AFTERNOON: STILL
With no children waiting, Bast skipped stones in the nearby stream. He snuck up on a frog and startled it. He flipped through Celum Tinture, glancing at the illustrations: Calcification. Titration. Sublimation. He pulled a pair of embrils, then spent a long while puzzling at the pairing of the Empty Scales and the Winter Tree.
Brann, happily unbirched with a well-bandaged hand, brought him two sweet maple buns wrapped in a fine white handkerchief. Bast ate the first and set the second to one side.
Viette brought armloads of flowers and a fine blue ribbon. Bast wove the daisies into a crown, incorporating the ribbon so it ran twisting through the stems in an elaborate braided pattern.
Finally, looking up at the sun, Bast saw it was nearly time. He removed his shirt and filled it with the wealth of red and yellow touch-me-nots. He added the handkerchief and crown, then fetched a stick and made a bindle so he could carry the lot without the risk of crushing them.
He headed past the Oldstone Bridge, then up toward the hills and around a bluff until he found the place Kostrel had described. It was tucked tidily away. The stream curved and eddied into a lovely little pool perfect for a private bath.
Bast walked upstream, peering intently at the water as he went. He was forced to detour around a piece of boggy ground, then an outcrop of stone, then came upon an absolutely impenetrable patch of wild raspberry that forced him to turn back. He headed downstream to the Oldstone Bridge, then crossed the stream and headed back, exploring the other bank.
He met with fewer obstacles this time, and was able to stay much closer to the stream. He eyed the water closely, tossing in a leaf, a piece of bark, a handful of grass. He peered up at the sun. He listened to the wind. He scurried up and down the bank a dozen times.
Eventually he either learned what he set out to, or simply became bored. Returning to the secluded shaded pool, he hunkered down behind some bushes and was almost nodding off until the crackle of a twig and a scrap of song snapped him sharply awake. Peering down, he saw a young woman making her careful way down the steep hillside to the water’s edge.
Silently, Bast scurried upstream with his bundle. Three minutes later he was kneeling on a piece of grassy waterside where he had left the bright pile of flowers.
He picked up a yellow blossom, held it close, and when his breath brushed the petals, its color changed into a delicate blue. He dropped it in the water, watching as the current slowly carried it away.
Bast gathered up a handful of posies, red and orange, and breathed on them again. They too changed until they were a pale and vibrant blue. He scattered them onto the surface of the stream. He did this three more times until there were no flowers left.
Then, picking up the handkerchief and daisy crown, he sprinted back downstream, across the bridge, then around and over to the cozy little hollow with overarching elm. He’d moved so quickly that Emberlee was just arriving at the water’s edge.
Softly, silently, he crept up to the spreading elm. Even with one hand carrying the handkerchief and crown, he went up the side as nimbly as a squirrel.
Soon Bast lay along a low branch, sheltered by leaves, breathing fast but not hard. Emberlee was removing her stockings and laying them carefully on a nearby hedge. Her hair was a burnished golden red, falling in lazy curls. Her face was sweet and round, a lovely shade of pale and pink.
Bast grinned as he watched her look around, first left, then right. Then she began to unlace her bodice. Her dress was a cornflower blue, edged with yellow, and when she spread it on the hedge, it flared and splayed like the wing of a bird. Perhaps some fantastic combination of a finch and a jay.
Dressed only in her shift, Emberlee looked around again: left, then right. Then she shimmied free of it, a fascinating motion. She tossed the shift aside and stood there, naked as the moon. Her creamy skin was amazing with freckle. Her hips wide and delightful. The tips of her breasts were brushed with palest of pink.
She scampered into the water, making a series of small, dismayed cries at the chill of it. They were, on consideration, not really similar to a crow’s at all. Though they could, perhaps, be slightly like a heron’s.
Emberlee washed a bit, splashing and shivering. She ran a cake of soap between her hands, then soaped herself. She dunked her head and came up gasping. Wet, her curling hair clung to her, the color of ripe cherries.
