MID-MORNING: THE NARROW ROAD

The sun had climbed a bit by the time Bast returned to the lightning tree. He was pleasantly sweaty with his hair in a state of mild dishevel, but the torn knee of his pants had been carefully mended with small, even stitches. The thread was an off-color white against the dark fabric, but the seam had been cleverly worked into the shape of a shepherd’s crook, and a small fluffy sheep had been embroidered further up the leg.

There were no children waiting, so Bast did a quick circle of the tree, once in each direction to ensure his workings were still firm. Then he brought out the folded-over leather sack, sat down against the tree, and made a pull. Opening his hand, he frowned to see the embril that looked very like a broken coin. Irritated, he put it back and drew again. This time he seemed more pleased to find a wooden square painted with a tiny sleeping fox.

Bast tried to walk the wooden embril down his knuckles like a coin and failed. Then he flipped it in the air with his thumb, caught it, and slapped it on his wrist, revealing the sleeping fox again. Smiling, he leaned his head against the smooth white side of the lightning tree, and was snoring softly in half a moment’s time.

---

Bast blinked himself awake at the sound of footsteps clomping up the hill. Blearily, he peered at the position of the sun and stretched. Then, looking down the hill, he smiled to see a blue-eyed boy with freckles.

“Kostrel!” Bast called happily. “How is the road to Tinuë?”

“Sunny!” the boy said, smiling back as he came to the top of the hill, revealing well-worn boots a bit too big for him. He cut a sly look sideways at Bast and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “I have something for you!”

Bast made a show of rubbing his hands together with delight.

“In fact,” Kostrel continued with a touch of drama, “I have three things for you today.” He looked around casually, his eye sweeping the bottom of the hill where no children were waiting. “If you have time, that is. I know you tend to be busy….”

Bast stretched lazily to draw the moment out. Kostrel bargained like a friendly ivy, cheerfully finding the slenderest crack where he could gain purchase. Bast wasn’t fool enough to give him even a slight advantage by asking what he’d brought.

But he also wanted time to give Kostrel a second look, sensing something slightly off. Were his shoulders tight? His smile a little wide? Was the boy nervous, or just a bit more excited than usual?

“That’s the trouble with giving people what they need,” Bast said slowly, matching Kostrel’s indifferent tone. “They don’t need to come back for more.”

Bast fought the urge to smile as he let the conversation lull. He saw Kostrel fidget with a loose thread on his shirt cuff, then rock onto the balls of his feet. The boy was sharp, but still so young. Not anxious then. Eager. He must have something good to trade.

It was barely two breaths before Kostrel cracked and spoke. “First we have a gift,” he said, and with great ceremony, he dipped a hand into his pocket and brought out a closed fist concealing something.

“I don’t go in for presents as a rule,” Bast said dubiously. Despite his tone, his eyes were fixed on Kostrel’s outstretched hand.

Grinning, Kostrel moved his closed hand back and forth in a teasing way. He waggled his eyebrows ridiculously.

Bast smiled as he felt the old familiar tug inside. He wasn’t wise, but he had been burned before, and wary was wisdom’s cousin. Still, his curiosity itched at him….

But no. Bast had not the least desire to be bound. Even a thimbleful of obligation rankled him. Even to a sunny summer child like this.

That said…it was almost surely nothing dangerous. Just some bauble. A button. An odd tooth he stumbled on while digging. A spinning top. An interesting rock shaped slightly like a dog. No real harm came from taking gifts like those. The debt they hung was lighter than a pin.

But then again, what if the button were of bone? What if there were a ruby hidden unseen in the stone? What if the toy had been adored? Cherished, cared for, generations old? Passed from hand to hand with love, heavy as a shackle made of gold?

No. Certainly not. It simply wasn’t worth the risk.

So Bast resisted. Shaking his head, he leaned back and crossed his arms. Even so, his eyes flicked back to the boy’s hand, there and away, quick as a snake’s tongue darting out to taste the air.

Kostrel started to rock back and forth in an improvised dance, humming and wiggling both eyebrows all at once. He waggled his hips and waved the arm he wasn’t leaving tantalizingly outstretched to Bast.

There was a reason Kostrel was his favorite. He was a perfect mix of cleverness and fool. He looked so ridiculous Bast relented, laughing. “I suppose I can make a rare exception. Just for you.”

Then, against his wit and will, but following his heart, Bast reached out and held his open hand beneath the boy’s clenched fist.

