The Wise Man's Fear

***Note: Fantasy book reviews are traditionally longer, and this review might be the even-longer exception to the rule. If you intend to read this, be aware that I plan on giving this book credit where all the credit is due, despite the fairly lengthy word count.***

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The Wise Man’s Fear, the second book in The Kingkiller Chronicle series by Patrick Rothfuss, is a continuation of Kvothe’s story, told over the course of one day, following the first day recounted in book one. From new trials at the University to adventures beyond the realms of men, our adolescent hero reaps the rewards and bears the consequences of becoming a legend in his youth as he searches for knowledge about the hidden truths in his world.  

As a man grown, Kvothe is always far away, and he seems to be someone else. This is a mystery that persists as he recounts the tales that brought him to the present day where he sits with Chronicler and Bast, sharing his life story for the first time in his life. Rothfuss is constantly inviting the reader to look closer at his protagonist, to see beneath the physical scars he carries and the strangely mundane way he plays the part of “Kote” the tavernkeep after so many grand adventures:

“ . . . the innkeeper’s eyes were distant and joyless, so pale a green they almost could have passed for grey” (Rothfuss, 11). 

There are so many characters in this story that I feel conflicting emotions for, but the common thread is that I never find it hard to care about a main character, whether I love them or love to hate them or feel something in between these two passionate sides of the spectrum. Everyone has their own motives, complexities, strengths, and weaknesses; they make me laugh and cry, they make me angry and afraid, and they make me empathetic and sometimes downright heartless. I love that I can’t quite pin everyone down, and just when I think I know everything about someone, something is brought to light that changes everything I thought I knew about them. Kvothe keeps a variety of strange and unpredictable company throughout his life, which leaves me slow to trust anyone, but I really do like it that way. 

Each character is dynamic and authentic, and even if they can’t always be directly relatable, they have believable flaws that the reader can choose to accept or deny. As ever, Chronicler and Bast are two of these complex constants in the story, and their secret banter behind closed doors is reminiscent of members of a royal council, evenly matched as they try to predict one another’s next move. Their intentions in regard to Kvothe are still a mystery, and this is especially evident in their exchange about the Cthaeh, a cruel and all-seeing creature that lives in the Fae realm. Chronicler is skeptical about how much power the creature truly has over the fate of man, while Bast is fearful, making a bold claim in response that would instill fear in anyone who is familiar with the evils of Rothfuss’s world:

“Be happy in your silly little ignorance. I’m doing you a favor by not telling you the truth . . . I’d rather face all the Chandrian together than have ten words of conversation with the Cthaeh” (Rothfuss, 987).

Among Kvothe’s rivals is an array of new acquaintances that are insufferable and that inevitably grow sour. I got the sense that there are a lot of characters wearing masks in this book, and because of this, I became worried and untrustworthy of them fairly often. It also seems like Kvothe and his reliable adversary, Ambrose, are always plotting elaborate schemes to get to the bottom of one another’s schemes, which can be funny one minute but very serious the next. Ambrose is up to his usual tricks, but for once, they are unbeknownst to a naive Kvothe, who assumes that the lull in exciting activity concerning his arch nemesis means that he has finally given up and moved on. The most hilarious way to discover that this is not the case is when Kvothe realizes he was drugged before his University admissions interview, and proceeds to say outrageous things that he can’t control:

“Ambrose, your presence is the horseshit frosting on the horseshit cake that is the admissions interview process” (Rothfuss, 67).

One of my favorite debuting characters is Alveron, a noble that Kvothe seeks out in Severen for potential patronage. He is a man who has trusted and been betrayed before, and as a result, his character is very guarded, but also wise. He carries himself in a careful manner, and is not keen on partaking in the ramblings of gossip that surround him. So is the relationship between him and Kvothe, as they learn whether or not they can trust one another. Alveron is damaged, and there are times I question his overall integrity, but he is also very thoughtful and relatable, as shown in the following excerpt:

“I have always thought . . . that everyone has a question that rests in the center of who they are . . . I believe everyone has some question that drives them. A question that keeps them awake nights. A question they worry like a dog with an old bone. If you understand a man’s question, it brings you closer to understanding the man himself . . . Or so I have always believed” (Rothfuss, 905).

