whipped a swirl of leaves into a small tornado. Violently, Elodin pushed away from the window. He turned in a circle, imagining he was the epicenter of that circle. Spinning, tumbling. The wind at his fingertips, the leaves an army at his feet. If he could just be out there, just feel that brush of air. Even a breath would do for now.

Dancing with his eyes closed, he stubbed his foot on the bedpost and yelped.

“Kist! Anpauen! Shit on Tehlu’s teeth!”

Elodin hopped, hugging his offended foot to his chest and swearing with relish. He ripped his sock off to see the damage, but there was none. He only felt the pain, he could not see it.

He seized the armchair in the corner. Lean but comfortably padded, this was his nap chair. It had shared some of his worst dreams. He hefted it over his head and hurled it at the window. It crashed against the glass, which had resisted all he could bring to bear against it. Even Sympathy, though he could not do much, with his mind the way it was.

The chair broke, rent to pieces. It made only a muted crash, muted by the same magic that kept the wind from him. Elodin watched fragments of wood explode upward like sparks in a campfire. He heard them clatter against the ceiling. Feathers burst from the torn cushion, pierced by shards of wood and nail. They drifted downward, lifeless without a wind to catch them.

Elodin cried, watching them fall down dead. A hot tear dripped on his aching toe, and he imagined that made it feel better. A baptism of misery.

He stood again before the window, on the carpet of armchair bones and blood. He watched the wind push through the trees. It was like a frenzied horse today, he could tell even without feeling it. The kind of wind that makes folk grab their hats and run indoors, that sends animals sheltering to bushes, that breaks the arms of trees and roofs of buildings.

Where are you going today? What’s your hurry? Why not stay here and dance with me?

He thought of old winds he had felt. Surely this one felt nothing like them. What he would do to feel just a moment of this wind on his face.

Its strength, to feed him. Its fury, to calm him. Its passion, to free him.

Elodin screamed into the glass. It misted over. Took his voice and remained unchanged. His ears popped. His toes curled on the cold stone floor. His head began to hurt.

Elodin turned, shut off the lamp, and lay down in the remains of the armchair for a nap.

A crash of thunder woke him. He felt it in the shiver of stone beneath his cheek. He saw the feathers quake and hunker down. He sat up.

Rain turned the whole window into a shimmering waterfall. For a moment, he put his hand out, believing the glass was gone and he could reach outside. But his fingertips just pressed against the cold.

Elodin watched the storm. He wept, his eyes never closing.

Another clap of thunder shook the floor beneath him. He put his palms flat against the stone, just to feel something besides himself.

The stones were cool, indifferent. But not like the glass. The glass watched him cry with relish, but the stones—the stones knew he was here, and crying or not, they were there too. They simply were. It was not the stones quaking in the wake of each thunderclap, but the thunder itself, hitting the stones and finding something it could not break through. Bouncing back. The stone became the thunder’s grave. And the stone welcomed it as everything else—with a touch like moonlight and a brief sigh of forever.

Elodin watched the stone. It did not watch back. It did not need to. It knew his past, his present, and all the things he could decide to do. When something is eternal, time doesn’t mean anything at all.

Thunder burst again, and he heard the stone speak. Just a hint, a whisper. He saw his own empty eyes reflected in the solitude of stone.

And, oh.

Elodin stood up. His eyes flickered around the room, taking in the walls, the floor, the ceiling as if he’d never seen them before. In fact, he hadn’t. Not as they saw him.

Thunder cried out again and in the darkness Elodin saw the stones dance. A million pieces of togetherness melted into one and torn apart and shaking back together. With him inside.

Elodin laughed into another clap of thunder. He spoke the name of Stone.

He spoke it, and he said it with triumph. The stone shook like his words were part of the storm.

He whispered it, and he said it with awe. The stone warmed like his words were from a lover.

He snapped it, and he said it with vengeance. The stone broke like his words weighed more than the moon.

