MORNING: EMBRIL

By the time Bast arrived, the sun was peering up above the trees, painting the few thin clouds with pale shades of pink and violet.

Two children were already waiting in the clearing. They kept a respectful distance from the top of the hill, playing on the huge greystone that lay half-fallen at the bottom, climbing up the side, then jumping down to land laughing in the tall grass.

Knowing they were watching, Bast took his time climbing the tiny hill. At the top stood what the children called the lightning tree, though these days all that remained was a broad, broken, branchless trunk. The original tree must have been vast, as even this remnant was so tall that Bast could barely reach the top.

The bark had long since fallen away, and years of sun had bleached the bare wood white as bone except for all along its ragged top. There, even after all these years, the wood was a deep and jagged black. Trailing down the remaining trunk, the lightning had charred a wild, dark, forking image of itself into the bone-white wood, as if to sign its work.

Bast reached out with his left hand, touching the smooth trunk with his fingertips as he slowly walked a circle around the tree. He walked widdershins, turning against the world. The way of breaking. Three times.

Then he switched hands and paced around the tree in the opposite direction, moving the same way as the turning sun. Three slow circles deasil. The proper way for making. Thus he went while the children watched, back and forth, as if the tree were a bobbin he was winding and unwinding.

Finally Bast sat and rested his back against the tree. He lay the book on a nearby stone, the rising sun shone red against the hammered gold of the title: Celum Tinture. Then Bast amused himself by tossing stones down into the stream that cut sharply into the slope of the hill opposite the greystone.

After a minute, a round-faced blonde girl trudged up the hill. She was the baker’s youngest daughter, Brann. She smelled of sweat and bread and…something else. Something out of place.

The girl’s slow approach had an air of ritual about it. She crested the small hill and stood there for a moment, the only noise coming from the other children gathered below, gone back to playing.

Finally Bast turned his head and looked the girl over. No more than nine, she was a little more well-dressed and well-fed than most of the town’s other children. She carried a wad of white cloth in her hand.

The girl stepped forward, swallowing nervously. “I need a lie.”

Bast nodded, his face impassive. “What sort?”

Brann gingerly opened her hand, revealing a shock of red staining the cloth. It stuck to her hand slightly, a makeshift bandage. Bast nodded, realizing what he’d smelled before.

“I was playing with my mum’s knives,” Brann said, embarrassed.

Bast held out his hand and the girl took a few steps closer. Bast unwrapped the cloth with his long fingers and examined the cut. It ran along the meat near the thumb. Not too deep. “Hurt much?”

“Nothing like the birching I’ll get if she finds out I was messing with her knives,” Brann muttered.

Bast looked up at her. “You clean the knife and put it back?”

Brann nodded.

Bast tapped his lips thoughtfully. “You thought you saw a big black rat. It scared you. You threw a knife at it and cut yourself. Yesterday one of the other children told you a story about rats chewing off soldier’s ears and toes while they slept. It gave you nightmares.”

Brann gave a shudder. “Who told me the story?”

Bast shrugged off the question. “Pick someone you don’t like.”

The girl grinned viciously.

Bast began to tick off things on his fingers. “Get some fresh blood on the knife before you throw it.” He pointed at the cloth the girl had wrapped her hand in. “Get rid of that, too. The blood is dry, and obviously old. Can you work up a good cry?”

The girl seemed a little abashed and shook her head.

“Put some salt in your eyes,” Bast said matter-of-factly. “Maybe a little pepper up your nose? Get all snotty and teary before you run to them. Then,” Bast held up a cautionary finger. “Try not to cry. Don’t sniffle. Don’t blink. When they ask you about your hand, tell your mum you’re sorry if you broke her knife.”

Brann listened, nodding slowly at first, then faster. She smiled. “That’s good.” She looked around nervously. “What do I owe you?”

“Any secrets?” Bast asked.

The baker’s girl thought for a minute. “Widow Creel is tupping the miller’s husband?” she said hopefully.

Bast waved his hand as if shooing away a fly. “For years. That’s not a secret,” he said. “Everyone knows, including his wife.” He rubbed his nose. “What have you got in your pockets?”