Of Meluan Lackless, the woman Kvothe helps Alveron court during his time in Severen, I will just say that her and Kvothe’s first and last meetings are equally unforgivable. As for Caudicus, he is not the ignorant magic wielder Kvothe takes him for in the beginning. I would also be remiss if I didn't recognize Hemme, one of the original antagonists from book one, who causes a spike of anger within me when he insults Kvothe and accuses him of trying to burn down his room. I at least had a shocked laugh when Kvothe shot back with a signature fiery response.  

It was a delight to get to know Mola a little better in this book as well, especially in the scene where she treats Kvothe in the infirmary. She is one of the few that can see Kvothe’s generosity even when he can’t, and someone who is willing to protect him because she knows his intentions are better than most people she knows. Her confidence and certainty are like a breath of fresh air, and she’s genuinely a great student and healer.

Bredon is a new character that I enjoyed from beginning to end. A resident at Alveron’s home, he teaches Kvothe the ways of a strategic game called tak while educating him in the nuances of royal affairs. Whether they are plotting together to spread tactical gossip, or they are having a meaningful conversation above the game board, it’s always a treat to be a part of their exchanges. I really love how Bredon describes the nature of the game, and the deeper lesson that there is a lot to be learned about life from the strategies you use to play:

“Tak reflects the subtle turning of the world. It is a mirror we hold to life. No one wins a dance, boy. The point of dancing is the motion that a body makes. A well-played game of tak reveals the moving of a mind. There is a beauty to these things for those with eyes to see it” (Rothfuss, 446).

Tempi captures Kvothe’s interest first when he takes to the road on an errand for Alveron with a ragtag group of hired sellswords. A mercenary shrouded in mystery, Kvothe is surprised by his first impressions of Tempi that are very much unlike what the written histories describe an Adem warrior to be. He quickly goes from being someone who never speaks to a beloved teacher to Kvothe, showing him how to fight and speak his language in exchange for secret lute lessons. One of my favorite parts is in the Laughing Moon inn when a rowdy patron suggests Tempi’s mother is a whore because his quiet nature is mistaken for rudeness:

“I do not understand this man . . . Is he attempting to buy sex with me? Or does he wish to fight?” (Rothfuss, 579).

Auri is still the sweetest soul in Rothfuss’s world. I love her and Kvothe’s rooftop witticisms about food and the hidden nature of inanimate objects, especially in the lettuce scene:

 “I have an apple that thinks it is a pear . . . And a bun that thinks it is a cat. And a lettuce that thinks it is a lettuce . . . Bad enough to be a lettuce. How awful to think you are a lettuce too” (Rothfuss, 34).

Another unexpected moment with Auri is when she comes to Kvothe in a late-night hour of sad and desperate need of comfort. I’m still eager to find out what bigger part (if any) this mystery girl that lives in shadow plays in the series! She is so innocent and gentle, and yet she is brimming with secret wisdom and strength when it comes to the people she loves. 

Sim and Wil’s steadfast friendship and care for Kvothe doesn’t go unnoticed. Sim considers Kvothe a type of person the world could use a lot more of even though he goes about things in unconventional ways. Kvothe defends Sim’s good nature to Fela, as a good friend should when someone fails to see what makes someone great:

“That’s the problem . . . He’s nice. He’s gentle, which people see as weak. And he’s happy, which people see as stupid” (Rothfuss, 210).  

With Fela’s help, Wil and Sim see Kvothe through the infamous drugging incident, which is a hilarious sequence of events and dialogue. It’s also beautiful to see Fela grow fond of one of the members of the group over time, a feeling that grows silently in the background as all the clever plots are secretly being planned and the main characters start spending more time together. Kvothe says it best as a quiet observer:

“It was worth blood and the fear of death to see her fall in love with him. Just a little. Just the first faint breath of love, so light she probably didn’t notice it herself. It wasn’t dramatic, like some bolt of lightning with a crack of thunder following. It was more like when flint strikes steel and the spark fades almost too fast for you to see. But still, you know it’s there, down where you can’t see, kindling” (Rothfuss, 225). 

After reading the second book, I still stand by my original statement that Elodin is my favorite character in the entire series. He’s still the eccentric and stubborn person he’s always been, but Kvothe finally starts to learn that there is more to him than he realized. Elodin is very intelligent, and, believe it or not, I believe that he’s perfectly sane. Though he still makes Kvothe do ridiculous things—and there’s still no rhyme or reason to his teachings that do more than verge on madness to the average observer—there is much to be learned from his behavior. I’m constantly laughing and left wondering when or if he will finally show up on time to a lecture or implicate Kvothe in another misdemeanor-level scheme to get back at a master he doesn’t like. It’s a funny moment when Kvothe realizes that a fellow master also hates Master Hemme:

“The man is an absolute tit. Nobody talks to me like that” (Rothfuss, 84).

