Hey friends, long time no write about the Name of the Wind, Kingkiller, etc. I’ve intended to do a Name of the Wind analysis reread (not to mention the other books) for some time now. — 

You should assume spoilers henceforth! Forthwith! This post shall take a fortnight of hours to read!

Table of Contents

• You should assume spoilers henceforth! Forthwith! This post shall take a fortnight of hours to read! 
• Note about me:
• Name of the Wind Analysis — Ch 12:
• Navigate to other chapters:

Note about me:

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Name of the Wind Analysis — Ch 12:

Because we’re in the nostalgic portion of Kvothe’s life and mentioned a Robert Frost poem in the last chapter — particularly since Rothfuss has said Frost is his (or one of his) favorite(s) — I wanted to take a moment to quote some other potentially relevant Frost poems if, for nothing else, to introduce more romantic poetry to more folks who potentially have not read it:

Fire and Ice
BY ROBERT FROST

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

Nothing Gold Can Stay
BY ROBERT FROST

Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

Not to Keep
BY ROBERT FROST

They sent him back to her. The letter came
Saying . . . And she could have him. And before
She could be sure there was no hidden ill
Under the formal writing, he was there,
Living. They gave him back to her alive—
How else? They are not known to send the dead—
And not disfigured visibly. His face?
His hands? She had to look, and ask,
‘What was it, dear?’ And she had given all
And still she had all—they had—they the lucky!
Wasn’t she glad now? Everything seemed won,
And all the rest for them permissible ease.
She had to ask, ‘What was it, dear?’
 
                                                                 ‘Enough
Yet not enough. A bullet through and through,
High in the breast. Nothing but what good care
And medicine and rest, and you a week,
Can cure me of to go again.’ The same
Grim giving to do over for them both.
She dared no more than ask him with her eyes
How was it with him for a second trial.
And with his eyes he asked her not to ask.
They had given him back to her, but not to keep.

In a Disused Graveyard
BY ROBERT FROST

The living come with grassy tread
To read the gravestones on the hill;
The graveyard draws the living still,
But never any more the dead.
 
The verses in it say and say:
‘The ones who living come today
To read the stones and go away
Tomorrow dead will come to stay.’
 
So sure of death the marbles rhyme,
Yet can’t help marking all the time
How no one dead will seem to come.
What is it men are shrinking from?
 
It would be easy to be clever
And tell the stones: Men hate to die
And have stopped dying now forever.
I think they would believe the lie.

‘Out, Out—’
BY ROBERT FROST

The buzz saw snarled and rattled in the yard
And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,
Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it.
And from there those that lifted eyes could count
Five mountain ranges one behind the other
Under the sunset far into Vermont.
And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled,
As it ran light, or had to bear a load.
And nothing happened: day was all but done.
Call it a day, I wish they might have said
To please the boy by giving him the half hour
That a boy counts so much when saved from work.
His sister stood beside him in her apron
To tell them ‘Supper.’ At the word, the saw,
As if to prove saws knew what supper meant,
Leaped out at the boy’s hand, or seemed to leap—
He must have given the hand. However it was,
Neither refused the meeting. But the hand!
The boy’s first outcry was a rueful laugh,
As he swung toward them holding up the hand
Half in appeal, but half as if to keep
The life from spilling. Then the boy saw all—
Since he was old enough to know, big boy
Doing a man’s work, though a child at heart—
He saw all spoiled. ‘Don’t let him cut my hand off—
The doctor, when he comes. Don’t let him, sister!’
So. But the hand was gone already.
The doctor put him in the dark of ether.
He lay and puffed his lips out with his breath.
And then—the watcher at his pulse took fright.
No one believed. They listened at his heart.
Little—less—nothing!—and that ended it.
No more to build on there. And they, since they
Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
BY ROBERT FROST

Whose woods these are I think I know.   
His house is in the village though;   
He will not see me stopping here   
To watch his woods fill up with snow.   

My little horse must think it queer   
To stop without a farmhouse near   
Between the woods and frozen lake   
The darkest evening of the year.   

He gives his harness bells a shake   
To ask if there is some mistake.   
The only other sound’s the sweep   
Of easy wind and downy flake.   

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,   
But I have promises to keep,   
And miles to go before I sleep,   
And miles to go before I sleep.

