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There is a beauty to Pat's writing that defies description." —Brandon Sanderson, New York Times-bestselling author of Mistborn Patrick Rothfuss is the bestselling author of The Kingkiller Chronicle.His first novel, The Name of the Wind, won the Quill Award and was a Publishers Weekly Best Book of the Year.He pumped water, washed his hands, and brought up a piece of mutton from the basement. They came to rest on the sword that hung on the wall above the bottles. The door’s latch rattled noisily, followed by a loud hellooo and a thumping on the door.“Just a moment! Hurrying to the front door he turned the heavy key in the door’s bright brass lock.He cut fresh kindling, carried in firewood, punched down the rising bread and moved it close to the now-warm stove. It wasn’t a particularly beautiful sword, not ornate or eye-catching. Graham stood with his thick hand poised to knock on the door. Kote gave a tolerant smile.“He’s a good boy,” Graham said. I thought you might have closed up shop today.” He cleared his throat and glanced at his feet for a moment. ”Graham stepped out of the doorway and nodded toward the street where three barrels stood in a nearby cart.He stood there for a long moment, looking at the dirt road running through the center of the town. He moved with the casual grace of a dancer and the perfect nonchalance of a cat. He twisted out the cork, took a speculative sip, then made a sour face and shuddered. Candlelight.” This time it was a clear bottle with a pale yellow liquor inside. If you hadn’t been so quick on your feet …”Bast frowned. It got Shep.” He looked down at the well-scrubbed floorboards near the bar. If not for you, it would have slaughtered everyone here.”“Oh Reshi, that’s just not true,” Bast said. I just got it first.”The innkeeper shrugged the comment away. “Wondering what we could do to make things a bit safer around here. ”Bast nodded enthusiastically and practically bolted, pausing by the kitchen door. ” he asked anxiously.“We’ll start as soon as our guest is fed and ready,” Kote said.
Tossing aside the cloth, Bast made his way through the empty tables and chairs to the wide windows of the inn. Elderberry.” He finished the chant while pointing at a squat green bottle. “It was our song before it was yours, Reshi.” He drew a breath and sang in a sweet tenor: “Rode they horses white as snow. Wore they fresh and supple boughs, Red and green upon their brows.” The innkeeper nodded. Do you think you could take care of it while I get things ready here?
Besides, I heard the Bentons would be coming round with the first of the late apples today.”“I appreciate that.”“Nice and tight so they’ll keep through the winter.” Graham walked over and rapped a knuckle proudly against the side of the barrel. “I ain’t ever made a barrel with brass before, but these turned out nice as I could hope for. I’ll see to ’em.”“I’m glad it wasn’t too much trouble,” the innkeeper said. I worry iron would just rust out in a couple years.”Graham nodded. “Not many folk take the long view of things.” He rubbed his hands together. I’d hate to drop one and scuff your floors.”They set to it.
“Nothing like a winter apple to stave off hunger.” He looked up with a glimmer in his eye and knocked at the side of the barrel again. Two of the brass-bound barrels went to the basement while the third was maneuvered behind the bar, through the kitchen, and into the pantry.
Its sequel, The Wise Man’s Fear, debuted at #1 on The New York Times bestseller chart and won the David Gemmell Legend Award.
His novels have appeared on NPR’s Top 100 Science Fiction/Fantasy Books list and Locus’ Best 21st Century Fantasy Novels list.
After that, the men made their way back to the common room, each on his own side of the bar.