offer a simple DMCA procedure to remove your content from our site. Start by pressing the button below! Report copyright / DMCA form · DOWNLOAD EPUB. THE N A M E OF THE W I N D The Kingkiller Chronicle: Day One PATRICK ROTHFUSS My name is Kvothe, pronounced nearly the same as "quothe." Names. Patrick Rothfuss - [The Kingkiller Chronicle 01] - The Name of the Wind (epub). Dokument: . For he knew the name of the wind, and so the wind obeyed him.

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Download PDF & EPUB formats of your favorite books on PDF Institute. Download now,The Name of the Wind PDF & EPUB formats. Before downloading read. The name of the wind [electronic resource (EPUB eBook)] / Patrick Rothfusss. Saved in: Series: Rothfuss, Patrick, Kingkiller chronicle. Subjects. Kingkiller Chronicles. hey guys this is also another awesome (unfinished) series by rothfuss.. kinda boring at first but really captivating.. yall.

Mark pages using bookmarks! Export notes to a separate file and send them by e-mail. The navigation inside the book is easy, the access to content and notes straightforward.

The PDF reflow feature allows you to easily reformat the text for display on small screens. For most of the book formats, four basic colour themes are preset: night, day, user and newspaper.

Also, the app has three reading modes: one page, two pages and scrolling. The pages can be scrolled by touching or gestures. Even automatic scrolling can be set. In The Wise Man's Fear, Kvothe searches for answers, attempting to uncover the truth about the mysterious Amyr, the Chandrian, and the death of his parents. Along the way, Kvothe is put on trial by the legendary Adem mercenaries, forced to reclaim the honor of his family, and travels into the Fae realm. There he meets Felurian, the faerie woman no man can resist, and who no man has ever survived Now, Kvothe takes his first steps on the path of the hero and learns how difficult life can be when a man becomes a legend in his own time.

My name is Kvothe, pronounced nearly the same as "quothe. I've had more names than anyone has a right to. The Adem call me Maedre. I have red hair, bright. If I had been born a couple of hundred years ago I would probably have been burned as a demon. I keep it short but it's unruly. When left to its own devices, it sticks up and makes me look as if I have been set afire. I've never thought of "The Broken Tree" as very significant.

His eyes were wild around the edges, like a skittish horse. I'm fine. His clothes were crisscrossed with long, straight cuts.

His grey shirt hung in loose tatters except where it was stuck to his body, stained a dark, sullen red. Graham tried to ease him into a chair. Sit down, Carter. What happened to you? Sit down. I'm not hurt that bad. I told you, Carter," Old Cob burst out with the sort of frightened anger only relatives and close friends can muster.

You can't go out alone. Not even as far as Baedn. It ain't safe. I got cut up a little, but the blood is mostly Nelly's. It jumped on her. Killed her about two miles outside town, past the Oldstone Bridge.

The smith's prentice laid The Name of the Wind 7 a sympathetic hand on Carter's shoulder. That's hard. She was gentle as a lamb, too.

Never tried to bite or kick when you brought her in for shoes. Best horse in town.

The name of the wind : the kingkiller chronicle : day one

I don't know what to say. Cob finally managed to free himself from Jake. What are you going to do now? Pull it yourself? Jake and Cob glared at each other while the rest seemed at a loss for words, unsure of how to comfort their friend. The innkeeper moved carefully through the silence. Arms full, he stepped nimbly around Shep and began to arrange some items on a nearby table: a bowl of hot water, shears, some clean linen, a few glass bottles, needle and gut.

Jake tried to quiet him, but Cob brushed him aside. It's a damn shame about Nelly, but he better listen now or he'll end up dead. You don't get lucky twice with those sort of men. He reached out and pulled the edge of the bloody blanket. Whatever was inside flipped over once and snagged on the cloth. Carter tugged harder and there was a clatter like a bag of flat river stones upended onto the tabletop.

It was a spider as large as a 'wagon wheel, black as slate. The smith's prentice jumped backward and hit a table, knocking it over and almost falling to the ground himself. Cob's face went slack. Graham, Shep, and Jake made wordless, startled sounds and moved away, raising their hands to their faces.

Carter took a step backward that was almost like a nervous twitch. Silence filled the room like a cold sweat. The innkeeper frowned. If not for the silence, it is unlikely anyone would have heard him. But they did. Their eyes pulled away from the thing on the table to stare mutely at the red-haired man.

Jake found his voice first. You've seen these things before? No, of course not. Graham nodded a silent agreement.

All eyes went back to the thing on the table. The innkeeper looked thoughtful for a moment, then shrugged. He was only in town for a couple hours.

He remained on the other side of a table some fifteen feet away. The innkeeper continued to eye the thing curiously. He leaned closer, stretching out a hand. Everyone edged even farther away from the table. His long fingers brushed the scrael's black, featureless body. Moving carefully, the innkeeper took one of the long, smooth legs and tried to break it with both hands like a stick. He set it against the edge of the table and leaned his weight against it.

It broke with a sharp crack. It moved so fast. I didn't even know what was going on. Then it came after me, got on me, crawling all over. Then it got on me again.

The innkeeper nodded to himself as he continued to prod the thing. No organs. It's just grey inside. You know what this is. Certainly there were demons in the world. But they were like Tehlu's angels. They were like heroes and kings. They belonged in stories. They belonged out there. Taborlin the Great called up fire and lightning to destroy demons. Tehlu broke them in his hands and sent them howling into the nameless void. Your childhood friend didn't stomp one to death on the road to Baedn-Bryt.

It was ridiculous. Kote ran his hand through his red hair, then broke the silence. It's almost steel. You use coke to make steel. Coke and lime. It's your business after all.

He held it up. It might not do anything. Then he turned purposefully back to the table, and they edged farther away Kote pressed the iron shim to the black side of the creature, and there was a short, sharp crackling sound, like a pine log snapping in a hot fire.

Everyone startled, then relaxed when the black thing remained motionless. Cob and the others exchanged shaky smiles, like boys spooked by a ghost story. Their smiles went sour as the room filled with the sweet, acrid smell of rotting flowers and burning hair.

The innkeeper pressed the shim onto the table with a sharp click. What do we do now? Footprints of lamplight from the inn's windows fell across the dirt road and the doors of the smithy across the way. It was not a large road, or well traveled. It didn't seem to lead anywhere, as some roads do.

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The innkeeper drew a deep breath of autumn air and looked around restlessly, as if waiting for something to happen. He called himself Kote. He had chosen the name carefully when he came to this place.

He had taken a new name for most of the usual reasons, and for a few unusual ones as well, not the least of which was the fact that names were important to him. Looking up, he saw a thousand stars glittering in the deep velvet of a night with no moon. He knew them all, their stories and their names.

He knew them in a familiar way, the way he knew his own hands. Looking down, Kote sighed without knowing it and went back inside. He locked the door and shuttered the wide windows of the inn, as if to distance himself from the stars and all their varied names.

He swept the floor methodically, catching all the corners. He washed the tables and the bar, moving with a patient efficiency. At the end of an hour's The Name of the Wind II work, the water in his bucket was still clean enough for a lady to wash her hands in.

Finally, he pulled a stool behind the bar and began to polish the vast array of bottles nestled between the two huge barrels. He wasn't nearly as crisp and efficient about this chore as he had been with the others, and it soon became obvious the polishing was only an excuse to touch and hold.

He even hummed a little, although he did not realize it, and would have stopped himself if he had known. As he turned the bottles in his long, graceful hands the familiar motion eased a few tired lines from his face, making him seem younger, certainly not yet thirty. Not even near thirty.

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Young for an innkeeper. Young for a man with so many tired lines remaining on his face. Kote came to the top of the stairs and opened the door. His room was austere, almost monkish. There was a black stone fireplace in the center of the room, a pair of chairs, and a small desk.

The only other furniture was a narrow bed with a large, dark chest at its foot. Nothing decorated the walls or covered the wooden floor. There were footsteps in the hall, and a young man stepped into the room carrying a bowl of stew that steamed and smelled of pepper. He was dark and charming, with a quick smile and cunning eyes. The sound of it tugged one corner of his mouth into a wry smile as he sank into the deep chair in front of the fire. Bast closed the door and returned to sit in the second chair, turning it to face his teacher and the fire.

He moved with a strange delicacy and grace, as if he were close to dancing. But lovely girls tend to be out in the sunshine and therefore much easier to study without risk of injuring one's eyes. Being, of course, an exceptionally clever student. Kote sighed. Looking into the fire, Kote tried to assume a stern face and failed. I'm a bad teacher to say it, but I'm glad.

I don't feel up to a long bout of lessons right now. Who found his body? He brought it back. There was only one. Maybe—" "Bast, it was one of the scrael. I saw it. Even so he was badly hurt.

Forty-eight stitches. I used up nearly all my gut. They were too shocked to ask about it tonight, but tomorrow some of them might get curious.

I don't want that. This sort of thing is quite beyond me. He did all the right things for all the wrong reasons. Yes, I made sure there was rowan The Name of the Wind 13 wood in the fire. Yes, I made sure it burned long and hot before they buried it. And yes, I made sure that no one kept a piece of it as a souvenir. But I wouldn't trust half these people to piss leeward without help.

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All the wind and rain might have scattered one loose from the pack. I bet there aren't six swords in this whole town. Not that swords would do much good against the scrael. After a moment Bast began to fidget. Carter disrupted things while they were still telling stories. That's something, I suppose. They'll be back tomorrow night. It'll give me something to do. People would have come from all over to see it. We could have had some business for a change.

Kote made a pacifying gesture with the hand that held the spoon. Kote scowling down into the bowl of stew in his hands, his eyes far away. A scattering of daughters.

Kote took another spoonful, chewed, swallowed. It's probably the best thing for them to think. I encouraged them, in fact. But you know what that means. You have better places to be than this. Behind the weary lines and the placid innkeeper's expression he looked no older than his dark-haired companion. I'm sure you have better things to do than watch me eat. Kote swallowed and changed languages. If the situation becomes desperate, I recommend you avail yourself of the numerous solvent formulae extant in Celum Tinture.

Chapter thirteen, I believe. Kote ate slowly, mopping up the last of the stew with a piece of bread. He The Name of the Wind 15 looked out the window as he ate, or tried to, as the lamplight turned its surface mirrorlike against the dark behind it.

His eyes wandered the room restlessly. The fireplace -was made of the same black rock as the one downstairs.

It stood in the center of the room, a minor feat of engineering of which Kote was rather proud. The bed was small, little more than a cot, and if you were to touch it you would find the mattress almost nonexistent. A skilled observer might notice there was something his gaze avoided.

The same way you avoid meeting the eye of an old lover at a formal dinner, or that of an old enemy sitting across the room in a crowded alehouse late at night. Kote tried to relax, failed, fidgeted, sighed, shifted in his seat, and without willing it his eyes fell on the chest at the foot of the bed. It was made of roah, a rare, heavy wood, dark as coal and smooth as polished glass.

Prized by perfumers and alchemists, a piece the size of your thumb was easily worth gold. To have a chest made of it went far beyond extravagance. The chest was sealed three times. It had a lock of iron, a lock of copper, and a lock that could not be seen.

Tonight the wood filled the room with the almost imperceptible aroma of citrus and quenching iron.

When Kote s eyes fell on the chest they did not dart quickly away. They did not slide slyly to the side as if he would pretend it wasn't there at all. But in a moment of looking, his face regained all the lines the simple pleasures of the day had slowly smoothed away. The comfort of his bottles and books was erased in a second, leaving nothing behind his eyes but emptiness and ache. For a moment fierce longing and regret warred across his face.

Then they were gone, replaced by the weary face of an innkeeper, a man who called himself Kote. He sighed again without knowing it and pushed himself to his feet. It was a long time before he walked past the chest to bed. Once in bed, it was a long time before he slept. As Kote had guessed, they came back to the Waystone the next night for dinner and drinks. There were a few half-hearted attempts at stories, but they died out quickly.

No one was really in the mood. So it was still early in the evening when the discussion turned to matters of greater import. They chewed over the rumors that had come into town, 16 Patrick Rothfuss most of them troubling.