ROBERT FROST 
THE PROPHETS REALLY PROPHESY AS MYSTICS
THE COMMENTATORS MERELY BY STATISTICS 

With what unbroken spirit naive science 
Keeps hurling our Promethean defiance 
From this atomic ball of rotting rock
At the Divine Safe's combination lock.

In our defiance we are still defied.
But have not I, as prophet, prophesied: 
Sick of our circling round and round the sun
Something about the trouble will be done. 

Now that we've found the secret out of weight,
So we can cancel it however great. 
Ah, what avail our lofty engineers
If we can't take the planet by the ears, 

Or by the poles or simply by the scruft, 
And saying simply we have had enough
Of routine and monotony on earth,
Where nothing's going on but death and birth.

And man’s of such a limited longevity,
Now in the confidence of new-found levity
(Our gravity has been our major curse)
We'll cast off hawser for the universe

The Star-splitter
BY ROBERT FROST

"You know Orion always comes up sideways.
Throwing a leg up over our fence of mountains,
And rising on his hands, he looks in on me
Busy outdoors by lantern-light with something
I should have done by daylight, and indeed,
After the ground is frozen, I should have done
Before it froze, and a gust flings a handful
Of waste leaves at my smoky lantern chimney
To make fun of my way of doing things,
Or else fun of Orion's having caught me.
Has a man, I should like to ask, no rights
These forces are obliged to pay respect to?"
So Brad McLaughlin mingled reckless talk
Of heavenly stars with hugger-mugger farming,
Till having failed at hugger-mugger farming,
He burned his house down for the fire insurance
And spent the proceeds on a telescope
To satisfy a lifelong curiosity
About our place among the infinities.

"What do you want with one of those blame things?"
I asked him well beforehand. "Don't you get one!"

"Don't call it blamed; there isn't anything
More blameless in the sense of being less
A weapon in our human fight," he said.
"I'll have one if I sell my farm to buy it."
There where he moved the rocks to plow the ground
And plowed between the rocks he couldn't move,
Few farms changed hands; so rather than spend years
Trying to sell his farm and then not selling,
He burned his house down for the fire insurance
And bought the telescope with what it came to.
He had been heard to say by several:
"The best thing that we're put here for's to see;
The strongest thing that's given us to see with's
A telescope. Someone in every town
Seems to me owes it to the town to keep one.
In Littleton it may as well be me."
After such loose talk it was no surprise
When he did what he did and burned his house down.

Mean laughter went about the town that day
To let him know we weren't the least imposed on,
And he could wait—we'd see to him tomorrow.
But the first thing next morning we reflected
If one by one we counted people out
For the least sin, it wouldn't take us long
To get so we had no one left to live with.
For to be social is to be forgiving.
Our thief, the one who does our stealing from us,
We don't cut off from coming to church suppers,
But what we miss we go to him and ask for.
He promptly gives it back, that is if still
Uneaten, unworn out, or undisposed of.
It wouldn't do to be too hard on Brad
About his telescope. Beyond the age
Of being given one for Christmas gift,
He had to take the best way he knew how
To find himself in one. Well, all we said was
He took a strange thing to be roguish over.
Some sympathy was wasted on the house,
A good old-timer dating back along;
But a house isn't sentient; the house
Didn't feel anything. And if it did,
Why not regard it as a sacrifice,
And an old-fashioned sacrifice by fire,
Instead of a new-fashioned one at auction?

Out of a house and so out of a farm
At one stroke (of a match), Brad had to turn
To earn a living on the Concord railroad,
As under-ticket-agent at a station
Where his job, when he wasn't selling tickets,
Was setting out up track and down, not plants
As on a farm, but planets, evening stars
That varied in their hue from red to green.

He got a good glass for six hundred dollars.
His new job gave him leisure for stargazing.
Often he bid me come and have a look
Up the brass barrel, velvet black inside,
At a star quaking in the other end.
I recollect a night of broken clouds
And underfoot snow melted down to ice,
And melting further in the wind to mud.
Bradford and I had out the telescope.
We spread our two legs as it spread its three,
Pointed our thoughts the way we pointed it,
And standing at our leisure till the day broke,
Said some of the best things we ever said.
That telescope was christened the Star-Splitter,
Because it didn't do a thing but split
A star in two or three the way you split
A globule of quicksilver in your hand
With one stroke of your finger in the middle.
It's a star-splitter if there ever was one,
And ought to do some good if splitting stars
'Sa thing to be compared with splitting wood.

