O NOME DO VENTO EBOOK
"Ero distante solo due dozzine di piedi, lo vedevo perfettamente nella luce del tramonto. La sua spada era pallida ed elegante, tagliava l'aria con un suono. Comprar eBook Kindle. Ver o eBook Kindle: R$ 21, Leia em qualquer dispositivo com aplicativo . O nome do vento. Patrick Rothfuss. 4,7 de 5 estrelas I can't explain this book. The story of Kvothe is truly fantastic. Patrick Rothfus has a way with words and an ability to write children that reminds me of Orson Scott.
|Language:||English, Spanish, Japanese|
|Genre:||Fiction & Literature|
|ePub File Size:||18.37 MB|
|PDF File Size:||8.35 MB|
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Buy O Nome do Vento (Portuguese Edition): Read 2 Kindle Store Reviews - cittadelmonte.info "O melhor do ano para a cittadelmonte.info Os fãs de Harry Potter que anseiam por uma nova série excitante não precisarão de procurar além de ""O Nome do. Il nome del vento (Italian Edition) eBook: Patrick Rothfuss, Gabriele Giorgi: cittadelmonte.info: Kindle Store.
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Grid List. Order By: The Name Of The Wind: The Kingkiller Chronicle: Day One by Patrick Rothfuss. Mass Market Paperback. In stock online Available in stores. The Wise Man's Fear: Day Two by Patrick Rothfuss. Rick And Morty Vs. You've got to-- belch! Two pop-culture juggernauts are teaming up and neither multiverse is prepared for what comes next! Audio Book CD sold out.
Paperback Spanish. In stock online Not available in stores. La novela que ha consagrado a Patrick Rothfuss como…. Audio Book CD. Pat lives in Wisconsin, where he brews mead, builds box forts with his children, and runs Worldbuilders, a book-centered charity that has raised more than six million dollars for Heifer International.
He can be found at patrickrothfuss. 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 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 heavy as a great river-smooth stone. It was the patient, cut-flower sound of a man who is waiting to die. 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: The boy gave a slow nod.
Everyone knows that blue fire is one of their signs. Drink your drink.
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: 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. Old Cob leaned back on his stool, glad for the chance to elaborate. Once for any simple trade.
Twice for freely-given aid. Thrice for any insult made. Not that you could expect anything else, really. He was still a stranger. 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.
Are they men who sold their souls? No one knows. Things were getting heated when the front door banged open. Jake looked over. Tell this damn fool the difference between a demon and a dog. He clutched an old saddle blanket to his chest. It was an odd, awkward shape, as if it were wrapped around a tangle of kindling sticks. His friends jumped off their stools and hurried over at the sight of him.
His eyes were wild around the edges, like a skittish horse. His clothes were crisscrossed with long, straight cuts. His grey shirt hung in loose tatters except where it was stuck to his body, stained a dark, sullen red. Graham tried to ease him into a chair. Sit down, Carter. What happened to you? Sit down.