The girl dug around and held up her uninjured hand. It held a tangle of string, two iron shims, a flat green stone, a blue button, and a bird’s skull.

Bast took the string. Then, careful not to touch the shims, he plucked the green stone out from among the rest. It was a flat, irregular shape, carved with the face of a sleeping woman. “Is this an embril?” he asked, looking surprised.

Brann shrugged. “Looks like part of a Telgim Set to me. They’re for telling fortunes.”

Bast held the stone up to the light. “Where’d you get it?”

“I traded it off Rike,” Brann said. “Said it was an ordal, but…he only….”

Bast’s eyes narrowed at the boy’s name, his mouth making a flat line.

Belatedly realizing her mistake, Brann went still. The girl’s eyes darted around nervously. “I…” She licked her lips nervously. “You asked….”

His expression sour, Bast looked down at the stone as if it had started to smell. He briefly considered throwing it down into the stream from pure spite.

Then, thinking better of it, he flipped it up into the air like a coin instead. Catching it, he opened his hand to reveal the other side of the stone. On this side, the carved woman’s eyes were open, and she smiled.

Bast rubbed it between his fingers thoughtfully. “This then. And a sweet bun every day for a full span.”

“That emerel or whatever,” Brann said, “and the string you took, and I’ll bring you one bun later today, warm out of the oven.” Brann’s expression was firm, but her voice turned up at the end.

“Two buns,” Bast countered. “So long as they’re maple, not molasses.”

After a moment’s hesitation, the girl nodded. “What if I get a birching anyway?” she asked.

“That’s your business.” Bast shrugged. “You wanted a lie. I gave you a good one. If you want me to haul you out of trouble personally? That’s a different deal entirely.”

The baker’s girl looked a little disappointed, but she turned and headed down the hill.

Next up the hill was one of the Alard boys. There were an uncountable ruck of them, formed by several families constantly blending and merging. The lot of them looked similar enough that Bast struggled to remember which was which.

This one looked as furious as only a boy of ten can be. He wore tattered homespun and had a split lip and a crust of blood around one nostril. “I caught my brother kissing Grett behind the old mill!” the boy said as soon as he crested the hill, not waiting for Bast to ask. “He knew I was sweet on ’em!”

Bast spread his hands and looked around helplessly, shrugging.

“Revenge,” the boy spat.

“Public revenge?” Bast asked. “Or secret revenge?”

The boy touched his split lip with his tongue. “Secret revenge,” he said in a low voice.

Something about the gesture jogged Bast’s memory, this was Kale. He’d once tried to trade Bast a pair of frogs for “a curse that would make someone fart forever.” Negotiations had grown heated before falling apart. He was thicker than a prince’s porridge, but Bast still held a grudging admiration for the boy.

“How much revenge?” Bast asked.

The boy thought for a bit, then held up his hands about two feet apart. “This much.”

“Hmm,” Bast said. “How much on a scale from mouse to bull?”

The boy rubbed his nose. “About a cat’s worth,” he said. “Maybe a dog’s worth. Not like Crazy Martin’s dogs though. Like the Bentons’ dogs.”

Bast tilted his head back in a thoughtful way. “Okay,” he said. “Piss in his shoes.”

The boy looked skeptical. “That don’t sound like a whole dog’s worth of revenge.”

Bast made a calming motion with the hand holding the green stone. “You piss in a cup and hide it. Let it sit for a day or two. Then one night when he’s put his shoes by the fire, pour the piss on his shoes. Don’t make a puddle, just get them a little damp. In the morning they’ll be dry and probably won’t even smell—”

“Then what’s the point?” Kale burst out, throwing his hands into the air. “That’s not a flea’s worth of revenge!”

Continuing as if the boy hadn’t spoken, Bast said. “Do it for three nights. Don’t get caught. Don’t overdo it. Just get them a little damp so they’re dry by morning.”

Bast held up a hand before Kale could interrupt. “After that, whenever his feet get sweaty, he’ll start to smell a little like piss.” Bast watched Kale’s face as he continued. “He steps in a puddle? He smells like piss. Morning dew gets his feet wet? He’ll smell a little like piss.”

