Chapter 12: The Pruned Archives

DEVI’S ROOMS SMELLED of cinnamon and old secrets.

I’d come to settle my debt—the talents I still owed her from before my travels. But I’d also come for information. Devi knew things. She’d been expelled from the Arcanum for reasons nobody discussed openly, which meant she’d pushed boundaries that most students never even saw.

“You want to know about Yllish magic.” She said it as a statement, not a question. “Specifically, written magic. Knot-patterns that compel behavior.”

“How did you—”

“I’m observant. You’ve been asking questions. Visiting Elodin. Hovering near the restricted sections.” Her smile was sharp as a blade. “And you have a look. The look of someone who’s found something disturbing and needs to understand it before it’s too late.”

I sat down across from her. The usual chair, the usual distance. Devi was dangerous, but she was also one of the most brilliant minds I’d ever encountered. If anyone could help me understand what was happening to Denna, it was her.

“Tell me about the restricted sections,” I said. “The books that are locked away. The knowledge that’s been… pruned.”

Her expression flickered. Just for a moment. Then the mask was back.

“What do you know about pruning?”

“Lorren mentioned it. In passing. He said there are gaps in the collection. Intentional gaps.”

“He told you that?” Devi leaned back, surprised. “That’s… unexpected. Lorren doesn’t usually acknowledge the pruning to students. Or to anyone.”

“Why not?”

“Because acknowledging it raises questions. Who decides what gets removed? Why?” She stood, walked to her bookshelf, ran her fingers across the spines. “What happens to knowledge that disappears?”

She turned. “I know the answers. That’s part of why I was expelled.”

“Tell me.”

She pulled out a bottle of something amber, poured two glasses. This was new. Devi didn’t usually drink with clients.

“The Archives aren’t just a collection,” she said, handing me a glass. “They’re a curated collection. Someone—several someones, across centuries—has been deciding what knowledge is safe.” She paused. “And what knowledge is too dangerous to exist.”

“The Amyr.”

She went very still.

“Where did you hear that name?”

“Multiple sources. All of them telling me to stop asking questions.” I drank, felt the burn. “Which only makes me want to ask more.”

“Of course it does. You’re Kvothe.” She smiled, but it was sad. “I was the same way, once. Convinced that knowledge was power. Power was safety. If I could just learn enough, I could protect myself from anything.”

“What changed?”

“I learned something I shouldn’t have.” She set down her glass. “And they made sure I understood the consequences of knowing.”

She pulled down her sleeve. On her inner arm, a scar—pale and old, but unmistakable.

Yllish knots.

My throat went dry. I’d seen those patterns in the Archives, in nightmares, woven through Denna’s hair. But never on living skin—pale and raised, like text carved into flesh.

“Who did this to you?”

She covered the scar again, the gesture automatic, protective. “Just once. Just enough to make the point. The pattern was a binding. Compelled me to keep their secrets. But bindings fade if you know how to work around them. And I’ve had years to figure out the loopholes.”

“What secrets?”

“The same ones you’re stumbling toward. The truth about the Chandrian. The Amyr. The doors that keep the world from falling apart.” She finished her drink, set the glass down hard. “And the truth about Lorren.”

“Lorren?”

“He’s one of them. Has been for decades. Maybe longer.” She met my eyes. “The Amyr have ways of extending life. And Lorren is their instrument.”

I thought about my conversations with the Master Archivist. The way he watched me. The warnings he’d given.

“He warned me,” I said slowly. “When I came back. He said there were doors that only opened one way.”

“He was trying to protect you. In his way. The Amyr aren’t evil, Kvothe. They’re not even wrong, most of the time. They’re just… ruthless. Willing to sacrifice anything—anyone—for what they see as the greater good.”

“Including pruning knowledge that might help people?”

“Including pruning knowledge that might destroy people.” She refilled her glass. “The books they’ve removed aren’t just historical curiosities. They’re weapons. Instructions for magic that could crack the world open. Rituals that could summon things that haven’t walked the earth for three thousand years.”

“Yllish written magic.”

“Among other things. Yes.” She looked at me carefully. “You’re asking about this because of your friend. The dark-haired girl. The one with the patron who beats her.”

“How do you know about—”

“She came to me. Months ago. Asking the same questions you’re asking now.” Devi’s voice softened. “I couldn’t help her. The bindings on me… there are things I can’t say, even now. But I could see what was happening. I could see the patterns forming in her hair, in her movements. Someone was writing her. Turning her into something.”

“Into what?”

“I don’t know. But I know it’s not good. And I know it’s almost finished.” She reached across the table, gripped my hand. “Whatever you’re planning, Kvothe—whatever heroic gesture you’re thinking of making—be careful. The people behind this have been playing this game for millennia. They’re not going to be stopped by a clever student with good intentions.”

“Then what am I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know.” She let go of my hand. “But you’re going to do something. You always do.” She hesitated. “Just try not to destroy everything in the process. That’s the Amyr’s specialty.”

She met my eyes. “Don’t become them.”

I left Devi’s rooms with more questions than answers.

The Amyr. The Chandrian. The pruned Archives. All connected in ways I was only beginning to see.

And at the center—Denna. Being written. Being shaped. Becoming something that might already be beyond saving.

I had to find her. Understand what was happening before it was too late.

But first, I needed to learn more about Yllish magic. The older form. The darker one. Bindings inscribed into flesh. Patterns that could compel behavior.

If Denna was being written, maybe I could learn to read her.

And maybe I could find a way to rewrite the story.