That was when the first of the blue touch-me-nots arrived, drifting on the water. She glanced at it curiously as it floated by, then began to lather soap into her hair.
More flowers followed. They came downstream and spun circles around her, caught in the slow eddy of the pool. She looked at them, amazed. Then sieved a handful from the water and brought them to her face, drawing a deep breath to smell them.
She laughed delightedly and dunked under the surface, coming up in the middle of the flowers. The water sluiced her pale skin, but the blossoms clung to her, tangling in her hair and pressing to her skin as if reluctant to let go.
That was when Bast fell out of the tree.
There was a brief, mad scrabbling of fingers against bark, a bit of a yelp, then he hit the ground like a sack of suet. He lay on his back in the grass and let out a low, miserable groan.
He heard a splashing, and then Emberlee appeared above him. She held her white shift in front of her. Bast looked up from where he lay in the tall grass.
He’d been lucky to land on that patch of springy turf. A few feet to one side, and he’d have broken hard against the rocks. Five feet the other way and he would’ve ended wallowing in mud.
Emberlee knelt beside him, her skin pale, her hair dark. One posy clung to her neck. It was the same color as her eyes, a pale and vibrant blue.
“Oh,” Bast said happily as he gazed up at her. His eyes were slightly dazed. “You’re so much lovelier than I had hoped.”
Emberlee rolled her eyes, but still favored him with a fond smile.
He lifted a hand as if to brush her cheek, only to find it holding the crown and knotted handkerchief. “Ahh,” he said, remembering. “I’ve brought you some daisies too. And a sweet bun!”
“Thank you,” she said, taking the daisy crown with both hands. She had to let go of her shift to do this. It fell lightly to the grass.
Bast blinked, momentarily at a loss for words.
Emberlee tilted her head to look at the crown. The ribbon was a striking blue, but it was nothing near as lovely as her eyes. She lifted it with both hands and set it proudly on her head. Her arms still raised, she looked down at Bast and drew a long deliberate breath.
Bast’s eyes slipped from her crown.
She smiled at him indulgently.
Bast drew a breath to speak, then stopped and drew another through his nose. Honeysuckle.
“Did you steal my soap?” he asked incredulously.
Laughing happily, Emberlee bent to kiss him.
Bast made a wide loop up into the hills north of town. It was wild and rocky up that way. No soil deep or flat enough to plant, the ground too treacherous for grazing.
Even with the boy’s directions, it was hard to find Martin’s still. He had to give the crazy bastard credit, between the brambles, rockslides, and fallen trees, Bast never would have found it accidentally. What at first looked like a willow brake turned out to be the entrance to a scrubby little box valley. At the back of the valley was an overhang above a shallow cave with three quarters of a shack built out of it.
Bast slowed as soon as he saw the front door of the shack. He had some small experience sneaking in and out of places folk wanted to keep private. As such, he knew a hundred simple, vicious tricks used to discourage the overly curious.
Bast found excitement bubbling up in him as he began to slowly search for whatever Martin had set up to guard his still. Most folks showed reasonable restraint, knowing the people mostly likely snooping were neighbors. It was one thing to set a trap that might leave someone scratched or limping so you could tell who’d been nosing in your secrets. But you still needed to live in the community, so there were limits to what most folk would do.
But Martin wasn’t known for restraint, or even pleasantness, much less a desire to be a peaceful part of the community. Bast knew this better than anyone, as less than a minute after he’d first met the huge man, Martin had thrown a hatchet straight at his head before charging in, both fists swinging, shouting something about demons and barley. Bast would have liked to hear everything more clearly, but he’d been busy running through the trees like a rabbit with a hot coal up its ass.
After asking around a bit, Bast discovered that while this was extreme, it wasn’t out of character for the great bear of a man. He was widely regarded as the best distiller and poacher in town, hobbies he pursued openly, with a flagrant disregard for the king’s law.
But despite the fact that he sold his meat cheap and fletched the best arrows in town, Bast quickly learned what folk appreciated most about Martin was that the wild-eyed man came to town infrequently, and kept those visits brief.
So Bast found himself grinning as he swept his gaze around the shack. He could hardly guess what sort of safeguards a true maniac like Martin would devise to keep his precious secrets safe.
But half an hour of careful searching later, Bast hadn’t found a thing. No stumble-wire to drop a bank of stone down where the path went narrowly between two rocks. No fishhooks dipped in piss and hung face-high, hidden in the branches. No deadfalls. No crossbows. No jaw-traps. Nothing. Bast didn’t find as much as a string of bells or a shallow hole covered in old leaves.
Confused and disappointed, Bast wasn’t hoping for much when he finally entered the shack. But opening the door, he found himself surprised a second time.
The inside was as tight and tidy a little space as Bast had ever seen. Dried flowers and herbs hung in bundles from the rafters. A rug of woven grass covered the floor. The still wasn’t some slipshod contraption bunged together out of old pots and pine pitch either. It was a work of art.
A great covered copper kettle twice the size of a washbasin dominated the back of the shack, emerging from a huge, well-mortared fieldstone smoulder-stove. A wooden trough ran all along the ceiling, and only after following it outside did Bast realize it was for bringing in rainwater, and could be diverted into several different channels or used to fill the cooling barrels.
There were basins and buckets, a large screw press and a set of smaller presses using stones. Lines of bright copper tubing crossed the room, some passing through a collection of makeshift glass containers on a high shelf that looked like they held flowers, brightly colored fruit, and other things Bast could only guess at.
Eyeing the twists and spirals of copper running between the barrels and bottles and basins, Bast had the sudden urge to flip through Celum Tinture and learn what all the different pieces of the still were called. What they were for. Only then did he realize he’d left the book somewhere again…
So instead, Bast rooted around until he found a box filled with a mad miscellany of containers. Two dozen bottles of all sorts, clay jugs, old canning jars…. A dozen of them were full. None of them were labeled in any way.
Bast lifted out a tall glass bottle that he guessed had once held wine. He pulled the cork, sniffed, then took a careful sip. His face bloomed into a sunrise of delight. Despite the fact that this place reminded him of his master’s workshop, Bast had half-expected it to taste of char and turpentine.
But this was…well…he wasn’t sure entirely. He took another drink. There was something of apples about it. Some spice? It smelled ever so slightly of cinnas fruit and violets, and…honey?
Bast took a third drink, grinning. Whatever you cared to call it, it was lovely. Smooth and strong and just a little sweet. Unseen, Bast lifted the bottle in a toast to the absent master of the still. Martin might be mad as a badger, but he obviously knew his liquor.
It was better than an hour before Bast managed to make it back to the lightning tree. Celum Tinture was there, having slid off a smooth rock to lay in the grass, apparently unharmed. For the first time he could remember, Bast was glad to see the book. He flipped it open to the chapter on distillation and read for half an hour, nodding to himself at various points, flipping back to look at diagrams and illustrations. Turns out the thing was called a condensate coil. He’d thought it looked important. And expensive, being made entirely of copper.
Eventually he closed the book and sighed. There were a few clouds rolling in, so no good could come of leaving the book unattended. His luck wouldn’t last forever, and he shuddered to think what would happen if the wind tumbled the book into the grass and tore the pages. Or if there was a sudden rain….
So Bast wandered back to the Waystone Inn and slipped through the back door. Stepping carefully, he made his way into the taproom, opened a low cupboard, and tucked the book inside. He made his silent way halfway back to the stairs before he heard footsteps behind him.
“Ah, Bast,” the innkeeper said nonchalantly. “Have you brought the carrots?”
Bast froze, caught awkwardly mid-sneak. He straightened up and brushed self-consciously at his clothes. “I…I haven’t quite got round to that yet, Reshi.”
The innkeeper gave a deep sigh. “Bast, I don’t ask a…” He stopped and sniffed, then eyed the dark-haired man narrowly. “Are you drunk?”
Bast looked affronted. “Reshi!”
The innkeeper rolled his eyes. “Fine then, have you been drinking?”
“I’ve been investigating,” Bast said, emphasizing the word. “Did you know Crazy Martin runs a still?”
“I’d heard,” the innkeeper said, his tone making it clear he didn’t find this information to be particularly thrilling. “And Martin isn’t crazy. He just has a handful of unfortunately strong affect compulsions. And a touch of tabard madness from when he was a soldier, unless I miss my guess.”
“Well, yes…” Bast said slowly. “I know, because he set his dog on me and when I climbed a tree to get away, he tried to chop the tree down. And also set fire to the tree. And then he went to get his bow. But also, aside from those things, he’s crazy too, Reshi. Really, really crazy.”
“Bast,” the innkeeper said reproachfully, giving him a chiding look.
“I’m not saying he’s bad, Reshi. I’m not even saying I don’t like him. But trust me. I know crazy. His head isn’t put together like a normal person’s.”
The innkeeper gave an agreeable if slightly exasperated nod. “Noted.”
Bast opened his mouth, then looked slightly confused. “What were we talking about?”
“Your advanced state of investigation,” the innkeeper said, glancing out the window. “Despite the fact that it is barely past noon.”
“It’s Midsummer, Reshi,” Bast said plaintively, as if that explained everything.
The innkeeper merely blinked at him, his expression not changing.
Bast rolled his eyes. “You know how early it gets light on Midsummer, Reshi? Today is twice as long as some days we get in the winter.” As he continued, the innkeeper’s incurious stare seemed to erode Bast’s surety, but he pushed on. “What I’m saying is that if it were winter right now, Reshi. I mean, if today were in winter then it would already practically be evening by now.” He hesitated. “With how early I got up, I mean.”
The innkeeper was quiet for a long moment. Then he drew a deep breath and continued in a level tone. “If that stunning logical syllogism isn’t proof of your sobriety, I don’t know what is, Bast. Notwithstanding…”
“Oh, yes!” Bast said excitedly. “I know Martin’s been running a tab, and I know you’ve had trouble settling up because he doesn’t have any money.”
“He doesn’t use money,” the innkeeper corrected gently.
“Same difference, Reshi,” Bast sighed. “And it doesn’t change the fact that we don’t need another sack of barley. The pantry is choking on barley. But since he runs a still…”
The innkeeper was already shaking his head. “No, Bast,” he said. “I won’t go poisoning my customers with hillwine. You have no idea what can end up in that stuff.”
“But I do know, Reshi,” Bast said. “Ethel acetates and methans. And tinleach. There’s none of that.”
The innkeeper blinked. “Did…?” He stopped. Started again. “Bast, have you actually been reading Celum Tinture?”
“I did, Reshi! For the betterment of my education!” Bast beamed proudly. “And my desire to not poison our customers or go blind my own self. I got a taste, and I can say with confident authority that what Martin makes is far away from hillwine. It’s lovely stuff. Halfway to Rhis, and that’s not something I say lightly.”
The innkeeper stroked his upper lip thoughtfully. “Where did you get some to taste?” he asked.
“I traded for it,” Bast said, deftly skirting the edges of the truth. “Not only would it give Martin a chance to settle his tab, but it would help us get new stock in. I know that’s harder these days, roads bad as they are…”
The innkeeper held up both hands helplessly. “I’m already convinced, Bast.”
Bast grinned happily.
“Honestly,” the innkeeper said, “I would have done it for the sole reason of celebrating you reading your lesson for once. But it will be nice for Martin, too. It will give him an excuse to stop by more often. It will be good for him.”
Bast’s smile faded a bit.
If the innkeeper noticed, he didn’t comment on it. “I’ll send a boy round to Martin’s and ask him to come by with a couple bottles.”
“Get a dozen if he has them,” Bast said. “Or more. It’s getting cold at night. Winter’s coming, and what he’s got will be like drinking a piece of spring while sitting round the fire.”
The innkeeper smiled. “I’m sure Martin will be flattered by your glowing recommendation.”
Bast paled, his expression showing raw dismay. “By all the gorse no, Reshi,” he said, waving his hands frantically in front of himself. “Don’t tell him I said anything. Don’t even tell him I plan on drinking it. He hates me.”
The innkeeper hid a smile behind his hand.
“It’s not funny, Reshi,” Bast said angrily. “He throws rocks at me!”
“Not for months,” the innkeeper pointed out. “Martin has been perfectly cordial to you the last several times he’s stopped by for a visit.”
“Because there aren’t any rocks inside the inn,” Bast said.
“Be fair, Bast,” the innkeeper continued chidingly. “He’s been civil for almost half a year. Polite even. Remember he apologized to you two months back? Have you heard of Martin ever apologizing to anyone else in town? Ever?”
“No,” Bast said sulkily.
The innkeeper nodded. “See? That’s a big gesture for him.”
“I’m sure he’s turning a new leaf,” Bast muttered. “But if he’s here when I get home, I’m eating dinner on the roof.”
Bast was restless as he lay back on the grass beside the lightning tree. He shifted, stood, and went to get a drink from the stream that wound around the bottom of the hill. Coming back to the top, he circled the tall, white broken tree. Back and forth, winding and unwinding.
He sat again, uncomfortably, like a cat that’s been rubbed backwards. He felt around inside himself, and found what he knew would be true. The only obligations binding him were old, familiar things. Most barely more than scars. Some few resembling wounds old soldiers had. A shoulder that grew stiff with cold. A knee that ached when rain was on the way.
But nothing new. It was galling, as he’d been pleased how tidily he’d slid from underneath the unexpected dangers of the day. So why then did he feel more turned against himself than ever? Rucked up and tugged a dozen ways.
Finally he pulled out the leather sack. He stilled himself, closed his eyes, and pulled a full fist of embrils, tossing them up with a fluid, flippant grace.
He heard them hit the earth like hail, and opened his eyes to study them: a crescent of white horn, an oval of dark wood laying partly on top of the painted piper dancing on a piece of glazed white tile. There was a candle etched into an oblong stone, a disc of clay, the flat green stone he’d traded from the baker’s boy. There was the galling sun-bright bit of brass, and once again the one that very much looked like an old iron coin.
Soon the sound of Kostrel and his too-big boots came up the hill to stand beside him. The boy folded his arms and tried to look cross, but he wasn’t good at it. His features were too friendly. While he was clearly trying for a scowl, his freckled face just barely held a frown.
Not bothering to look up at the boy, Bast held out a small book bound in deep green leather. When the boy reached out and took it with both hands, Bast felt the faintest thread of debt pull loose inside him.
Kostrel opened the book and flipped some pages. “Looks like herbs or something?”
Bast shrugged, continuing to stare pensively at the scattering of embrils on the ground.
Kostrel’s attempt at petulance faded, and his expression returned to its more natural curiosity. “So…” he said casually. “Did you manage to catch Emberlee?”
This pulled Bast’s attention away from the stones, and he looked up at the boy.
“I did,” Bast said slowly, eyes still fixed carefully on Kostrel’s face. He saw it there again, something sitting not quite right. Not fear, or even nervousness. Those were too big, and would be obvious as a burr on his cuff. This was more like a grain of sand down the collar of his shirt.
Kostrel saw him staring and looked away.
It clicked into place then. Bast’s mouth went open in shock and admiration. “You didn’t find it,” he said. “She told you!”
“What? Who?” Kostrel’s expression was shocked and innocent, and while he made a good showing, it was still a mistake. Bast had been playing that game longer than the boy had been alive.
To his credit, Kostrel knew he’d been caught out, and immediately abandoned the act. “I got you though,” he said, eyes glittering with joy. His expression far more innocent than any he might try to feign.
Bast shook his head, blinking with genuine surprise. “You did an amazing job selling it,” he said. “I hope you turned a profit, too. What did Emberlee charge you for her bathing spot?”
Kostrel gave Bast a puzzled look. “Why would I buy it?” he said. “She wanted me to pass it off to you. She owed me a favor for that.”
Twice in as many minutes, Bast was shocked into silence.
Kostrel laughed at him. “Oh come on,” he said, rolling his eyes a bit. “You lot think you’re so sly and secret, but you’re not.”
Bast looked genuinely offended. “I’ll have you know,” he said with affronted dignity, “that I am, in fact, quite sly. And secret as well.”
Kostrel sighed a bit, and shrugged as if conceding a point. “You’re decent,” he said. “And Emberlee plays a good game too. But Kholi doesn’t have a lick of shame. And Dax—” Kostrel paused a moment, as if reconsidering his words. “Dax has many good qualities that make him ideally suited to sitting and watching sheep all day.”
“He has more good qualities than that,” Bast said, smiling a wide smile.
Kostrel rolled his eyes again. “I know he does. Because Kholi tells everyone. But he also blushes red as a slapped ass when anyone teases him.” The boy shook his head. “I swear, the lot of you hopping in and out of haystacks like rabbits, hiding in bushes. Everyone knows. Everyone with at least one eye and half a brain in their head.”
Bast blinked, then tilted his head curiously. “What favor did you ask Emberlee for?”
“A gentleman doesn’t tell,” Kostrel said with airy dignity, then gave a grin somehow more innocent and wicked than any Bast had ever seen.
Knowing better than to lock horns with Kostrel when he was even slightly spun, Bast went to get a drink from the stream and splash a little water on his face.
As he collected himself, he was surprised to realize he didn’t mind losing a round to Kostrel. In fact, it filled him with an odd delight. It had been years since he’d been completely taken in, and any game grows boring if you always win. So he would need to dance a little faster if he wanted to keep Kostrel on his toes. And Emberlee as well, it seemed.
When Bast came back to the top of the hill, Kostrel was staring at the scattering of embrils. “My granda has a Telgim set,” the boy said. “He used to throw stones to tell him the best time to plant. Drove my gran crazy.” He leaned forward to look more closely. “What’d you ask ’em?”
“Nothing,” Bast said, sitting down again. But here, beside the tree, the near-lie prickled him. “There’s only one question anyone is ever truly interested in,” he amended. “What now?”
The boy nodded, looking down. “You get anything?”
Bast turned his head to see Kostrel eyeing the embrils so fiercely it was almost comical. A smile began to flicker on Bast’s face. “How would you read it?”
Kostrel folded to the ground in the boneless way that children have. “I don’t know the proper names for all of them,” he admitted. “My granda only showed me a bit, and mostly when he’d had a few nips and wanted to rile up Gran.”
“Names are fine,” Bast said, shrugging with one shoulder. “But if you know what something’s called, it’s hard to keep wondering what it is.” He gestured. “The embrils aren’t like names that pin things to a page. Their nature is to twist and change. They remind us that the world is vast and deep. They teach us of the distance between catch and keep.”
Kostrel smiled. “That sounds like my granda. He says reading them keeps a mind from getting stiff, like old leather that hasn’t been oiled.” He leaned forward. “Show me how you’d read it first.”
Bast sighed, sounding stuck between frustration and exhaustion. “We’ve got the moon.” He touched the crescent of white horn. He moved his finger to the green stone with the woman’s face. “Then here’s a woman sleeping. And here’s the lamp unlit. So it’s night? A woman is sleeping at night?” He shook his head. “That’s a long walk for not much road.”