“Just a little?” Kale said, baffled.

Bast gave a gusty, exaggerated sigh. “That way, it will be easy for him to miss and hard for him to figure out where it’s coming from. And because it’s just a little, he’ll get used to it.”

The boy looked thoughtful.

“And you know how old piss smells worse and worse? He’ll stay used to it, but other folk won’t.” Bast grinned at the boy. “I’m guessing Grett isn’t going to want to kiss the kid who can’t stop pissing himself.”

Admiration spread across the young boy’s face like sunrise. “That’s the most bastardy thing I’ve ever heard,” he said.

Bast tried to look modest and failed. “Have you got anything for me?”

“I found a wild bee hive,” the boy said.

“That will do for a start,” Bast said. “Where?”

“It’s off past the Orrisons.’ Past Littlecreek.” The boy squatted down and with just a few quick strokes drew a surprisingly clear map in the dirt. “See?”

Bast nodded. “Anything else?”

“Well….” He looked up and to the side. “I know where Crazy Martin keeps his still.”

Bast raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

The boy stepped to the side then knelt down and connected another map to the first, drawing almost absentmindedly while he spoke. “You cross this bit of the river twice,” he said. “Then you’ll want to go around the outcrop, because it looks like you can’t climb it. But there’s a little trail you can’t see.” He added one more line in the dirt, then squinted up at Bast. “We square?”

Bast studied the map, then ran a hand over it briskly, obscuring the lines. “We’re square.”

“Got a message for you too.” The boy stood and dusted off his knees. “Rike says he wants to meet.”

Bast’s mouth made a thin and bloodless line. “Rike knows the rules.” Bast’s voice was grim, just saying the name felt like a fishbone stuck halfway down his throat. “Tell him no.”

“I already told him,” Kale said, lifting his shoulders all the way up to his ears in an exaggerated shrug. “But I’ll tell him again if I see him….”

---

After that, Bast tucked Celum Tinture under his arm and went on a rambling stroll. He found wild raspberries and ate them. He hopped a fence to drink from the Ostlars’ well and pet their dog. He found an interesting stick, and used it to poke at things until he knocked down a hornet’s nest that wasn’t quite as abandoned as he thought. In his scramble to get away, he lost the stick, slipped on a slope of loose rock, and tore a hole in the knee of his pants.

Eventually Bast climbed to the top of a bluff where an ancient twisted holly tree stretched against the sky. He tucked the leather-bound book snugly against a branch, before reaching into a round hollow in the trunk. After a moment, he pulled out a small dark bundle that fit in the palm of his hand.

Unfolding the bundle revealed it to be a sack of soft, dark leather. He worked the drawstring loose and dropped the smooth green embril inside. It made a muffled tic like a marble against marbles.

He was about to return the sack then considered for a moment before sitting cross-legged on the ground. He brushed leaves and twigs aside, then put his hand inside the sack and stirred the contents idly. It made an odd, complex sound of wood and stone and metal jostling against each other.

Bast closed his eyes, held his breath, then drew out a hand and tossed the contents into the air.

Opening his eyes, Bast watched four embrils tumble down. Three of them made a rough triangle: A piece of pale horn carved with a crescent moon, a clay disk with a stylized wave, and a piece of tile painted with a dancing piper. Outside the triangle was something that looked like half an iron coin, but wasn’t.

Bast looked down at them, frowning slightly. Then he closed his eyes again and held his breath before making another pull, tossing it into the air as well. It fell between the horn and clay embrils, a flat piece of white wood with a spindle carved so the grain of the wood gave the impression of wound thread.

Bast’s brow furrowed. He looked up at the sky, clear and bright. Not much wind. Warm but not hot. Hadn’t rained for a span of days. Hours before noon on Felling. Wasn’t a market day….

Nodding, he swept the pieces back into their sack. Down past Old Lant’s place, around the brambles that bordered the Alard farm until he came to a marshy bit of Littlecreek where he cut a handful of reeds with a small, bright knife. He found a piece of string in his pocket, and quickly bound them together into a tidy set of shepherd’s pipes.

