There’s probably never been a more difficult time to make your fantasy debut than right now: with an array of writers forging off in new and interesting directions, and others working along more classical lines in the best traditions of the genre, it must be difficult to decide whether to stick with tried and trusted or attempt to break the mould. With his debut novel, Patrick Rothfuss has demonstrated that for a writer who has the right combination of storytelling skills and imagination, there’s no need to break anything, and The Name of the Wind is a very fine advertisement for what fantasy can and should be.

Set in a backwoods inn, at a time when the world seems beset by war and strife, The Name of the Wind consists primarily of one long, extended flashback. The innkeeper, you see, turns out to be a bit of a celebrity, a superstar hero who has retreated in to obscurity; not really the humble Kote, proprietor of a struggling inn, he is really Kvothe – known as the bloodless, killer of kings – a legend in his own lifetime. When the renowned scribe known simply as Chronicler arrives at the inn (via an encounter with giant demon spiders!), he persuades Kvothe to tell him his life story, and thus, peppered with occasional interludes, the majority of the book is taken up with Kvothe describing his experiences, in his own compelling words.

Kvothe was the son of travelling players, the Edema Ruh, and his childhood is an ideal preparation for his future heroics – he learns how to play a part on stage, to play the lute, a variety of practical skills, and most importantly of all, from the arcanist who takes up with the troupe, he learns sympathy – that is, he learns the ability to influence the behaviour of common materials through exploiting their sympathetic connection to other materials, an intriguing idea for fantasy ‘magic’ that has some clearly spelt out scientific principles. Kvothe is something of a prodigy, with an excellent memory, sharp wits and an ability to pick things up remarkably quickly. His world is shattered by the destruction of the troupe by the Chandrian – a group of demons or otherworldly beings who descend on the camp and slaughter everyone except Kvothe, who is off picking mushrooms. From this point forward, the need to find out more about the Chandrian, dismissed by most as an old wives’ tale, is at the heart of Kvothe’s motivations.

After a period living rough in the big city of Tarbean, where he turns to crime in a desperate fight for survival, Kvothe manages to extricate himself – finding just enough money to make himself look respectable, he heads off to the University, where he gains admission at the tender age of fifteen. The University, which feels like a cross between Cambridge and Hogwart’s, is where he can learn sympathy, medicine, alchemy and much else. The Harry Potter comparison is not frivolous – like Harry at Hogwart’s, Kvothe is a marked outsider at a traditional institution; like Harry, with a couple of friends in tow Kvothe raises hell, upsets members of the establishment, and makes enemies among the students. It’s also where he begins to develop his unearthly reputation – the sobriquet ‘Kvothe the Bloodless’ coming from a time when he is whipped for a transgression, yet does not bleed due to drugs he has taken to dull the pain.

It’s also where he falls for Denna, a mysterious beauty who seems to come and go from his life with frustrating ease, and who is clearly destined to become part of Kvothe’s legend. Rothfuss uses these episodes to remind us that, for all his talents, Kvothe is still a boy, unsure of how to act around women. When Kvothe sets off on a mad dash to investigate the scene of another Chandrian attack, Denna becomes bound up in the action. It’s a cleverly written big finish involving a giant fire-eating lizard, backwoods drug refiners and the consequences of addiction, and Rothfuss shows that he can pick up the pace well when he needs to.

The conclusion of the book, which is the first in a planned trilogy, finds young Kvothe a bit older and a bit wiser, but still nowhere near to becoming a legend; meanwhile his older self, Kote, the storyteller, is revealed to be more scarred by his experiences than he seems to let on. Clearly the next volume will adopt the same format of extended flashback to tell us more about Kvothe’s life and times, and that’s no bad thing – because The Name of the Wind is beautifully written, cleverly plotted and hugely enjoyable. It demonstrates remarkable assurance for a fantasy debut, and marks Patrick Rothfuss as a great voice for the future. It’s also made me realise the extent to which some established writers can be guilty of dawdling over their tales. As Rothfuss proves, the story’s the thing, and he tells it with consummate and compelling skill. I for one will be hanging on Kvothe’s every word next time around…

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