THE NAME OF THE WIND EPUB

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offer a simple DMCA procedure to remove your content from our site. Start by pressing the button below! Report copyright / DMCA form ยท 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.


The Name Of The Wind Epub

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The name of the wind [electronic resource (EPUB eBook)] / Patrick Rothfusss. Saved in: Series: Rothfuss, Patrick, Kingkiller chronicle. Subjects. Download PDF & EPUB formats of your favorite books on PDF Institute. Download now,The Name of the Wind PDF & EPUB formats. Before downloading read. Book Synopsis This deluxe, illustrated edition celebrates the New York Times- bestselling series, The Kingkiller Chronicle, a masterful epic.

The boy gave a slow nod. Everyone knows that blue fire is one of their signs. Now he was-" "But how'd they find him? Drink your drink. We're thirsty men in here!

He pulled more beer for Jake, Shep, and Old Cob, moving with an air of bustling efficiency. The story was set aside while the men tended to their dinners. Old Cob tucked away his bowl of stew with the predatory efficiency of a lifetime bachelor.

The others were still blowing steam off their bowls when he finished the last of his loaf and returned to his story. No windows. All around him was nothing but smooth, hard stone. It was a cell no man had ever escaped. He said to the stone: 'Break!

The wall tore like a piece of paper, and through that hole Taborlin could see the sky and breathe the sweet spring air.

He stepped to the edge, looked down, and without a second thought he stepped out into the open air. For he knew the name of the wind, and so the wind obeyed him. He spoke to the wind and it cradled and caressed him. It bore him to the ground as gently as a puff of thistledown and set him on his feet softly as a mother's kiss. Now maybe it was just a piece of luck," Cob tapped the side of his nose knowingly. Old Cob leaned back on his stool, glad for the chance to elaborate.

And even though Taborlin didn't have much to eat, he shared his dinner with the old man. Twice for freely-given aid.

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Thrice for any insult made. They'd been coming to the Waystone every Felling night for months and Kote had never interjected anything of his own before. Not that you could expect anything else, really.

He'd only been in town for a year or so. He was still a stranger. The smith's prentice had lived here since he was eleven, and he was still referred to as "that Rannish boy," as if Rannish were some foreign country and not a town less than thirty miles away.

Old Cob nodded before he cleared his throat and launched back into the story. It was black as a winter night and cold as ice to touch, but so long as it was round his neck, Taborlin would be safe from the harm of evil things.

Demons and such. He had drunk most and talked least over the course of the evening. Everyone knew that something bad had happened out on his farm last Cendling night, but since they were good friends they knew better than to press him for the details. At least not this early in the evening, not as sober as they were.

Eventually Jake looked away, muttering something that could, conceivably, have been an apology. Cob turned back to the boy. Where do they go after they've done their bloody deeds? Are they men who sold their souls? No one knows.

One which makes you laugh, cry, and takes you on an unforgettable adventure. Welcome to the tale of Kvothe. Patrick Rothfuss had the good fortune to be born in Wisconsin in , where the long winters and lack of cable television encouraged a love of reading and writing. After abandoning his chosen field of chemical engineering, Pat became an itinerant student, wandering through clinical psychology, philosophy, medieval history, theater, and sociology.

Nine years later, Pat was forced by university policy to finally complete his undergraduate degree in English. When not reading and writing, he teaches fencing and dabbles with alchemy in his basement.

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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent downloadr. And to my father, who taught me that if I was going to do something, I should take my time and do it right.

The Waystone Inn lay in silence, and it was a silence of three parts. The most obvious part was a hollow, echoing quiet, made by things that were lacking.

If there had been a wind it would have sighed through the trees, set the inn's sign creaking on its hooks, and brushed the silence down the road like trailing autumn leaves.

If there had been a crowd, even a handful of men inside the inn, they would have filled the silence with conversation and laughter, the clatter and clamor one expects from a drinking house during the dark hours of night. If there had been music.

In fact there were none of these things, and so the silence remained. Inside the Waystone a pair of men huddled at one corner of the bar.

They drank with quiet determination, avoiding serious discussions of troubling news. In doing this they added a small, sullen silence to the larger, hollow one. It made an alloy of sorts, a counterpoint.

The third silence was not an easy thing to notice. If you listened for an hour, you might begin to feel it in the wooden floor underfoot and in the rough, splintering barrels behind the bar. It was in the weight of the black stone hearth that held the heat of a long dead fire.

It was in the slow back and forth of a white linen cloth rubbing along the grain of the bar. And it was in the hands of the man who stood there, polishing a stretch of mahogany that already gleamed in the lamplight. The man had true-red hair, red as flame. His eyes were dark and distant, and he moved with the subtle certainty that comes from knowing many things. The Waystone was his, just as the third silence was his. This was appropriate, as it was the greatest silence of the three, wrapping the others inside itself.

It was deep and wide as autumn's ending.

It was heavy as a great river-smooth stone. It was the patient, cut-flower sound of a man who is waiting to die. Five wasn't much of a crowd, but five was as many as the Waystone ever saw these days, times being what they were.

Old Cob was filling his role as storyteller and advice dispensary. The men at the bar sipped their drinks and listened. In the back room a young innkeeper stood out of sight behind the door, smiling as he listened to the details of a familiar story.

They had taken his sword and stripped him of his tools: But that weren't even the worst of it, you see. The three friends had grown up together, listening to Cob's stories and ignoring his advice. Cob peered closely at the newer, more attentive member of his small audience, the smith's prentice.

Small towns being what they are, he would most likely remain "boy" until his beard filled out or he bloodied someone's nose over the matter. The boy gave a slow nod. Everyone knows that blue fire is one of their signs. Now he was-" "But how'd they find him?

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Drink your drink. We're thirsty men in here! He pulled more beer for Jake, Shep, and Old Cob, moving with an air of bustling efficiency. The story was set aside while the men tended to their dinners. Old Cob tucked away his bowl of stew with the predatory efficiency of a lifetime bachelor.

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The others were still blowing steam off their bowls when he finished the last of his loaf and returned to his story. No windows.

All around him was nothing but smooth, hard stone. It was a cell no man had ever escaped. He said to the stone: The wall tore like a piece of paper, and through that hole Taborlin could see the sky and breathe the sweet spring air. He stepped to the edge, looked down, and without a second thought he stepped out into the open air.

For he knew the name of the wind, and so the wind obeyed him. He spoke to the wind and it cradled and caressed him.

It bore him to the ground as gently as a puff of thistledown and set him on his feet softly as a mother's kiss. Now maybe it was just a piece of luck," Cob tapped the side of his nose knowingly. Old Cob leaned back on his stool, glad for the chance to elaborate.

And even though Taborlin didn't have much to eat, he shared his dinner with the old man. Once for any simple trade.

The Name of the Wind

Twice for freely-given aid. Thrice for any insult made. They'd been coming to the Waystone every Felling night for months and Kote had never interjected anything of his own before. Not that you could expect anything else, really.

He'd only been in town for a year or so. He was still a stranger. The smith's prentice had lived here since he was eleven, and he was still referred to as "that Rannish boy," as if Rannish were some foreign country and not a town less than thirty miles away. Old Cob nodded before he cleared his throat and launched back into the story.Hm, the Rat grunted and licked his upper lip.

She was silent for a moment. Hey, why are you drinking ginger ale? She was a little younger than twenty, and she was a little on the slim side. Why are you always reading books? I have spent the night with Felurian and left with both my sanity and my life.

This anniversary hardcover includes more than 50 pages of extra content!

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