He blew across the reeds and cocked his head at their sweet discord. His bright knife flashed, and he tested the reeds again. This time they sounded almost true, which made the discord far more grating. There was a lesson there.

The blade flicked again. Once. Twice. Thrice. Not bothering to test the sound again, Bast tucked the knife away. He eyed the side of his finger where the knife had grazed him, leaving a line so thin you’d think the cut came from a blade of grass. Then the blood welled up, red as a poppy.

Bast put his finger in his mouth, then brought the pipes up to his face and breathed in deep through his nose, smelling the wet green of the reeds. He wet his lips and licked the fresh-cut tops of the reeds, the flicker of his tongue a sudden, startling red.

Then he drew a breath and blew against the pipes. This time the sound was bright as moonlight. Lively as a leaping fish. Sweet as stolen fruit. Lowering the pipes, he heard the low, mindless bleat of distant sheep.

Cresting the hill, Bast saw two dozen fat, daft sheep cropping grass in the valley below. It was shadowy here, secluded. The steep sides of the valley meant the sheep weren’t in danger of straying. Even the sheepdog was spread out lazily on a warm rock, dozing.

A young man sat beneath a spreading elm that overlooked the valley, his long shepherd’s crook leaned against the tree. He had taken off his shoes, and his hat was low over his eyes. He wore green trousers, loose at the leg, and a bright yellow shirt that suited the richly tanned skin of his face and arms. His long, thick hair was the color of ripe wheat.

Bast began playing as he made his way down the hill. A dangerous tune, low and slow and sly as a gentle breeze.

The shepherd perked up at the sound of it. He lifted his head, excited…but no. Apparently it was something else he heard, as he didn’t look in Bast’s direction at all.

He did climb to his feet though. It wasn’t particularly hot, but he fanned himself with his hat, then slowly removed his yellow shirt, using it to mop his brow before hanging it on a nearby branch. Then he stretched, hands twining over his head as the muscles of his shoulders and back played against each other.

Bast’s tune changed a bit, growing bright and light as water running over stones.

The nearby sheepdog lifted his head at the sound, stared at Bast for a moment, then lay it back down on the stone, utterly uninterested.

The shepherd on the other hand, gave no indication he could hear it. Though the young man picked up a nearby blanket and spread it beneath the tree. Which was a little odd, as he had been sitting in the same place before without it. Perhaps he’d grown chilly, now that he’d taken off his shirt…. Yes. Surely that was it.

Bast continued to play as he walked down the slope. The music he made was sweet and playful and languid all at once.

Sitting down on the blanket, the shepherd leaned back and shook his head slightly. His long, honey-colored hair fell away from his shoulders, exposing the lovely line of his neck, from his perfect shell-like ear down to the broad expanse of his chest.

Watching intently as he made his way down the hill, Bast stepped on a loose stone and stumbled awkwardly. He blew a hard, squawking note, then dropped a few more from his song as he threw out an arm wildly to catch his balance.

The shepherd laughed then. At first it seemed as if he must be laughing at Bast…but no. Obviously that wasn’t the case, as he was pointedly looking in the other direction. He was covering his mouth, too. It had probably been a cough. Or perhaps the sheep had done something humorous. Yes. That was surely it. They could be funny animals at times.

But one can only look at sheep for so long. The shepherd sighed and relaxed, reclining on the blanket. Putting one arm behind his head made the muscles of his arms and shoulders flex. He stretched lazily, arching his back a bit. The sunlight dappling through the leaves showed the roundness of his chest and belly was covered in the lightest down of honey-colored hair.

Bast continued down the hill toward where the shepherd lay, his steps delicate and graceful. He looked like a stalking cat. He looked like he was dancing.

The shepherd sighed again and closed his eyes, his face tilted like a flower to catch the sun. For all that he looked like he was trying to sleep, his breath seemed to be coming rather quickly. Shifting restlessly, he ran a hand through his hair, splaying it out on the blanket. He bit his lower lip….

It is difficult to grin while playing shepherd’s pipes. But Bast was something of an artist.