We've looked and looked, but after all where are we?
Do we know any better where we are,
And how it stands between the night tonight
And a man with a smoky lantern chimney?
How different from the way it ever stood?

ROBERT FROST

UNTRIED
On glossy wires artistically bent
He draws himself up to his full extent.
His natty wings with self-assurance perk.
His stinging quarters menacingly work. 
Poor egotist, he has no way of knowing —
But he's as good as anybody going.

MONEY
Never ask of money spent
Where the spender thinks it went. Nobody was ever meant
To remember or invent
What he did with every cent.

RING AROUND
We dance round in a ring and suppose.
But the secret sits in the middle and knows.

NOT ALL THERE 
I turned to speak to God
About the world's despair; 
But to make bad matters worse,
I found God wasn't there.

God turned to speak to me
(Don’t anybody laugh!)
God found I wasn’t there—
At least not over half. 

ROBERT FROST
TEN MILLS

TENDENCIES CANCEL
Will the blight kill the chestnut?
The farmers rather guess not. 
It keeps smouldering at the roots
And sending up new shoots,
Till another parasite
Shall come to kill the blight.


ROBERT FROST
THE WITCH OF COOS
Circa 1922

STAID the night for shelter at a farm 
Behind the mountain, with a mother and son,
Two old-believers. They did all the talking.
The Mother 
Folks think a witch who has familiar spirits 
She could call up to pass a winter evening,
But won't, should be burned at the stake or something.
Summoning spirits isn’t “Button, button
Who's got the button," you're to understand.
The Son 
Mother can make a common table rear
And kick with two legs like an army mule.

MOTHER: And when I’ve done it, what good have I
 done?
 Rather than tip a table for you, let me
 Tell you what Ralle the Sioux Control once told me.
 He said the dead had souls, but when I asked him
 How could that be – I thought the dead were souls,
 He broke my trance. Don’t that make you suspicious
 That there’s something the dead are keeping back?
 Yes, there’s something the dead are keeping back.

SON: You wouldn’t want to tell him what we have
 Up attic, mother?

MOTHER: Bones – a skeleton.

SON: But the headboard of mother’s bed is pushed
 Against the’ attic door: the door is nailed.
 It’s harmless. Mother hears it in the night
 Halting perplexed behind the barrier
 Of door and headboard. Where it wants to get
 Is back into the cellar where it came from.

MOTHER: We’ll never let them, will we, son! We’ll
 never !

SON: It left the cellar forty years ago
 And carried itself like a pile of dishes
 Up one flight from the cellar to the kitchen,
 Another from the kitchen to the bedroom,
 Another from the bedroom to the attic,
 Right past both father and mother, and neither stopped
 it.
 Father had gone upstairs; mother was downstairs.
 I was a baby: I don’t know where I was.