Kostrel stopped his clowning long enough to open up his hand. A bit of metal tumbled down. A tiny teardrop flashed and glittered, caught the sun, and spun…

It landed on Bast’s palm as lightly as a leaf. It struck him like an anvil on his heart. It drove the breath from him like he’d been pushed deep underwater. It left him stunned as if the tree behind him had been hit with lightning twice despite the clear blue sky above.

Bast’s vision dimmed. The world went grey then faded further almost into black until the only piece of light remaining came from the tiny sun-touched tearlike bit of brass held in his hand. Before he could see more, his fingers clenched around it as if taken by a sudden cramp.

The world snapped back. Light and color. Wind. The smell of grass.

Reeling, Bast made certain his face was still a mask. It held. He made certain it showed nothing of his eyes or what he truly felt. Then he flourished it with just a tinge of curiosity, lifting up one eyebrow just a bit.

Kostrel watched him eagerly, and Bast’s first thought was that the quickest way to fix the clever little bastard’s trick would be to rip his throat clean out and throw him off the hill. He’d strike the hard stone bluff across the water, then fall into the stream below. Bast would like to see the spiteful little viper try to call his name without a voice, a shattered back, and lungs fast filling up with water running swift against….

But of course he couldn’t. That was the first of many things Bast would be barred from doing now that he’d been fool enough to take a gift not knowing what it was, not knowing how much obligation it would hang around his neck, or how heavy it would press down on his heart. A gift unseen, as if he were some dewy, day-old dennerling.

“I thought you might not have set your eyes on one of those before,” Kostrel said. His tone was one part smug, two parts delight.

Bast began to seethe. But the boy’s expression…something in it wasn’t right. The trap was sprung, but Kostrel didn’t show a hint of gloat. No wicked glee. No sharp relief. No excitement at the certain knowledge his trick had worked. Kostrel simply didn’t have the proper look. A budding Tarsus ought to stroke his chin and laugh a bit, or at least have the decency to look superior and self-satisfied.

Moving carefully to keep his mask in place, Bast tried to reach his hand out to the boy. Much to his surprise, he found he could. Slowly Bast put two fingers lightly onto Kostrel’s arm. No resistance thickened the air. He felt no pain, no dread. His vision didn’t dim. Nothing. For some reason he could still lay hands upon the boy.

Bast leaned forward slightly, and quickly as a striking snake, he put one hand around the young boy’s throat. Still nothing. Bast felt the boy’s pulse tap tenderly against his fingertips.

With a bubbling giggle, Kostrel pulled away. It was a bashful motion, without a hint of startlement or fear. “Do they say ‘thanks’ by tickling folk where you come from?” he mumbled, rubbing the side of his neck shyly, looking around as if embarrassed someone might have seen. “Stop it, Bast.”

At the sound of his name, Bast tensed. But there was nothing. No compulsion. No weakness. No feeling like Kostrel held a leash pulled tight around his throat…

Baffled, Bast looked down at his clenched fist. This was no mere button or beloved toy. Despite what stories said, it was no simple thing to truly bind one such as Bast. And the list of things that could do so as sudden, hard, and heavy as this gift had managed was short indeed. Grandfather iron would work, of course. Or a piece of star that fell to earth. One of a handful of dark and ancient links of broken chain….

But those were dark, and what he’d glimpsed was bright. A seal of sovereign gold might work, but only with the proper names. A ring of amber was an older trick, but Bast hadn’t seen one in a mortal age. Besides, he would have had to put it on his finger….

Slowly, Bast worked to open up his clenched hand and saw a tiny piece of bright, engraven brass shaped like a tear. Some amulet? A coin?

Bast was puzzled. He didn’t recognize the thing, but the sensation wasn’t something you forgot. Gingerly, he felt inside himself…and there it was. Undeniable as an iron shackle welded tight around his heart. Bast found himself straining to fill his lungs as if he couldn’t breathe. But he could. His lungs were full.

With a great effort, Bast forced himself to exhale. Then he drew another lungful, feeling breathless though the air came easy. He’d almost rather it had been some piece of terrible and ancient iron, then at least he’d understand. Bad enough that Kostrel’s gift had bound him up with an obligation heavier than he had felt in ages, but what did it mean that the boy couldn’t compel him? How could he hope to balance out a debt he didn’t even seem to owe to….

