CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Less Talents

I spent the night sleeping outside the city limits of Imre in a soft bed of heather. The next day I woke late, washed in a nearby stream, and made my way west to the University.

As I walked, I watched the horizon for the largest building in the University. From Ben’s descriptions I knew what it would look like: featureless, grey, and square as a block. Larger than four granaries stacked together. No windows, no decorations, and only one set of great stone doors. Ten times ten thousand books. The Archives.

I had come to the University for many reasons, but that was at the heart of it. The Archives held answers, and I had many, many questions. First and foremost, I wanted to know the truth about the Chandrian and the Amyr. I needed to know how much of Skarpi’s story was the truth.

When the road crossed the Omethi River, there was an old stone bridge. I don’t doubt that you know the type. It was one of those ancient, mammoth pieces of architecture scattered throughout the world, so old and solidly built that they have become part of the landscape, not a soul wondering who built them, or why This one was particularly impressive, over two hundred feet long and wide enough for two wagons to pass each other, it stretched over the canyon the Omethi had carved into the rock. When I reached the crest of the bridge I saw the Archives for the first time in my life, rising like some great greystone over the trees to the west.

The University lay at the heart of a small city. Though truthfully, I hesitate to call it a city at all. It was nothing like Tarbean with its twisting alleys and garbage smell. It was more of a town, with wide roads and clean air. Lawns and gardens were spaced between small houses and shops.

But since this town had grown up to serve the peculiar needs of the University, a careful observer could note small differences in the services the town provided. For instance, there were two glassblowers, three fully stocked apothecaries, two binderies, four booksellers, two brothels, and a truly disproportionate number of taverns. One of them had a large wooden sign nailed to its door proclaiming, no sympathy! I wondered what non-arcane visitors might think of the warning.

The University itself consisted of about fifteen buildings that bore little resemblance to each other. Mews had a circular central hub with eight wings radiating in each direction so it looked like a compass rose. Hollows was simple and square, with stained glass windows showing Teccam in a classic pose: standing barefoot in the mouth of his cave, speaking to a group of students. Mains was the most distinctive building of the lot: it covered nearly an acre and a half and looked like it had been cobbled together from a number of smaller, mismatched buildings.

As I approached the Archives, its grey, windowless surface reminded me of an immense greystone. It was hard to believe after all the years of waiting that I was finally there. I circled around it until I found the entrance, a massive pair of stone doors standing wide open. Over them, chiseled deep into the stone, were the words Vorfelan Rhinata Morie. I didn’t recognize the language. It wasn’t Siaru ... maybe Yllish, or Temic. Yet another question I needed answers for.

Through the stone doors was a small antechamber with a more ordinary set of wooden doors inside. I tugged them open and felt cool, dry air brush past me. The walls were bare grey stone, lit with the distinctive unwavering reddish light of sympathy lamps. There was a large wooden desk with several large, ledger-type books lying open atop it.

At the desk sat a young man who looked to be a full-blooded Ceald, with the characteristic ruddy complexion and dark hair and eyes.

“Can I help you?” he asked, his voice thick with the harsh burr a Siaru accent makes.

“I’m here for the Archives,” I said stupidly My stomach was dancing with butterflies. My palms were sweaty.

He looked me over, obviously wondering at my age. “Are you a student?”

“Soon,” I said. “I haven’t been through admissions yet.”

“You’ll need to do that first,” he said seriously. “I can’t let anyone in unless they’re in the book.” He gestured at the ledgers on the desk in front of him.

The butterflies died. I didn’t bother to hide my disappointment. “Are you sure I can’t look around just for a couple of minutes? I’ve come an awfully long way ...” I looked at the two sets of double doors leading out of the room, one labeled TOMES the other stacks. Behind the desk a smaller door was labeled scrivs only.

His expression softened somewhat. “I cannot. There would be trouble.” He looked me over again. “Are you really going through admissions?” his skepticism was obvious even through his thick accent.

I nodded. “I just came here first.” I said looking around the empty room, eyeing the closed doors, trying to think of some way to persuade him to let me in.

He spoke before I could think of anything. “If you’re really going, you should hurry Today is the last day. Sometimes they don’t go much longer than noon.”

My heart beat hard and quick in my chest. I’d assumed they would run all day. “Where are they?”

“Hollows.” He gestured toward the outer door. “Down, then left. Short building with ... color-windows. Two big ... trees out front.” He paused. “Maple? Is that the word for a tree?”

I nodded and hurried outside, soon I was pelting down the road.

Two hours later I was in Hollows, fighting down a sour stomach and climbing up onto the stage of an empty theater. The room was dark except for the wide circle of light that held the masters’ table. I walked to stand at the edge of the light and waited. Slowly the nine masters stopped talking among themselves and turned to look at me.

They sat at a huge, crescent-shaped table. It was raised, so even seated they were looking down on me. They were serious-looking men, ranging in age from mature to ancient.

There was a long moment of silence before the man sitting at the center of the crescent motioned me forward. I guessed he was the Chancellor. “Come up where we can see you. That’s right. Hello. Now, what’s your name, boy?”

“Kvothe, sir.”

“And why are you here?”

I looked him in the eye. “I want to attend the University. I want to be an arcanist.” I looked around at each of them. Some seemed amused. None looked particularly surprised.

“You are aware,” the Chancellor said. “That the University is for continuing one’s education. Not beginning it?”

“Yes, Chancellor. I know”

“Very well,” he said. “May I have your letter of introduction?”

I didn’t hesitate. “I’m afraid I don’t have one, sir. Is it absolutely necessary?”

“It is customary to have a sponsor,” he explained. “Preferably an arcanist. Their letter tells us what you know. Your areas of excellence and weakness.”

“The arcanist I learned from was named Abenthy sir. But he never gave me a letter of introduction. Might I tell you myself?”

The Chancellor nodded gravely, “Unfortunately, we have no way of knowing that you actually have studied with an arcanist without proof of some kind. Do you have anything that can corroborate your story? Any other correspondence?”

“He gave me a book before we parted ways, sir. He inscribed it to me and signed his name.”

The Chancellor smiled. “That should do nicely. Do you have it with you?”

“No.” I let some honest bitterness creep into my voice. “I had to pawn it in Tarbean.”

Sitting to the left of the Chancellor, Master Rhetorician Hemme made a disgusted noise at my comment, earning him an irritated look from the Chancellor. “Come, Herma,” Hemme said, slapping his hand on the table. “The boy is obviously lying. I have important matters to attend to this afternoon.”