MOTHER: The only fault my husband found with me – 
 I went to sleep before I went to bed,
 Especially in winter when the bed
 Might just as well be ice and the clothes snow.
 The night the bones came up the cellar-stairs
 Toffile had gone to bed alone and left me,
 But left an open door to cool the room off
 So as to sort of turn me out of it.
 I was just coming to myself enough
 To wonder where the cold was coming from,
 When I heard Toffile upstairs in the bedroom
 And thought I heard him downstairs in the cellar.
 The board we had laid down to walk dry-shod on
 When there was water in the cellar in spring
 Struck the hard cellar bottom. And then someone
 Began the stairs, two footsteps for each step,
 The way a man with one leg and a crutch,
 Or a little child, comes up. It wasn’t Toffile:
 It wasn’t anyone who could be there.
 The bulkhead double-doors were double-locked
 And swollen tight and buried under snow.
 The cellar windows were banked up with sawdust
 And swollen tight and buried under snow.
 It was the bones. I knew them – and good reason.
 My first impulse was to get to the knob
 And hold the door. But the bones didn’t try
 The door; they halted helpless on the landing,
 Waiting for things to happen in their favour.’
 The faintest restless rustling ran all through them.
 I never could have done the thing I did
 If the wish hadn’t been too strong in me
 To see how they were mounted for this walk.
 I had a vision of them put together
 Not like a man, but like a chandelier.
 So suddenly I flung the door wide on him.
 A moment he stood balancing with emotion,
 And all but lost himself. (A tongue of fire
 Flashed out and licked along his upper teeth.
 Smoke rolled inside the sockets of his eyes.)
 Then he came at me with one hand outstretched,
 The way he did in life once; but this time
 I struck the hand off brittle on the floor,
 And fell back from him on the floor myself.
 The finger-pieces slid in all directions.
 (Where did I see one of those pieces lately?
 Hand me my button-box- it must be there.)
 I sat up on the floor and shouted, ‘Toffile,
 It’s coming up to you.’ It had its choice
 Of the door to the cellar or the hall.
 It took the hall door for the novelty,
 And set off briskly for so slow a thing,
 Stillgoing every which way in the joints, though,
 So that it looked like lightning or a scribble,
 >From the slap I had just now given its hand.
 I listened till it almost climbed the stairs
 >From the hall to the only finished bedroom,
 Before I got up to do anything;
 Then ran and shouted, ‘Shut the bedroom door,
 Toffile, for my sake!’ ‘Company?’ he said,
 ‘Don’t make me get up; I’m too warm in bed.’
 So lying forward weakly on the handrail
 I pushed myself upstairs, and in the light
 (The kitchen had been dark) I had to own
 I could see nothing. ‘Toffile, I don’t see it.
 It’s with us in the room though. It’s the bones.’
 ‘What bones?’ ‘The cellar bones- out of the grave.’
 That made him throw his bare legs out of bed
 And sit up by me and take hold of me.
 I wanted to put out the light and see
 If I could see it, or else mow the room,
 With our arms at the level of our knees,
 And bring the chalk-pile down. ‘I’ll tell you what-
 It’s looking for another door to try.
 The uncommonly deep snow has made him think
 Of his old song, The Wild Colonial Boy,
 He always used to sing along the tote-road.
 He’s after an open door to get out-doors.
 Let’s trap him with an open door up attic.’
 Toffile agreed to that, and sure enough,
 Almost the moment he was given an opening,
 The steps began to climb the attic stairs.
 I heard them. Toffile didn’t seem to hear them.
 ‘Quick !’ I slammed to the door and held the knob.
 ‘Toffile, get nails.’ I made him nail the door shut,
 And push the headboard of the bed against it.
 Then we asked was there anything
 Up attic that we’d ever want again.
 The attic was less to us than the cellar.
 If the bones liked the attic, let them have it.
 Let them stay in the attic. When they sometimes
 Come down the stairs at night and stand perplexed
 Behind the door and headboard of the bed,
 Brushing their chalky skull with chalky fingers,
 With sounds like the dry rattling of a shutter,
 That’s what I sit up in the dark to say-
 To no one any more since Toffile died.
 2o3 Let them stay in the attic since they went there.
 I promised Toffile to be cruel to them
 For helping them be cruel once to him.

SON: We think they had a grave down in the cellar.

MOTHER: We know they had a grave down in the cellar.

SON: We never could find out whose bones they were.

MOTHER: Yes, we could too, son. Tell the truth for once.
 They were a man’s his father killed for me.
 I mean a man he killed instead of me.
 The least I could do was to help dig their grave.
 We were about it one night in the cellar.
 Son knows the story: but ’twas not for him
 To tell the truth, suppose the time had come.
 Son looks surprised to see me end a lie
 We’d kept all these years between ourselves
 So as to have it ready for outsiders.
 But to-night I don’t care enough to lie-
 I don’t remember why I ever cared.
 Toffile, if he were here, I don’t believe
 Could tell you why he ever cared himself-

She hadn’t found the finger-bone she wanted
 Among the buttons poured out in her lap.
 I verified the name next morning: Toffile.
 The rural letter-box said Toffile Lajway.

_____

I won’t quote them all. There are likely more that are at very least thematically relevant, but I think that sampling plus yesterday’s in chapter 11 is food for thought. I think this poet — of all the poets Rothfuss loves — had a disproportionate influence on him.

“The day we fret about the future is the day we leave our childhood behind.”