Bast looked up at Kostrel’s freckled, grinning face. It dawned on him then, and he remembered the exact words the boy had used before. “I see,” Bast said slowly. “It’s a gift, but not from you. Who is it from then?” Bast asked the question, but he already knew. Full of dread and breathless, he hoped that it wasn’t true.

“It was Rike,” Kostrel admitted, looking a little sheepish. “That’s the second thing I brought. He sent a message. He wants to talk.” Kostrel bobbed his shoulders up and down as if shrugging multiple times. “Don’t worry, I know the rules and already told him that your answer would be no.”

Bast fought the urge to howl and pound his fists into the ground. He fought the urge to sigh and slump with visible relief. Better beholden to a stupid enemy than to a clever friend. Rike had the hungry cunning of a feral dog, but he couldn’t have accomplished this on purpose. Far better caught by stupid luck, than have Kostrel somehow spot Bast for what he was, puzzle out the way to bind him, then play the game so sly that he could catch Bast unawares….

So it was bad, but not so bad as he had feared. Bast looked over at the freckled boy, glad he hadn’t misjudged Kostrel either.

Bast held the warm brass between his fingers. It showed a pair of hands around a head of wheat. “So what’s this then?” he asked. “When it’s not out beneath the moon?”

“It’s called a penance piece,” Kostrel burst out, making it obvious he’d been desperately waiting to be asked. “I went and asked Abbe Leodin cause of the church writing on the bottom.” He pointed excitedly. “See?”

Bast turned the coin over. The other side showed a tower wrapped in flame. “Ah,” he said grimly. “Of course. Tehus antausa eha.” He said the words with the lighthearted joy of a man chewing a mouthful of salt.

“I don’t know about where you come from,” Kostrel continued, “but we shout that at demons come midwinter. It’s holy or somesuch. Abbe showed me a few others from the pauper box.” He peered down at the coin and shrugged. “Those were different though. He said that one was proper old. But I don’t know. It’s bright as a new penny. The others were all dull.”

Bast continued turning the coin in his fingers, nodding to himself as if listening to someone explain a not particularly funny joke. His mood didn’t seem to be notably improved by mention of the priest.

Kostrel chattered on, happily filling the silence. “He said rich folk give them out to beggars to get right with god. But mostly in big cities like Baedn and Atur and such.” Kostrel waved vaguely in the direction of the king’s road. “He says any baker in the corners will trade one for a loaf no matter wh….” Kostrel trailed off, seeing Bast’s expression.

“Bread!” Bast bit the word off. His tone seething. “That little liar thinks he can buy me off with bread?”

Kostrel’s smile fell away, looking startled. “A gift!” he said quickly. “Not a bribe! Rike said it was a gift!”

Bast felt the muscles in his jaw jump as he clenched his teeth. Bast would have been delighted by a bribe. But it wasn’t the boy’s fault he didn’t know. In fact, Kostrel not understanding was the only good part of this entire situation.

Kostrel tried again, his voice high and hesitant. “I don’t think he meant anything by it,” he said. “Except, y’know. Maybe trying to make things just a little right? He knows he put his foot in it last year, so now he’s…” He gestured at the coin. “Penance.”

After another moment, Kostrel steadied himself and continued. “I mean…a loaf might not be much to you, but you live at an inn.” Kostrel looked down, uncomfortable. “Most folk don’t. For Rike…a loaf’s not nothing.”

Bast turned the bright brass in his fingers again, his face dark as stormclouds. Still, done was done. He gestured with the coin, then dropped it in the leather sack and cinched it tight. “You think this means I should loosen up his laces?”

Kostrel held his hands out in front of himself. “I do not think one single thing,” he said with absolute certainty. “If you two start pissing at each other again, I want to be anywhere other than standing in between!”

Bast burst out laughing and smiled. It was like the sun emerging from behind a cloud. “That is because you are wise beyond your years,” he said. “What’s the third thing that you brought for me?”

Kostrel relaxed and sat cross-legged on the grass. “I’ve got a secret to trade,” he said. “And I came to you first, because it’s valuable information.” He hesitated, drawing out the drama of the moment. “I know where Emberlee takes her bath.”

Bast raised an interested eyebrow. “Is that so?”

Kostrel rolled his eyes. “You faker. Don’t pretend you don’t care.”

“Of course I care,” Bast said with just a hint of wounded pride. “She’s the sixth prettiest girl in town, after all.”

“Sixth?” the boy said, indignant. “She’s the second prettiest and you know it!”

“Perhaps fourth,” Bast conceded. “After Annia.”

“Annia’s legs are skinny as a chicken’s,” Kostrel said, rolling his eyes.

Bast shrugged lazily. “To each his own. But yes. I am interested. What would you like in trade? An answer, a favor?”

“I want good answers to three questions and a favor,” the boy said, his dark eyes sharp. “And we both know it’s worth it. Because Emberlee is the third prettiest girl in town.”

Bast opened his mouth as if he were going to protest, then shrugged instead. “No favor. Three answers on a single subject named beforehand,” he countered.

Kostrel chewed his lip. “But if you don’t know enough about the subject, I get to pick another.”

Bast nodded and held up a finger. “Any subject except that of my employer, of course, whose trust in me I cannot in good conscience betray.” Bast’s voice was thick with poorly hidden self-importance as he spoke.

Kostrel didn’t even bother to dismiss the ridiculous idea that he might be interested in the man who ran the second-most successful taproom in a town so small it only had one inn. “Three full, honest answers,” he said. “No equivocating or bullshittery.”

“So long as the questions are focused and specific,” Bast countered. “No ‘tell me everything you know about’ nonsense.”

“That wouldn’t be a question,” Kostrel pointed out.

“Exactly,” Bast said. “Three full, honest answers on a single subject. And you agree not to tell anyone else where Emberlee is having her bath.” Kostrel scowled at that, and Bast laughed. “You little cocker, you would have sold it twenty times, wouldn’t you?”

The boy shrugged easily, not denying it and not embarrassed either. “It’s valuable information.”

“And you won’t show up yourself.”

The dark-eyed boy spat a couple words that surprised Bast more than his earlier use of equivocating. “Fine,” he growled. “But if you don’t know the answer to my question, I get to ask another.”

Bast thought about it for a moment. “That’s fair.”

“And you loan me another book,” the boy said, his dark eyes glaring. “And you give me a copper penny. And you have to describe her breasts to me.”

Bast threw back his head and laughed. “Done. If she gives her permission, of course.”

Kostrel boggled. “How in twelve different colored hells am I supposed to get her to agree to that?” he asked.

Bast spread his hands helplessly. “Not my problem,” he said. “But asking her seems like the straightest road.”

Kostrel took a deep breath and let it out again. Then he climbed to his feet, took a step, and pressed a hand against the sun-bleached side of the lightning tree. Bast reached behind his head to touch the tree, and sealed the deal by shaking with the boy. Kostrel’s hand was as delicate as a bird’s wing inside his own.

Letting go, Bast blinked in the warm sun and started to yawn. “So. What subject are you curious about today?”

Kostrel stepped back and sat on the ground, his serious look shifted into one of giddy excitement. “I want to know about the Fae!”

It’s hard to yawn and stretch when it feels like you’ve swallowed a lump of hot iron. But it was not for nothing Bast considered himself an artist. He seamlessly unspooled his stretch like a cat napping on a warm stone hearth. His yawn was so languid he wished someone was here to see how seamlessly he managed seeming calm.

“Well?” Kostrel asked. “Do you know enough about them?”

“A fair amount,” Bast said modestly. “More than most folk, I imagine.”

Kostrel’s freckled face was triumphant. “I knew it! You aren’t from around here. You’ve seen what’s really out there in the world!”

“Some,” Bast admitted. He looked up at the sun. “Ask your questions then. I have an important appointment in about an hour.”

The boy looked down at the grass for a moment, thinking. “What are they like?”

Bast blinked, then he laughed and threw up his hands. “Merciful Tehlu! Do you have any idea how crazy that question is? They’re not like anything. They’re like themselves.”

Kostrel looked indignant. “Don’t you try and shim me!” he said, leveling a finger at Bast. “I said no bullshittery!”

“I’m not.” Bast raised his hands defensively. “It’s just impossible to answer. What would you say if I asked you what people were like? How could you answer that? There’s so many kinds of people. They’re all different.”

“So it’s a big question,” Kostrel said. “Give me a big answer.”

“It’s not just big,” Bast protested. “It would fill a book.”

A cat can look at a king, and a kid can climb a tree. And Kostrel, apparently, could meet Bast’s eyes without flinching, blinking, or looking open to the thinnest thread of compromise.

Bast scowled at him. “It could be argued your question is neither focused nor specific.”

Kostrel raised an eyebrow. “So we’re arguing? I thought we were trading information? If you asked me where Emberlee was going for her bath, and I said, ‘in a stream’ you’d feel like I’d measured you pretty short corn, wouldn’t you?”

Bast sighed. “If I tell you every rumor I’ve heard, this would take a span of days. And it would be useless, untrue, or contradictory. I promised you answers both honest and true.”

Kostrel narrowed his eyes and gave a profoundly unsympathetic shrug. “Not my problem.”

Bast held up his hands in surrender. “Here’s what I’ll do. Despite the unfocused nature of your question. I’ll give you an answer that covers the rough shape of things and…” Bast hesitated. “…one true secret relating to the subject. Fair?”

“Two secrets.” Kostrel’s dark eyes were still serious, but they glittered with excitement, too.

“Okay.” Bast looked up at the sky, as if organizing his thoughts. “When you say ‘fae,’ you’re talking about anything that lives in the Fae. That includes a lot of things that are…just creatures. Like animals. Here you have dogs and squirrels and bears. There they have raum and dennerlings and trow.”

“And dragons?”

Bast shook his head. “Not that I’ve ever heard. Not any more.”

Kostrel looked disappointed. “What about the fair folk? Like faerie tinkers and such?” He sat up stiffly, and quickly added. “Mind you, this isn’t a new question. It’s an attempt to focus your ongoing answer.”

Bast laughed helplessly. “Lord and lady. Ongoing? Was your mother scared by an azzie when she was pregnant? Where do you get that kind of talk?”

“I stay awake in church,” Kostrel said dryly. “And sometimes Abbe Leodin lets me read his books. What do the people who live there look like?”

“Mostly like regular people,” Bast said simply.

“Like you and me?” the boy asked.

Bast fought back a smile. “Just like you or me. Odds are you wouldn’t notice if they passed you on the street. But others? Some of them are…they’re different. More powerful.”

“Like Varsa Never-Dead or the Folding King?”

That brought Bast up short. “Where did you hear about the Folding King?” he asked without meaning to, his tone one of genuine surprise.

Kostrel grinned wickedly. “What will you give me for an answer to that question?”

Bast rubbed his face in disbelief, then he touched his forehead in a gesture that mimicked a formal bow despite the fact that he was sitting cross-legged in the grass with a wooly sheep embroidered on his pants.

“Some of the faen folk are like that,” Bast conceded. “The way you hear in stories. Strength of arms, or charms, or tricks that put an Arcanist’s to shame. But some are powerful in other ways. Like the mayor, or a moneylender.” His expression went sour. “A lot of those types…they’re not good to be around. They like to trick people. Play games with them.”

Some of the excitement bled out of Kostrel at this. “Sounds like demons.”

Bast started to shake his head, hesitated, then made a vague gesture instead. “Some are very much like demons,” he admitted. “Or so close as makes no difference.”

“Are some of them like angels, too?” the boy asked.

“It’s nice to think that,” Bast said. “I hope so. But my guess is most of them are more between than either-or.”

“Where do they come from?”

Bast plucked a piece of grass and put it nonchalantly in his mouth. “That’s your second question then?” he asked. “It must be, as it’s got nothing to do with what the fae are like.”

Kostrel grimaced, though Bast couldn’t tell if he was embarrassed he’d gotten carried away, or ashamed he’d been caught out trying to get a free answer. “Is it true that faerie folk can never lie?”

“Some can’t,” Bast said. “Others simply find it ugly. Some lie but never break their word.” He shrugged. “Others lie quite well, and do so every chance they get.”

Kostrel opened his mouth, but Bast cleared his throat. “You have to admit,” he said. “That’s a pretty good first answer. I even gave you a few free questions.”

“No you didn’t,” Kostrel said. “We agreed to three separate questions relating to a central topic. If you claimed a duplicate question was new, that would be bullshittery.” He assumed a lofty expression. “It’s more fair to say I generously assisted you in staying on-topic.”

Bast chuckled low in his chest. “But you’ll admit I’ve given a good answer, yes?”

Kostrel looked like he might argue for a second, then gave a slightly sullen nod. “What about my secrets then?”

“First,” Bast held up a single finger. “Most of the fae don’t come to this world. They don’t like it. It rubs all rough against them, like a burlap shirt. But when they do come, they like some places better than others…” He trailed off playfully.

Kostrel’s dark eyes were hungry and sharp as knives. Rather than resist being led, he charged ahead eagerly. “What places do they like?”

Bast felt his voice grow soft and slow. “First, I promised that I would be true, and to be clear, that’s what I mean to do. So before I answer, I must say: there are uncounted varieties of fae. Many houses. Many courts. All colored in their subtle shades. All burning with their own strange fires. All ruled according to their own heart’s desires….”

He leaned forward and Kostrel unconsciously did the same. “Some have a tender love for nature’s wild. Some are drawn to mortal hearth and home. Some find a secret place and stay, while others cannot help but roam.”

Bast felt excitement rising in his chest, the rare bubbling delight that came from letting loose a hard-held secret that someone desperately desired. It was like candy, brandy, and a kiss together. “But something that appeals to all the fae are places with connections to the raw, true things that shape the world. Places that are touched with fire and water. Places that are close to air and stone. When all four come together….” Bast’s hands met between them, fingers interlacing.

Kostrel’s face had lost all trace of its sharp cunning. He looked like a child again, mouth agape, his eyes wide and deep and soft with wonder.

Watching him, Bast felt joy like a needle strike clean through the center of his heart. Bast made an art of artifice, and he was justified in pride at all his clever craft. But this boy sat here being nothing but himself. His heart a harp that played no tune except his pure desire. It made Bast want to weep and howl. It made Bast wonder where he’d lost his way.

“Second secret.” Bast raised a pair of slender fingers. “What I told you earlier was true. For the most part, faen folk look nearly like we do. But almost all of them have something to them that is slightly slant. Their smile. Their smell. The color of their eyes or skin. They might be just a bit too short, or thin. Perhaps a subtle shine when moonlight hits their hair. Another could be oddly strong or fair.”

“Like Felurian!” Kostrel interjected.

“Yes, like Felurian,” Bast said testily, thrown off his stride. “All those who walk the twisting roads between have charms to hide themselves, and more, as you’re aware.” He leaned back, nodding to himself. “That is a type of magic all the fair folk share.”

Bast threw the final comment out like a fisherman casting a lure.

Kostrel swallowed hard. He didn’t fight the line. He didn’t even know that he’d been hooked. “That’s my second question: What sort of magic can they do?”

Bast rolled his eyes dramatically. “Oh come now, that’s another book’s worth of question!”

“Well maybe you should just write a book then,” Kostrel said sharply. “Then you can lend it to me and kill two birds with one stone.”

The comment seemed to catch Bast by surprise. “Write a book?”

“That’s what people do when they know every damn thing, isn’t it?” Kostrel said sarcastically. “They write it down so they can show off.”

“I’ll give you the bones of what I know,” Bast said. “First, the fae don’t think of it as magic. They’ll talk of art or craft. Seeming or shaping. But if they were to speak plainly, which they rarely do, they would call it glamourie and grammarie.” Kostrel watched him, rapt, as Bast continued. “The twin arts of making something either seem or be.”

Bast rolled on, caught up in the boy’s excitement, his words coming fast and easy. “Glamourie is easier. With it they can make a thing seem other than it is. Make a white shirt seem like it is blue. Make a torn shirt seem like it is whole. Most folk have at least a scrap of glamour-art to hide their strangeness from a mortal’s sight.” Bast reached out to tug at a lock of Kostrel’s hair. “Their glamourie could make gold hair look silver-white.”

Kostrel’s face was lost in wonder yet again. But…something was different now. Looking more closely, Bast saw it was no longer the gormless, gaping wonder of before. Now his eyes were sharp and glittering like knives. They showed a mind no longer dazzled by the what, and slowly moving to the point where they would ask a how.

Bast felt a chill run through him then. This is what came of letting down his guard. This is what happened when he let himself be bound, grounded, pulled so many ways. Why had he learned enough about the boy to feel fondness for him? It was like falling in love with a violet. It was like building a house on sand.

Feeling the cold sweat settle on him, Bast saw Kostrel’s eyes as the wonder shifted slightly, became hungry, started to crystallize into questions such as, ‘How do they make their glamour?’ and worse, ‘How might a clever young boy break it?’

And what would Bast do then, with a question like that hanging in the air? Break his promise fairly made? Here, where all things met? That was absolutely retrograde to his desire, and Bast could barely guess at what the consequence would be…

No. Far easier to tell the truth for now. Then make sure something happened to the boy. Something fast and final, unfortunate but clearly accidental. Sooner would be safer, too.

But…Bast liked this boy. He wasn’t dull, or easy. He wasn’t mean or low. He was foolish, fast, and hungry. Bast labored ages learning how to be a lamp, while this sweet child simply sat and shone like summer sun. The witty willful little tit was bright as broken glass and sharp enough to cut himself. And Bast too, apparently.

Bast rubbed his face. He had never been in conflict with his own desire before this place. It used to be so easy. Want and have. See and take. Run and chase. Thirst and slake. Now everything was complicated. So much of what he longed for he could not pursue, and every day he felt more turned from his own true….

“Bast?” Kostrel’s head was cocked to the side. “Are you okay?” Awkward as a fawn, he reached out to put a hand on Bast’s knee, patting it awkwardly, trying to comfort him.

No. Bast couldn’t kill this boy. That would be too hard a thing.

Even so, Bast knew how fast a town could turn. He’d seen it. One day everything was kisses and cake, but let one little secret slip and suddenly the only choice was fire and iron, or flee and leave it all behind.

But here and now? He did not want to leave. What’s more, his secrets were all tangled in his master’s lies, so much he feared that one loose thread might cause the whole thing to unravel.

“You said grammarie was making something be?” Kostrel prompted gently.

Bast made an inarticulate gesture. He didn’t have to feign a struggle. He’d promised honesty. He’d said too much. Killing this boy would be like shattering a stained glass window, but secrets would betray his master.

But saying nothing was the worst option. Bast knew how loud silence could be.

“Grammarie is…changing a thing,” he said at last.

“Like turning lead into gold?” Kostrel asked, obviously trying to be helpful. “Is that how they make faerie gold?”

Bast made a point of smiling, though it felt stiff as leather on his face. “That’s likely glamourie. It’s easy, but it doesn’t last. Fools who fall for faerie gold end up with pockets full of stones or acorns in the morning.”

“But could they turn gravel into true gold?” Kostrel asked. “If they really wanted to?”

Bast felt the stiffness between his shoulders ease a bit. His smile softened, growing smooth. Of course. He was a curious boy. Of course. That was the narrow road between desires.

“It’s not that sort of change,” Bast said, though he nodded at the question. “That’s too big. Grammarie is about…shifting. It’s about making something into more of what it already is.”

Kostrel’s face twisted with confusion.

Bast took a deep breath and let it out through his nose. “I’m doing this wrong. What have you got in your pockets?”

Kostrel rummaged about and held out both his hands. There was a brass button, a piece of coal, a horse chestnut, a small folding knife…and a grey stone with a hole in it. Of course.

Bast slowly passed his hand over the collection of oddments, eventually stopping above the knife. It wasn’t particularly fine, just a piece of smooth wood the size of a finger with a groove where a short, hinged blade was tucked away.

Bast picked it up delicately between two fingers. “What’s this?”

“It’s my knife,” Kostrel said as he stuffed the rest of his belongings back into his pocket.

“That’s it?” Bast asked.

“What else could it b—” The boy cut himself off before asking the full question, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. “It’s just a knife.”

Bast brought his own knife out of his pocket. It was a little larger, but instead of wood, it was carved from a piece of horn, polished and beautiful. When he opened it, the blade glittered sharp and white.

He lay both knives on the ground between them. “Would you trade your knife for mine?”

Kostrel eyed the knife jealously. But there wasn’t a hint of hesitation before he shook his head.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s mine,” the boy said, his face clouding over.

“Mine’s better,” Bast said matter-of-factly.

Kostrel reached out and picked up his knife, closing his hand around it possessively. His face was sullen as a storm. “My da gave me this,” he said. “Before he took the king’s coin and went to be a soldier and save us from the rebels.” He looked up at Bast, as if daring him to say a single word contrary to that.

Bast didn’t look away from him, just nodded seriously. “So it’s more than just a knife,” he said. “It’s special to you.”

Still clutching the knife, Kostrel nodded, blinking rapidly.

“For you, it’s the best knife.”

Another nod.

“It’s more important than other knives. And that’s not just a seeming,” Bast said, pointing. “It’s something that knife is.”

There was a flicker of understanding in Kostrel’s eyes.

Bast nodded. “That’s grammarie. Now imagine if someone could take a knife and make it be more of what a knife is. Make it the best knife. Not just for them, but for anyone.” Bast picked up his own knife and closed it with a clik. “If they were truly skilled, they could do it with something other than a knife. They could make a fire that was more of what a fire is. Hungrier. Hotter. Someone truly powerful could do even more. They could take a shadow…” He trailed off gently, leaving an open space in the empty air.

Kostrel drew a breath and leapt to fill it with a question. “Like Felurian!” he said. “That’s how she made Kvothe’s shadow cloak?!”

Bast nodded seriously, glad for the question, hating that it had to be that question. “It seems likely to me. What does a shadow do? It conceals, it protects. Kvothe’s cloak of shadows does the same, but more.”

Kostrel was nodding along in understanding, and Bast pushed on quickly, eager to leave this particular subject behind. “Think of Felurian herself…”

Grinning, Kostrel seemed to have no trouble doing that.

“Someone beautiful,” Bast said slowly, “can be a focus of desire. Felurian is that. Like the knife. The most beautiful. The focus of the most desire for everyone…” Bast let his statement trail off gently.

Kostrel’s eyes were far away, obviously giving the matter his full deliberation. Bast gave him time for it, and after a moment another question bubbled out of the boy. “Couldn’t it be merely glamourie?” he asked.

“Ah,” said Bast, smiling wide. “But what is the difference between being beautiful and seeming beautiful?”

“Well…” Kostrel stalled for a moment, then rallied. “One is real and the other isn’t.” He sounded certain, but it wasn’t reflected in his expression. “One would be fake. You could tell the difference, couldn’t you?”

Bast let the question sail by. It was close, but not quite what he needed. “What’s the difference between a shirt that looks white and a shirt that is white?” he countered.

“A person isn’t the same as a shirt,” Kostrel said with vast disdain. “If Felurian looked all soft and rosy like Emberlee, but her hair felt like a horse’s tail, you’d know it wasn’t real.”

“Glamourie isn’t just for fooling eyes,” Bast said. “It’s for everything. Faerie gold feels heavy. And a glamoured pig would smell like roses when you kissed it.”

Kostrel reeled a bit, his imagination’s shift from Emberlee to pig making him blink. “Wouldn’t it be harder to glamour a pig?” he asked at last.

“You’re clever,” Bast said. “And you’re exactly right. And glamouring a pretty girl to be more pretty wouldn’t be much work at all. It’s like putting icing on a cake.”

Kostrel rubbed his cheek, his eyes focused on something far away. “Can you use both glamourie and grammarie at the same time?” he asked. “It seems like that would be the simplest way to get more penny for your pound of flour.”

This startled Bast enough that his expression slipped. The boy was bright as freshly sharpened iron, and twice as dangerous to have so close to hand. Bast felt a warm pride glowing in his chest even as he felt a chill of fear at what the boy might ask him next. Kostrel’s third and final question waited like a tiger in the grass.

Bast nodded encouragingly. “I’ve heard that is the way of things.”

Kostrel looked thoughtful. “That’s what Felurian must do,” he said. “Like cream on top of icing on a cake.”

“I think so too,” Bast said. “The one I met said s—” He stopped abruptly, face a mask of startled fear as he snapped his mouth shut. But it was obviously too late…

Kostrel’s head snapped up suddenly, his eyes glittering with animal excitement. “You’ve met one of the Fae?”

Bast grinned. His perfect teeth were like a beartrap. “Yes.”

This time Kostrel felt both the hook and line, but far too late. “You bastard!” he shouted furiously.

“I am,” Bast admitted happily.

“You tricked me into asking that!”

“I did,” Bast said. “It was a question related to this subject, and I answered it fully and without equivocation.”

Kostrel got to his feet and stormed off, only to come back a moment later, stomping heavily with his too-big boots. “Give me my penny!” he demanded, holding out his hand.

Bast pulled out a copper penny. “Where does Emberlee take her bath then?”

Kostrel glowered furiously, “After lunch on the Boggan farm,” he said. “Out past Oldstone bridge, then up towards the hills about a quarter mile. A little sandy-bottom pool hidden by an ash tree.”

Bast tossed him the penny, still grinning like mad.

“I hope your dick falls off,” the boy said venomously before stomping back down the hill.

Bast couldn’t help but laugh. But he did his best to do so quietly, as he liked Kostrel, and wanted to spare the boy’s feelings. Even so, he didn’t meet with much success, and the sound followed the freckled boy’s retreat.

Kostrel turned at the bottom of the hill and shouted. “You still owe me a book!”

Bast stopped laughing as something jogged loose in his memory. Looking around, he panicked when he saw Celum Tinture wasn’t in its proper spot.

Then he remembered leaving the book in the old holly tree and relaxed. The sky was clear, no sign of rain. It was safe enough.

He turned and hurried down the hill, not wanting to be late.