I’m re-reading The Name of the Wind, by Pat Rothfuss, and having a good time.  Much of the stuff here I’ve seen before – the fantasy veteran, the hypercompetent protagonist, the ancient myths coming back to haunt the present, the [SPOILER Class=”minor”] young hero’s family slaughtered by the arch-villain at the end of Act I [/SPOILER] – but Rothfuss presents his story with skill, the writing’s good, the monomyth is a monomyth for a reason, and as tvtropes reminds us: Tropes are Tools.

On my last read-through, I was most impressed by the use of comparative mythology to drive the plot.  The seven villains who comprise the Chandrian, a menacing and sinister group that looms over the life of our young hero, Kvothe, are ancient and mysterious.  Nobody knows much about them: whether they are or ever were human, whether they work together or separately, what powers they command, what signs tell of their presence, and so forth.  Kvothe hears many stories about the nature of supernatural evil in his world, some of which seem more relevant to his situation, and some less.

However, unlike some epic fantasies I could name, all myths in Name of the Wind aren’t true.  They conflict, clash, and color one another.  By squinting, you can see how religious teachings in this world correspond with older  stories about the origins of the Chandrian.  By comparing the stories and identifying patterns, the reader can creep toward an understanding of the true back story.

It’s a clever technique, and close to something Michael Swanwick does in Iron Dragon’s Daughter (about which I owe you a post-mortem post).  Jane, the main character of that book, lives in strange mechanized fairyland, and in her travels many of the denizens of this land try to explain their view of the world to her – discussing topics as disparate as social justice, science, gender relations, the origin of the universe, and the existence of God (or the Goddess, as the case may be).  In that book, I got the impression that by reading successive chapters I was peeling layers from an onion: eventually, after many tears, you get to the center, which is empty, and therefore infinite.  In Name of the Wind, the effect is more that of a Magic Eye painting: by placing myths and tales over one another, and squinting, a deeper picture emerges than if we were ever told the truth straight out.