The mirrored prologue and epilogue are just as beautiful in this book as they are in book one, describing a silence in three parts that sets the beginning and end scenes perfectly with a new set of descriptions and ambience. I enjoyed another “All This Knowing” chapter, where Wil, Sim, and Kvothe celebrate triumphs, tell sad stories, argue, and sing songs. A parallel to the chapter from book one of the same name, this chapter shows how strong their friendship has grown, and the trust they have in one another that allows Kvothe to share his people’s history and his early life with them. There are chapters less than a page long that tell more than full-length chapters in other books do, which is an amazing feat that only Rothfuss seems to consistently accomplish with ease. There’s something about the way he evokes a feeling through a meaningful chapter title and beautiful prose, no matter how short or long, that always resonates in a way that is often beyond words.

Rothfuss describes people and things so well, which has become a welcome and expected comfort at this point. I love how I can see and feel the image and scene he is painting, whether it’s Kvothe “[scowling] as loudly as [he can],” a Fae creature “sewing with starlight,” or visuals of a beautiful night that pose as prose, but somehow come off as the best poetry I’ve ever read (Rothfuss, 133, 662). I could write an entire book about all the things that are written in such a stunning and memorable way that I want to reread it as soon as I finish it. 

Some funny scenes are when the reader discovers a performer’s secret to accepting countless drinks after a performance, the scene where Elodin notices Kvothe’s new cloak with sheer shock and awe, and literally all the scenes where Kvothe and Ambrose exchange witty banter. I also really love when Kvothe is watching a child dance through the branches and leaves of the sword tree, and the carefree and beautiful image it conjures right before she gets reprimanded for her actions:

“It was the same scolding any child receives. Stay out of the neighbor’s garden. Don’t tease the Bentons’ sheep. Don’t play tag among the thousand spinning knives of your people’s sacred tree” (Rothfuss, 785).

I enjoyed Kvothe going on new adventures, meeting new people and learning about new customs in the big wide world. I found the rings that noble society exchanges and wears to show status and to curry favor very interesting, a small but very important ritual that determines whether or not you are considered lower than human or worthy of a place in the noble hierarchy. Kvothe knows that being Edema Ruh is looked down upon by many nobles, but he also knows that he possesses a certain edge that others don’t:

“The Edema might be on the lowest rung of the social ladder, but there are no finer actors breathing. I had been raised on the stage, and my father could play a king so regal I’d seen audiences doff their hats when he made his entrance” (Rothfuss, 370).

I love the neverending mystery that is Denna, and all of her and Kvothe’s encounters, unexpected or not. When Kvothe is charged with the task of helping Alveron court Meluan with letters and songs, it’s hard to imagine that he’s not thinking of his own feelings for Denna. You even get to see them have a rare quarrel, a classic “saying things they don’t mean” type of scene that lovers know all too well, and their final encounter in the book is a special one that I wouldn’t dream of spoiling! I’m always wondering when she’ll appear again, and if the “will they, won’t they” will continue forever, but in a way, it’s just who they are to one another. They share a secret song and dance that nobody else does, and they’re better for it even if it doesn’t turn into anything more than what it is. It’s deeper than a flight of adolescent fancy; they really see one another in a world that doesn’t see them, and that’s very beautiful. The feeling Kvothe gets after Denna leaves the city is all too real and filled with longing:

“I could tell she was long gone. A city feels different when Denna is somewhere inside it, and Severn felt as hollow as an empty egg” (Rothfuss, 928). 

The legend of Felurian is beautiful and mysterious, and though she is the source of many mortal men’s fear, she is also the cause for their infatuation as well. When Kvothe boldly goes where no man has willingly gone before, it’s an uncertain yet dreamlike experience from beginning to end. After a number of passion-filled nights, stories about the moon and an unpleasant encounter with an all-seeing immortal creature, Kvothe emerges a man grown, and it’s safe to say that Kvothe isn’t as ignorant about the subtleties of women as he once was. I love when he realizes he can best Felurian, but he stops himself because he knows that the world would be lesser if she didn’t exist. I also enjoyed watching him return to the mortal world and spread tales—some true, some exaggerated—about his unbelievable time in the land of Fae:

“I shouldn’t be coy, I suppose. I implied rather strongly that Felurian thought quite highly of me as a lover. I offer no apology for this behavior except to say that I was a young man of sixteen, proud of my newfound skills, and not above a little bragging” (Rothfuss, 700-701).