I don’t know if I agree with this statement entirely, but I do think that if we take it at face value as a kind of thesis for the series, I’m curious what “worry about the future” has to do with the jadedness of the narrator 

Why is Abernathy’s tone about Heat Transferred to Constant Motion particularly irritating? 

Could it be its direct correlation between Cinder’s heateater and the ever moving moon?

Kvothe tracks him down to his parent’s wagon. He hears the word Chandrian. “He’d been teasing old stories and rhymes from townsfolk for over a year whenever we stopped to play.” 

Lanre. Faerie stories. Bogies. Shamble-men. Chandrian. All of these things again are the same story, told differently. A collective mythology narrative is what we’re in the middle of. 

What seems to me to be fascinating is that for all the talk of wandering gods and the like, his father seems — to all appearances — to be genuinely curious and therefore ignorant of what’s going on. Not so much with Abenthy. And his bride’s debatable. 

“Chasing ghosts with this song.” 

Because he is. 

“Trying to piece together this story is a fool’s game. I wish I’d never started it.”

Folly.

Again, maybe that fool’s game attracts Chronicler. Or maybe the delay with Chronicler is to draw Skarpi himself there? 

“So you think there is an original story all the other stem from?” Ben asked. “A historical basis for Lanre?”

“All the signs point to it,” my father said. “It’s like looking at a dozen grandchildren and seeing ten of them have blue eyes.” 

So yes, if we assume this is true — since it’s his dad and spoken in confidence to his mentor and the basis of the entire core mystery of the story (whatever else might be false) — then we must start seeing too the common threads of the “great-great-grandchildren” of this story. 

Some have talked about how Kvothe is Taborlin. I’ve kicked around the ways in which time travel might be possible. There’s the potential that folks are reliving the same story, that (as I tend to contend most often) there’s one priest of the moon who keeps getting killed and replaced. 

There’s also the possibility that, like code, if Kvothe rewrites the beginning with himself as central to it, then what these stories are sort of retelling or prophesying is him. He doesn’t need to time travel in order to do that, just rewrite the core mythos of the world. 

In any case. 

“Only one eye and it changes colors.” 

So do Kvothe’s.

And the one-eye is the Helios thing again. 

By the way, two greens (twins), a blue, a brown, and a chartreuse. The next has only one eye that changes colors (adding up to at least seven). Just food for thought there. 

Why is that a disturbing analogy to Ben? Doesn’t seem to be all that out there to me. 

Unless it’s closer than Ben would like to the truth. 

THEN Ben goes from “I don’t know much about them, but I’m willing to talk” to “I’ve heard a lot of stories over the years.” So which is it? Is he just being academically precise?

Or was he lying before?

3 / 5/ 7 / 13. 

“One for each pontiff in Atur and an extra for the capital.” Maybe not Atur, but what about Vint? 

1. Roderick
2. Alaitis
3. Alveron
4. Samista
5. Lackless
6. Surthen
7. Jakis

Looks like seven to me. If Roderick is the “rod” of Alveron (the son of the elf), could Roderick be Cinder? We can get to more of that later, but… man if the Lackless / Lockless is the Lake-lass line? The lady of the moonlit lake? 

And Jakis is the line of Jax? 

Things start getting interesting. 

It’s interesting that Chaen-dian is Temic. Tema is where the Amyr come from and there’s overlap with Arturan. But it seems to predate Artur. So I’m wondering how it got co-opted? 

The real mystery is what they do: ghosts want revenge, demon wants your soul, shamble-man is hungry and cold. 

(All of the above? Cinder for the last?)

“Chandrian come like lightning.”

I don’t think that’s an accident. Lightning and fire.

What’s their reason? 

His dad thinks he knows. He has the hard part done and is working through specifics. Frankly, being a storyteller, this sounds autobiographical to me. 

Ben’s frustrated because he won’t be able to leave until he’s heard “the blackened thing.” Is he frustrated because of academic curiosity? Or because he knows the truth and wants to see if Arliden does too? 

Nobody agrees on the signs — blue fames “but I’d hesitate to attribute that to the Chandrian in particular. In some stories it’s a sign of demons. In others it’s fae creatures, or magic of any sort.” 

Firedamp — coalbed methane. Especially with bituminous coal. The potential of explosion is more terrifying than any demon. Is it possible that this is again directly related to the realm of the dead? The rotting? 