The great stone wall disintegrated. It turned as one to a great curtain of sand, dissolving into powder at the sound of its name, spoken like a thousand years of water pouring over one spot. Elodin watched his prison fall like waves around his feet, over his toes and into his sock. It was soft.

And the wind! Oh, the wind filled him. It whipped into his hair and threw feathers like confetti and filled his ears and mouth and heart. He laughed! He laughed with showers of rain splashing into his face. His laughter was another sound he had not truly heard in years. But now his ears were clear, and his laughter sounded like a bell.

Elodin put his arms out and twirled with the wind around his room. He felt borne aloft by it, as though he stood not on his own feet, but upon the wind itself.

Like Taborlin.

The door burst open. The orderlies had heard the disturbance in his room. Three of them—Ren and Jost and Grady—ran in with cries of shock and warning.

“Master Elodin!”

“Stop!”

“Look out!”

But Elodin laughed. He could feel the wind. Their words were like shimmers on the water. Their lives were candlelight.

Elodin called the wind like the name of a dear friend. It stilled, wrapping around them all with warmth and strength. The orderlies gasped, but even their breath was known to him.

Elodin turned his back, facing the wind and the broken wall and the storm outside.

He could have stilled it if he’d wanted to. But why would he want to? He watched the wind and the trees, and the endless game they play together.

He called the wind without despair, and it bore him to his freedom.

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“You’ve probably heard of it, in fact. Most folk have. She ended up calling it ‘The Song of Seven Sorrows.’ Yes. Denna composed it, and I was the first person to hear it played entire.”

- Kvothe, about Denna’s song The Wise Man’s Fear, Chapter 73: Blood and Ink, pg 547

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This is a very small line in a chapter full of other very important information. It’s easy to skip right over the implications of Kvothe’s words here. I’m going to break it down:

1. The Song of Seven Sorrows becomes widely popular, such that, even during Kvothe’s lifetime, ‘most folk’ have heard of it.

2. Though the song is recent and popular, its composer is unknown. Kvothe can’t assume that people know Denna wrote it. He says ‘Yes,’ to reinforce to Chronicler and Bast (and the readers) that it was Denna’s song. As if they were giving him doubtful looks.

3. It’s a song about Lanre, but it became popular in the modern age, when we know the Chandrian are actively destroying information about themselves.     So either:           A. The song is incorrect enough that it doesn’t trigger a response from the Chandrian (seems unlikely given the effort and resources Denna is putting into her research)          B. The Chandrian did respond, but folk had already caught wind of the song, and it stuck (surely, the song’s creator, unless she remains completely anonymous, would then pay for her deeds)

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It is heavily implied that by the time of the frame story, something tragic has happened to Denna. Whatever Master Ash’s motivations are for having her write a song about Lanre, it can’t end well for her. For one, she does not get the acclaim that we know Kvothe gets in relation to his songs. Though her song is remembered, she is not attached to it. 

Master Ash, due to his secrecy, has no ties to Denna. When the Chandrian hear her song and come down on her, there is no indication she is anything but a solo musician who happened to pick this story to write about. Master Ash will be in the clear. For some reason, he wants a story about the origins of the Chandrian to be put out in the world. He may have even tried before, with other musicians. 

If Denna were still alive in the frame story, the Chandrian would be seeking her. Kvothe intends for his story to be published to the world through Chronicler, which means he knows he does not have to protect the identity of the song’s composer. 

The biggest problem with this is why would the Chandrian be upset about ‘The Song of Seven Sorrows’? After all, they only come murder people when their true Names are used, or else they would come after anyone who had ever sung “Chandrian, Chandrian.” And we know Denna gets the name of Myr Tariniel wrong, so there’s no reason to think she has real Names in her song.

However, we know from the incident at the Mauthen farm that the Chandrian want to destroy all information about themselves. They killed the whole wedding just because people there saw a pot, and the pot didn’t have Names on it, just signs that were already widely known.

So would they come after the composer of a song that tells about their very origins? The birth name of their leader? History would indicate they’ve murdered for less. After all, most of Kvothe’s troupe had never even heard Arliden’s song. They were killed because of association. Once the Song of Seven Sorrows got out into the world, the only thing they could do is get revenge on its creator.