It’s interesting how humans are all for a fantastical legend like Felurian, but they don’t believe there is truth to old folktales and songs. As always, Rothfuss touches on some dark themes, including some pretty gruesome and mysterious ends. I can really feel the looming danger that is borne of ancient evils, and even the consequences of the abuse of magic in the wrong hands. There are times where I fear for the world and what the Chandrian can do, and there are other times where I’m fearful for Kvothe’s life when he is forced to put his abilities to the test to protect himself from unexpected attacks from unknown sources. Rothfuss sets the tone as the world grows ever darker and the stakes are raised ever higher in his world, and he says it best when he’s narrating the scene of a typical lunch rush at Kvothe’s tavern in the present day:

“Men and women smiled and relaxed, glad to be off their feet and sitting in the shade . . . But underneath it all, there was a tension in the room. A stranger would never have noticed it, but it was there, dark and silent as an undertow. No one spoke of taxes, or armies, or how they had begun to lock their doors at night. No one spoke of what had happened in the inn the night before. No one eyed the stretch of well-scrubbed wooden floor that didn’t show a trace of blood. Instead there were jokes and stories . . . It helped a bit. It was all that you could do” (Rothfuss, 333). 

Learning that other people from different cultures have other names for the Chandrian and different views about what they are reassured me that there are harmless legends, but there are also dark tales that are indisputably true. Shehyn, the master Adem Kvothe meets in his travels, confirms Kvothe’s theories of their existence, and even sheds her own light on the subject:

“There are no such things as demons. Your priests tell stories of demons to frighten you . . . But there are bad things in the world. Old things in the shape of men. And there are a handful worse than all the rest. They walk the world freely and do terrible things” (Rothfuss, 812). 

It’s heartbreaking that Kvothe knows things about the evils of his world, but he is forced to keep them hidden. What is seen as flights of childish fancy is really a desperate search for the answers to questions that haunt him in the late hours of night, a desire to exorcise the demons from his past. The scene where Kvothe tries to write Denna a letter of apology and tell her all the truth he has never told anyone is a truly moving one, and it makes me feel for Kvothe even more. I hate that he has come to terms with the nightmares, but it’s the pleasant memories that truly haunt him still. 

If one theme steals the show in Rothfuss’s writing, it’s every single time Kvothe thinks about, speaks of, or plays music. It’s something that is a part of his very soul, and it always shows in the most heartwarming and heartbreaking ways. I was touched when he sings a song to Vashet in the “When Words Fail” chapter, knowing that her culture frowns upon public playing and singing:

“Then I played the song that hides in the center of me. That wordless music that moves through the secret places in my heart. I played it carefully, strumming it slow and low into the dark stillness of the night. I would like to say it is a happy song, that it is sweet and bright, but it is not” (Rothfuss, 798).

This single scene tells you everything there is to know about Kvothe in the form of a song, and it’s nothing short of magnificent—it’s so powerful that Vashet gives him a second chance to train under her with no questions asked, and it’s a testament to music being a universal language as well. No matter how down on his luck he is, he is always lowest when he doesn’t have access to music, and it’s admirable how he does whatever it takes to keep this devotion at the forefront of his life, no matter the cost. This feeling is captured perfectly in the “Love” chapter, where the reader gets to see him live and breathe his true passion while he compares his feelings to his lute as a performer to the profound ramblings of men who think they understand true love:

“The wood was the color of dark coffee, of freshly turned earth. The curve of the bowl was perfect as a woman’s hip. It was hushed echo and bright string and thrum. My lute. My tangible soul. I have heard what poets write about women. They rhyme and rhapsodize and lie. I have watched sailors on the shore stare mutely at the slow-rolling swell of the sea. I have watched old soldiers with hearts like leather grow teary-eyed at their king’s colors stretched against the wind. Listen to me: these men know nothing of love. You will not find it in the words of poets or the longing eyes of sailors. If you want to know of love, look to a trouper’s hands as he makes his music. A trouper knows” (Rothfuss, 52). 