“I’ll also admit to the fact that certain arcanists occasionally use prepared candles or torches to impress gullible townsfolk,” Ben said, clearing his throat self-consciously.

I was going to wait until book two, but I’ve already showed my hand with Caudicus and Cyphus in the other posts, so why not now? 

“I’ve never seen a potion being made,” I said enthusiastically. “If you wouldn’t find it too distracting …” 

“Not at all. I could prepare it in my sleep.” He moved behind a worktable and lit a pair of blueflame candles. I took care to look suitably impressed even though I knew they were just for show.  Caudicus shook a portion of dried leaf onto a small hand scale and weighed it. “Do you have any trouble accepting rumor into your research?”

“Not if it’s interesting.”

Rothfuss, Patrick. The Wise Man’s Fear (The Kingkiller Chronicle, Book 2) (p. 401). Astra Publishing House. Kindle Edition. 

How do we know for certain they’re blueflame candles? Hasn’t Kvothe’s perception been wrong before?

Seems to me just as likely that Caudicus is a Chandrian.

My mother laughed. “Remember who you’re talking to, Ben. We’d never hold a little showmanship against a man. In fact, blue candles would be just the thing the next time we play Daeonica. If you happened to find a couple tucked away somewhere, that is.”

Rothfuss, Patrick. The Name of the Wind (The Kingkiller Chronicle Book 1) (p. 86). Astra Publishing House. Kindle Edition. 

“I’ll see what I can do,” Ben said, his voice amused. “Other signs . . .

Rothfuss, Patrick. The Name of the Wind (The Kingkiller Chronicle Book 1) (p. 86). Astra Publishing House. Kindle Edition. 

Whether or not you believe this (I think the evidence is pretty clear, myself) I do not think we as a community have adequately combed these books for the signs themselves. I am willing to bet they’re hiding in plain sight. 

And not just the wedding.

• 1. Goat / no eyes / black eyes
• 2. Plants die
• 3. Wood rots
• 4. Metal rusts
• 5. Brick crumbles
• 6. Cold to touch (heateater)
• 7. Yoked to shadow

All same signs or a couple each? I kind of like the idea of overlap, myself. 

Kvothe’s mom thinks a sign for each. Dad thinks that doesn’t fit. 

By the way “Arlind” is a name meaning “born from gold.” Could mean royalty. Could mean son of Heliax. 

“Short term rental” if Heliax actually did sire Kvothe with Natalia has more bite to it, particularly if A.B.C. is him.  If fires don’t burn around them, it could be the cold or the wood rotting. Or it could be the wind itself. 

Shadow-hamed. Or shadows pointing towards the light — is this another sign we can search for? 

Is there anyone who has done a comprehensive Chandrian sign search? Either way, does someone want to take that on?

Signs/Songs of the Chandrian (Ver. Ironic Death)
byu/Bhaluun inkkcwhiteboard

That’s the closest I can see. 

We get our first of two references of Draugar in two books. 

And also “shamble-men” in autumn. 

“Would you go into the woods?”

Kvothe would.

Also Ben grins after he says there’s a reason everyone is terrified of the Chandrian. And then he tips his cup over just like Scarpi, just like Elxa Dal. “Pours one out” so to speak. 

“Magician’s fingers” — I wonder about that. 

It’s fascinating that Ben calls his mother “lady.” 

Baby who was “watching, always watching” — a seer even then. “Clear bright eyes that looked like they wanted to swallow up the world.” 

He’ll leave his mark on the world as one of the best. 

Best what? 

Whatever he chooses. 

Kvothe in the story chooses the Chandrian. Think about that. 

Eight strings in all that was seven stringed. Did one break like Kvothe’s? 

The University! I had come to think of it in the same way most children think of the Fae court, a mythical place reserved for dreaming about.

¿Por que no los dos?

Royal appointment, own half the world, and stopping border wars with his music. Sounds about right. 

Did she bed down with some wandering God? 

“He bound me with kisses and cords of chorded song.”

That, to me, sounds a hell of a lot like what Kvothe did to Felurian. 

Navigate to other chapters:

I’ll put this at the end of each chapter so we can actually navigate the text. Because this is getting unwieldy — we’re going to eventually have dozens of links — I’m going to just link to the category from here on out: