The Wayside Inn was quiet tonight. An outsider could be mistaken that everything was peaceful inside. Under the single lit lantern, bottles gleamed, the floor sparkled… it was just an inn, after all, a regular, normal inn.
Three men resided in the inn. They were all trying to sleep, and they were all restless. A man called Kote was thinking on the past, of long told tales of the University, Felurian, the Adem - tales he would part with tomorrow. He gazed at a chest he knew locked and wished his own heart would be so hard to be opened or stolen away.
In another wing of the wayside a man called Bast threw off his sheets, got up from his bed and began to stride to and fro in his room. His usually lazy mind worked furiously about plans for the future, worries about the man whom he called Reshi. About the way he had betrayed his master.
After a little he stopped, his body seeming to wilt as if bent over in pain, age, or grief. His lips began to move silently, mouthing words eerie and lilting.
"How odd to watch a mortal kindle
Then to dwindle day by day
Knowing their bright souls are tinder
And the wind will have it's way."
As if responding to his call, a gust of wind crashed against the wayside. The shutters rattled on rusted hinges and the wind wailed long and shrill, eventually dying into silence. Bast took a deep breath and continued, his voice now heartbreakingly soft.
"A mortal soft as breath he fades
Till his bright soul abandons me.
Leaving behind sad forgotten days
I alone stay still and free.
"Would I could I my own fire lend.
What does your flickering portend?"
The fireplace in the corner of the room seemed to be on its last logs, its searing heat now only lukewarm, and for a moment Bast listened to the quiet crackle of the dying, orange fire. Another wind rattled the shutters, but gently this time. Bast walked to the corner of the room where some firewood stood leaning. He picked up the bundle, its large weight seeming like chopsticks in his arms, and threw it into the fireplace. He crossed over to the window, and, as he climbed out, was satisfied to hear the fire explode and begin to crackle with renewed life.
The third man in the wayside was also the most recent visitor, the man called Chronicler. Otherwise known as Devan Lochees, or The Debunker. He was the newest lodger at the inn; little was known about him, but if any ink had been spilled about his youth it would fill volumes. Little was known about him because that was the way he wished it to be. A perfect actor, and his role as storyteller had been going on so long it was how he came to think of himself. Even in his bed, even in his dreams.
Throughout the years he had revealed so many secrets, shed light on so many myths, and now it was time for the myth of the Kingkiller. What was the truth that lay beneath the lies?
Yet it was impossible, impossible, for Chronicler to do so without focusing on his own story as well -for every word Kvothe spoke filled Chronicler with a terrible anxiety and foreboding… so many paths had Chronicler tread that Kvothe followed. He could not stop thinking...
It was the one story Chroncler had never written down. The story of a namer... he sighed again. He was fond of sighing; it was an expertise of his, and at length the sigh forced away the suffocating stillness, pushing it to the peripheral with a resolution of steel. If Kvothe could confront his past, so could he.
The man called Devan took out the sheafs of paper he would not have let anyone read, and picked up his pen. He was no Edema Ruh, but he was related to one, and that would have to be good enough.
-brother or sisters as I've mentioned, and so, with my father dead and my heart shattered, I traveled to my older cousin, Skarpi, who lived on the streets of Tarbean. Skarpi was a Jack of all Trades and I knew I could depend on him to give me what to eat and to keep me out of trouble. Little did I know how much trouble he would cause.
You see, you need to understand Skarpi. He isn't a bad person, by any measure. But he does think himself to be a better person than he actually is. He doesn't just want to tell stories - at which he is quite good - but to create and form them. And so he tells stories to certain people, and in doing so affects events that change history. Sometimes I think he did more to kill King Jakis than Kvothe himself. (I wonder, is he a fitting adversary of the Cthaeh, or simply its unwitting tool? I don't know, nor do I particularly wish to revisit the Cthaeh and ask it.)
The stories he told to me were not of the Chandrian, nor of the Fae, but of the University, of the Four Plate Door, and of Naming. In doing so, he ensured that I would certainly go to the university, learn naming, break into the Four Plate Door, and reap the consequences that followed.
After a long pause, Chronicler wiped his pen on the sheet and frowned. Why was it so much harder to write his own story then any other? Doubtless there was some psychological element at work here. It was also difficult because he was constantly second guessing himself on where to start - curse that Kvothe and his idiotic taste of flair.
After a third sigh, he began to write again, a new beginning.
No, I suppose if my story is to be a mirror of any sorts to Kvothe's, then I must start from where he started: in the beginning. The first time I heard the Name of Iron.
I was twelve at the time and our band of thieves had-
Chronicler paused and frowned. There was something at his window, and it was knocking.
(A/n The lullaby Bast sings isn't original; I am not a genius. Bast sings it in the first book in the beginning, although four of the lines are mine. I would say that mine don't measure up to Rothfuss's in the slightest, but for someone totally unversed in poetry, I was pretty impressed the way it came out. A reader who doesn't remember it from the first book might not be able to tell who wrote which lines too easily.
Okay, so maybe I'm kidding myself. Anyway, lines 5 - 8 are mine.)