It’s rare when I feel like I can actually experience something on the printed page with all of my senses, but Rothfuss always manages to deliver beyond my wildest imaginings every single time. He even poetically refers to women as instruments, “waiting to be learned, loved, and finely played, to have at last her own true music made” (Rothfuss, 701). And if you know Kvothe, you know that this is no slight; it is merely the beautiful way in which he sees the world. 

It was nice to see some more female representation in this book, and I really enjoyed how Devi, Fela, and Mola join up with Kvothe, Sim, and Wil to hatch a scheme to mess with Ambrose and to help Kvothe retrieve a stolen trinket. After seeing the girls play off the dynamics of the boys, I don’t think that any women in Rothfuss’s world take any flack from anyone, and it’s a welcome change of pace how you don’t have to be told who they are to know that they are strong and capable. Devi is still the confident, smart, and very forward girl that can drive a hard bargain. Fela is bold and unapologetic, someone who loves fiercely and loves seeing people for who they really are even more. Mola is loyal, intelligent, and hilarious, and I love how sure of herself she is when she bluntly tells the boys she has never met an educated man. 

Marie, a performer at The Eolian is a “woman and a half”—as Manet so beautifully puts it—with a heart of gold, who is completely unbothered by what everyone else is doing because she is too busy being herself (Rothfuss, 43). I enjoyed the scene where she catches Manet’s eye and puts on a performance that even leaves a sheen of sweat on the audience’s brow. Shehyn is an unsuspecting but fierce warrior with great wisdom and knowledge about the world, and she is a great master of the Adem. Vashet is a strong fighter and a stern but patient teacher, who is devoted to her culture and customs. 

Denna is elusive and troubled as ever, but in new ways. Ever the free spirit aimlessly searching for her place in the world, she’s a bright-eyed and confident girl—at least on the surface—that won’t settle for settling's sake when there’s a world of possibility before her. I truly saw her in this book for the first time after I read the exchange between Kvothe and Elodin about why a girl might want to constantly change her name:

“It could indicate she doesn’t know who she is . . . Or that she does know, and doesn’t like it . . . It could indicate restlessness and dissatisfaction. It could mean her nature is changeable and she shifts her name to fit it. Or it could mean she changes her name with the hope it might help her be a different person” (Rothfuss, 978). 

None of this is to say that I feel like the first book is lacking in the gender equality department by any means, and I have to say that I believe the second book is no different. Overall, the representation feels very pleasantly balanced, and even if people still feel like there aren’t many women in this world, the few that exist are some remarkable and memorable ones indeed.

Throughout the book, there are a lot of lessons for Kvothe to learn, and many words of wisdom that stayed with me until the end. One of my favorite moments is when Kvothe makes the choice to live for himself for a change:

“As I stared at myself in the mirror I felt a low anger flicker to life deep in my belly. I was, I decided, tired of waiting helplessly while others decided whether I could come or go. I had played their game, learned their language, been unfailingly polite, and in return I had been treated like a dog. I had been beaten, sneered at, and threatened with death and worse. I was finished with it” (Rothfuss, 796).   

This is a concept that’s very real and important to me in my own life, so maybe that’s why this scene stands out. Elodin offers some good advice, and, much to Kvothe’s surprise, he starts to discover a method to his master’s madness when he finally sets off in the world to find what he’s looking for. Rothfuss also drives the message home that all men fear something, and that all stories are based in truth in some way.

Though it’s clear Rothfuss has built his beloved world with care, this doesn’t stop him from raising the stakes and making his characters suffer serious repercussions for their actions. There is no shortage of myth and mystery in this book, and all of it fills me with wonder and joy and concern and terror in equal measure. The magic in Rothfuss’s world is interesting, and it goes well beyond the bounds of University academia; it’s an ancient thing that masters are still striving to understand, and it’s the fuel that feeds the fire of age-old questions and fear. 

There are many questionable moments where magic has a hold on Kvothe and he’s unaware of the source, which is nothing short of terrifying when it’s the difference between life and death. There are lots of chilling elements that add to the darkness of the world, shadows that are slowly closing in on more than a personal scale, but I love the good, the bad, and the dark. The world always feels so real to me, and the characters actually succeed and fail, which makes it a world I love to escape to, whether it’s scary one minute or funny the next. All elements are intriguing and keep me turning the pages, whether it’s wondering when certain characters will cross paths again or when truths will be learned that go beyond old tales and children’s stories.

