The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss

like ice and iron!” There was something familiar about his words, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.
    Both the mayor and the constable turned tail and ran, their eyes white and wild as startled horses’.
    The wind faded as quickly as it had come. The whole sudden burst couldn’t have lasted more than five seconds. As most of the townsfolk were gathered around the public house, I doubted anyone had seen it except for me, the mayor, the constable, and the old man’s donkeys who stood placidly in their harness, utterly unperturbed.
    â€œLeave this place clean of your foul presence,” the arcanist muttered to himself as he watched them go. “By the power of my name I command it to be so.”
    I finally realized why his words seemed so familiar. He was quoting lines from the exorcism scene in Daeonica. Not many folk knew that play.
    The old man turned back to his wagon and began to extemporize. “I’ll turn you into butter on a summer day. I’ll turn you into a poet with the soul of a priest. I’ll fill you with lemon custard and push you out a window.” He spat. “Bastards.”
    His irritation seemed to leave him and he heaved a great, weary sigh. “Well that couldn’t have gone much worse,” the old man muttered as he rubbed at the shoulder of the arm the constable had twisted. “Do you think they’ll come back with a mob behind them?”
    For a second I thought the old man was talking to me. Then I realized the truth. He was talking to his donkeys.
    â€œI don’t think so either,” he said to them. “But I’ve been wrong before. Let’s stay near the edge of town and have a look at the last of the oats, shall we?”
    He clambered up into the back of the wagon and came down with a wide bucket and a nearly empty burlap sack. He upended the sack into the bucket and seemed disheartened by the results. He took out a handful for himself before nudging the bucket toward the donkeys with his foot. “Don’t give me that look,” he said to them. “It’s short rations all around. Besides, you can graze.” He petted one donkey while he ate his handful of rough oats, stopping occasionally to spit out a husk.
    It struck me as very sad, this old man all alone on the road with no one to talk to but his donkeys. It’s hard for us Edema Ruh, but at least we had each other. This man had no one.
    â€œWe’ve wandered too far from civilization, boys. The folk that need me don’t trust me, and the ones that trust me can’t afford me.” The old man peered into his purse. “We’ve got a penny and a half, so our options are limited. Do we want to be wet tonight or hungry tomorrow? We’re not going to do any business, so it will probably be one or the other.”
    I slunk around the edge of the building until I could see what was written on the side of the old man’s wagon. It read:
    Â 
    ABENTHY: ARCANIST EXTRAORDINARY.
    Scribe. Dowser. Chemist. Dentist.
    Rare Goods. All Alements Tended.
    Lost Items Found. Anything Mended.
    No Horoscopes. No Love Potions. No Malefaction.
    Â 
    Abenthy noticed me as soon as I stepped out from behind the building where I’d been hiding. “Hello there. Can I help you?”
    â€œYou’ve misspelled ‘ailments’,” I pointed out.
    He looked surprised. “It’s a joke, actually,” he explained. “I brew a bit.”
    â€œOh. Ale,” I said, nodding. “I get it.” I brought my hand out of my pocket. “Can you sell me anything for a penny?”
    He seemed stuck between amusement and curiosity. “What are you looking for?”
    â€œI’d like some lacillium.” We had performed Farien the Fair a dozen times in the last month, and it had filled my young mind with intrigue and assassination.
    â€œAre you expecting someone to poison you?” he said, somewhat taken aback.
    â€œNot really.