The Penitent King was having a difficult time with the rebels in Resavek. This caused some concern, but only in a general way. Resavek was a long way off, and even Cob, the most worldly of them, would be hard pressed to find it on a map. They discussed the war in their own terms. Cob predicted a third levy tax after the harvests were in. No one argued, though there hadn't been a threebleeder year in living memory. Jake guessed the harvest would be good enough so the third levy wouldn't break most families.

Except the Bentleys, who were on hard times anyway. And the Orissons, whose sheep kept disappearing. And Crazy Martin, who had planted all barley this year. Every farmer with half a brain had planted beans. That was one good thing about all the fighting—soldiers ate beans, and prices would be high. After a few more drinks, deeper concerns were voiced. Deserter soldiers and other opportunists were thick on the roads, making even short trips risky.

The roads were always bad, of course, in the same way that winter was always cold. You complained, took sensible precautions, and got on with the business of living your life.

But this was different. Over the last two months the roads had become so bad that people had stopped complaining. The last caravan had two wagons and four guards. The merchant had been asking ten pennies for half a pound of salt, fifteen for a loaf of sugar.

He didn't have any pepper, or cinnamon, or chocolate. He did have one small sack of coffee, but he wanted two silver talents for that. At first people had laughed at his prices. Then, when he held firm, folk had spat and cursed at him. That had been two span ago: twenty-two days.

There had not been another serious trader since, even though this was the season for it. So despite the third levy tax looming large in everyone's minds, people were looking in their purses and wishing they'd bought a little something, just in case the snow came early. No one spoke of the previous night, of the thing they had burned and buried. Other folk were talking, of course. The town was alive with gossip. Carter's wounds ensured that the stories were taken half seriously, but not much more than half.

The word "demon" was being spoken, but it was with smiles half-hidden behind raised hands. Only the six friends had seen the thing before it "was burned. One of them had been wounded and the others had been drinking. The priest had seen it too, but it was his job to see demons.

Demons were good for his business. The Name of the Wind 17 The innkeeper had seen it too, apparently. But he wasn't from around here. He couldn't know the truth that was so apparent to everyone born and raised in this little town: stories were told here, but they happened somewhere else. This was not a place for demons.

Besides, things were bad enough without borrowing trouble. Cob and the rest knew there was no sense talking about it. Trying to convince folk would only make them a laughingstock, like Crazy Martin, who had been trying to dig a well inside his own house for years now.

Still, each of them bought a piece of cold-wrought iron from the smith, heavy as they could swing, and none of them said what they were thinking. Instead they complained that the roads were bad and getting worse. They talked about merchants, and deserters, and levies, and not enough salt to last the winter.

They reminisced that three years ago no one would have even thought of locking their doors at night, let alone barring them.

The conversation took a downward turn from there, and even though none of them said what they were thinking, the evening ended on a grim note. Most evenings did these days, times being what they were. The weather was warm and dry, ideal for ripening a field of wheat or corn. On both sides of the road the trees were changing color.

Tall poplars had gone a buttery yellow while the shrubby sumac encroaching on the road was tinged a violent red. Only the old oaks seemed reluctant to give up the summer, and their leaves remained an even mingling of gold and green. Everything said, you couldn't hope for a nicer day to have a half dozen ex-soldiers with hunting bows relieve you of everything you owned. If you were stark mad and riding a hobbyhorse down the road, I'd still take it off you.

Chronicler guessed he had been a low ranking officer not long ago. He had been robbed before and knew when there was nothing to be gained by discussion.

These fellows knew their business. No energy was wasted on bravado or idle threats. One of them looked over the horse, checking hooves, teeth, and harness. Two others went through his saddlebags with a military efficiency, laying all his worldly possessions out on the ground. Two blankets, a hooded cloak, the flat leather satchel, and his heavy, well-stocked travelsack. The Name of the Wind 19 "That's all of it, Commander," one of the men said. The commander turned to look backward over his shoulder.

And no real use to you. Then he upended the travelsack onto Chronicler's spread cloak and poked idly through the contents. He took most of Chronicler's salt and a pair of bootlaces.He had chosen the name carefully when he came to this place.

Or if there was, it was too faint to be noticed, or too well hidden. Kote was a long while in answering. Kote was in the middle of it all, always moving, like a man tending a large, complex machine. Knife grinder. No one had ever found that.

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