TL;DR

Denna is dead for singing entirely the wrong sort of songs.

[teccams-socks]

Laurian and the Chandrian

“Since you asked so sweetly, Cinder is the one you want. Remember him? White hair? Dark eyes? Did things to your mother, you know. Terrible. She held up well though. Laurian was always a trouper, if you’ll pardon the expression. Much better than your father, with all his begging and blubbering.”

My mind flashed pictures of things I had tried to forget for years. My mother, her hair wet with blood, her arms unnaturally twisted, broken at the wrist, the elbow. My father, his belly cut open, had left a trail of blood for twenty feet. He’d crawled to be closer to her. - The Wise Man’s Fear, Chapter 104: The Cthaeh, pg 757

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       Kvothe’s graphic description of his parents’ murders, finally given to us in Book 2 thanks to the Cthaeh’s taunting. Sorry for bringing it up again.

It’s obvious here that though both were killed horribly, Laurian was tortured prior to her death, and Arliden was not. He was given one fatal gut wound, and though he died slowly, like Alleg later in the same book, he was dead as soon as he was wounded, “he just hadn’t stopped moving yet” (WMF, Chapter 132: The Broken Circle, pg 961).

Maybe Cinder tortured Laurian just because some people like torturing women more. That’s what I assumed when I first read it. But Haliax went with them on that escapade. Haliax stopped Cinder from tormenting young Kvothe, saying, “This one has done nothing. Send him to the soft and painless blanket of his sleep.... You are too fond of your little cruelties. All of you. I am glad I decided to accompany you today. You are straying, indulging in whimsy. Some of you seem to have forgotten what it is we seek, what we wish to achieve” (NotW, Chapter 16: Hope, pgs 128-129).

Haliax was there enforcing their goals, which means torturing Laurian had a purpose other than cruelty.

Kvothe tells us his parents were writing the song about Lanre together. Everything Arliden knew about them, Laurian knew as well. So she was not tortured for information about their sources, or anything to do with the song. (Unless the Chandrian assumed she would be more likely to talk than Arliden, which is unlikely, because with seven of them there, they could easily have tortured both of them at the same time.)

So Laurian knew something that Arliden didn’t know (or the Chandrian thought she did).

It’s pretty widely accepted that Laurian used to be Natalia Lackless, the missing Lackless sister (there are a million posts about it on reddit, and it’s even in her Wiki page).

So the Chandrian found a Lackless heir unprotected, in a place where no one would ever know she was dead, and seized their chance.

The most likely thing they wanted information on: the Lackless Box.

Whatever theories you subscribe to about what the Box is, what’s in it, and how to open it, there’s no doubt that it is Important. A secret as old as the Lackless family, that they guard closer than anything else.

If the Chandrian were trying to get information about it from Laurian, then it’s a secret that has been kept even from them.

The Cthaeh says she “held up well.” Does that mean she told them nothing before she died? That she told them lies? That she held out for a while, but then gave in? We can’t know yet.

But, it means the Chandrian are coming for the Lacklesses. Finding out more about the Box serves their purpose. Which means the people who know about the box: Meluan, Alveron, Aculeus (possibly), and Kvothe, are all in their crosshairs.

Maybe they can’t go after the prestigious Lacklesses because they are protected. Maybe they’ll try, and there will be some upheaval in Temerant. Maybe that’s why Cinder was trying to destabilize the Maer. I could talk maybes all day, but there’s one thing we know.

Kvothe has none of the protections of money and power that Alveron and Meluan have. And now he knows about the Box. True, the Chandrian don’t know yet that he knows, but it’s only a matter of time. After all, he was in the company of Meluan Lackless, and shortly thereafter started researching Yllish story knots. Why would he do that? Not even Yllish people know Yllish anymore.

TL;DR

The Chandrian are after the secrets of the Lackless Box. Now that Kvothe knows about it, they will come for him. And it’s likely he will find out that his mother was a Lackless.