The other complaint I’ve heard is in regard to the third and final book’s release. Yes, it’s been a long time since the release of the second book, but I sincerely hope that Rothfuss is able to see past all the criticism and see how many positive and lasting ripples his books are still making in the literary community after all these years. It mattered less than none to me that there were only two books out once I started reading the series, because I was confident that they would be two of the most beautiful books that I’ve ever had the pleasure of experiencing, and I was right. This kind of greatness comes along once in a lifetime, maybe even less than that these days, and this kind of mastery takes so much diligent time and effort on the author’s part. 

Those who would deign to criticize someone who has achieved such an amazing accomplishment—nay, two—in his craft, who is just as prone to mistakes as the next person, and who cares about something so deeply that he understands deadlines mean nothing if the product isn’t finished and ready for the world, should be more than a little ashamed. I’d rather wait a lifetime for something beyond great than to see a good thing die for the sake of those who can’t understand why they have to wait for it. Who Rothfuss is is not only shown in his first book dedication, as seen in his book two dedication:

“To my patient fans, for reading the blog and telling me what they really want is an excellent book, even if it takes a little longer” (Rothfuss).

The only reason I’m desperately hoping for book three in the near future is because I’m so ready for the finale to the greatest fantasy series I’ve ever read, and it would be a shame for something so amazing to go unfinished because of unnecessary judgment and doubt. Go write the best fantasy series ever written and get back to me about how long it takes and how hard it is to bring it all home in a way that satisfies the author and their audience.

Rothfuss settles the reader back into his beautiful world with ease through familiar places and faces that I came to love in the first story, and just when I thought things were settling into a fine rhythm for Kvothe, something unexpected always occurred, with varying degrees of consequences. Watching him learn to wield magic and navigate the follies of men—including his own shortcomings—is always exciting, and seeing him face unknown trials and terrors for the first time since the tragedies of book one is maddening, chilling, and invigorating. The reader gets to see how his insatiable curiosity always gets the better of him, and how he will risk everything every single time to be authentic, and to find the answers to the truth he seeks.  

As with the first book, I loved book two from the first word to the very last. Though it’s high fantasy, and the story has layers of complexity, the narrative is near and dear to home and all the things that make us human, which brings it back down to earth and makes it relatable to anyone who is willing to pick up a book and have their whole world changed by someone who can weave the poetry of song into expert storytelling. The Wise Man’s Fear is about a world filled with magic, ancient wonders, and uncertainty. It’s a coming of age story about a boy who is young and naive, but who is also very steadfast in who he is, so much so that there is little to no room to dispute him. It’s an incredible yet classic Kvothe story that makes the legend that surrounds him feel so out of reach yet tangible at the same time. 

I love the narrative musings Kvothe has of himself as he tells the stories of his youth as a man grown. Everywhere he goes is an opportunity to meet new people and to learn new lessons, and he usually ends up getting more than he bargained for or something he was never even looking for to begin with. He’s loyal to the people and things he cares about, no matter how much money is being offered or how insistent a woman’s offer to give herself to him is. There are things that may forever remain hidden inside, dark and painful things that no one else can ever mend, and I believe that we can all see a piece of ourselves in Kvothe, especially when he tells Chronicler and Bast that this isn’t a fairytale that he’s telling:

“I have led an interesting life, and this reminiscence has a certain sweetness to it . . . but this is not a dashing romance. This is no fable where folk come back from the dead. It’s not a rousing epic meant to stir the blood. No. We all know what kind of story this is” (Rothfuss, 688).  

The dustjacket of the book reels me in like the first one did, alluding to all of the new and unexpected events that will unfold. At this point, we already know that Kvothe is unique, complex, and troubled. In his youth, he relishes rumors he started and others that have spread, whether they are exaggerated for effect or stories that are true but can hardly be believed. The weight on his shoulders to earn his place is heavy as ever, and he spreads himself thin often, but being the youngest musician at the Eolian and the youngest student admitted to the University is merely the beginning of Kvothe’s journey. If you love a richly built world filled with good and evil, dynamic and complex characters, humor and drama, and beautiful prose that sings of being human on the book page, this one is for you.

Reference

Rothfuss, Patrick. The Wise Man’s Fear. Daw Books, 2011.