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- Kurzbeschreibung"There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man."<br>My name is Kvothe. You may have heard of me.<br />So begins the tale of a hero told from his own point of view-a story unequaled in fantasy literature. Now in The Wise Man's Fear , Day Two of The Kingkiller Chronicle, 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.
- AutorPatrick Rothfuss
- SerieDAW Books
- VerlagPenguin LCC US
- Seiten1120 Seiten
- Gewicht524 g
- LeseprobeTHE WISE<br>MAN'S<br>FEAR<br />The Kingkiller Chronicle:<br />Day One: THE NAME OF THE WIND<br />Day Two: THE WISE MAN'S FEAR<br />THE WISE<br>MAN'S<br>FEAR<br />Copyright © 2011 by Patrick Rothfuss<br />.<br />All Rights Reserved.<br />ISBN: 978-1-101-48640-5<br />Cover cobblestone alley photo: Getty Images: Ed Freeman<br>Cover shadowy figure photo: Getty Images: Matthias Clamer.<br>Cover designed by G-Force Design.<br />DAW Book Collectors No. 1540.<br />DAW Books are distributed by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.<br />Book designed by Elizabeth M. Glover.<br />All characters and events in this book are fictitious.<br>Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.<br />The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.<br />First Printing March 2012<br />1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10<br />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.<br />To my clever beta readers, for their invaluable help and toleration of my paranoid secrecy.<br />To my fabulous agent, for keeping the wolves from the door in more ways than one.<br />To my wise editor, for giving me the time and space to write a book that fills me with pride.<br />To my loving family, for supporting me and reminding me that leaving the house every once in a while is a good thing.<br />To my understanding girlfriend, for not leaving me when the stress of endless revision made me frothy and monstrous.<br />To my sweet baby, for loving his daddy even though I have to go away and write all the time. Even when we're having a really great time. Even when we're talking about ducks.<br />TABLE OF CONTENTS<br />PROLOGUE<br />A Silence of Three Parts<br />DAWN WAS COMING. THE Waystone Inn lay in silence, and it was a silence of three parts.<br />The most obvious part was a vast, echoing quiet made by things that were lacking. If there had been a storm, raindrops would have tapped and pattered against the selas vines behind the inn. Thunder would have muttered and rumbled and chased the silence down the road like fallen autumn leaves. If there had been travelers stirring in their rooms they would have stretched and grumbled the silence away like fraying, half-forgotten dreams. If there had been music...but no, of course there was no music. In fact there were none of these things, and so the silence remained.<br />Inside the Waystone a dark-haired man eased the back door closed behind himself. Moving through the perfect dark, he crept through the kitchen, across the taproom, and down the basement stairs. With the ease of long experience, he avoided loose boards that might groan or sigh beneath his weight. Each slow step made only the barest tep against the floor. In doing this he added his small, furtive silence to the larger echoing one. They made an amalgam of sorts, a counterpoint.<br />The third silence was not an easy thing to notice. If you listened long enough you might begin to feel it in the chill of the window glass and the smooth plaster walls of the innkeeper's room. It was in the dark chest that lay at the foot of a hard and narrow bed. And it was in the hands of the man who lay there, motionless, watching for the first pale hint of dawn's coming light.<br />The man had true-red hair, red as flame. His eyes were dark and distant, and he lay with the resigned air of one who has long ago abandoned any hope of sleep.<br />The Waystone was his, just as the third silence was his. This was appropriate, as it was the greatest silence of the three, holding the others inside it
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