“Here’s the piper.” Bast pointed to a painted figure on the white tile, a drum strapped to his hip. “He’s overlapped by the closed eye. So he’s asleep too?” He flicked his fingers at the teardrop of the penance piece. “The burning tower signifies ruin and destruction…but it’s shaped like a drop, so…water? Maybe rain?”
“Then there’s the candle and the stone arch,” Bast said. “If they were next to each other, it could mean a journey. If the woman’s sleeping, it might be a dream…”
Kostrel pointed to the piece of jagged metal that very much looked like an iron coin. “What about that one, with the crown?”
Bast shrugged, but not as casually as before. Perhaps his mouth drew slightly tight as well. He was about to dismiss the question, but seeing the boy’s eyes, Bast remembered silence was the worst option with Kostrel. If Bast didn’t give him something, the boy would fixate on this like a bit of gristle stuck between his teeth.
“Iron crown is authority or rule,” Bast said, trying to sound bored. “But marred I’d read it as domination.” He paused, then decided he might as well make a clean breast of it. “By itself, it signifies the Shattered King. Majesty and power, but in ruin. Fallen into despair.”
“Despair?” Kostrel asked, puzzled.
Bast blinked and shook his head, genuinely irritated. “No,” he said. “I meant disrepair.” He bulled ahead quickly, gesturing at the entire spread. “It’s a mess. Parts of it fit together, but…” He threw his hands into the air and let them fall again, exasperated. “It doesn’t really say anything.”
“That’s not how I’d read it at all…” Kostrel said hesitantly.
Bast made a welcoming gesture. “Please.”
Kostrel touched the green stone gently with one finger. “This is a moss agate. Moss is soft and delicate, but agate is a hard, hard stone.” He slid the broken crown above the face carved into the green stone. “She’s a queen.”
He scooted forward so his shorter arms could reach the embrils. “I don’t think she’s sleeping, either.” He slid the brass coin closer. “This isn’t rain. It’s a tear. She’s soft but hard. Powerful and sad. Her tower is broken.” He made a sweeping gesture. “She’s the Weeping Queen.”
He pointed at the piece of horn showing the crescent moon. “I don’t know about that. Maybe it’s not even the moon? Maybe it’s a bowl? Or horns? Since it’s so thin, maybe it means something is about to end? Like when the moon has almost gone away?”
Kostrel’s tone grew more confident as he continued. “The piper isn’t sleeping either.” He touched the clay disk. “The lamp is his. A lamp is what you use to find your way, or read at night. Unlit? That means the piper’s in the dark. That means he’s lost, or ignorant.”
The boy brought his finger back to the piper. “The closed eye? He’s blind. He’s supposed to play for folk, make them dance to his tune. But he’s the one dancing.” Kostrel was caught up enough that he laughed at this. “He’s dancing but he’s too blind to even know it!”
He pointed. “The candle isn’t lit either. So…is he three times blind? Or…wasted potential? Fire that’s waiting?” Kostrel trailed off, tapping his lips.
Bast was looking at the embrils more intently now. “What about the arch?” he asked, something odd in his tone.
Kostrel didn’t seem to notice. “I dunno about that. It’s canted, so…maybe it’s supposed to be a hole the piper might fall into?” The boy thought a moment longer, then shrugged and rubbed his nose. “My granda used to say you shouldn’t work too hard to make all the pieces fit. When he did a bigger read, he said there was always one pull you needed to ignore. Half of reading proper was figuring out which one.”
Bast reached out, grinning suddenly as he tousled Kostrel’s hair. Then without any preamble, he gathered up his embrils and was down the hillside fast as dancing, heading off, far and away.
Bast had been trotting briskly for a quarter mile when he finally heard Rike calling his name through the trees. Surprised, Bast slowed to a stop and watched the boy run up the thin dirt path toward him.
“I’ve got it!” Rike said triumphantly. Breathless, he held up his hand. The entire lower half of his body was dripping wet.
“What, already?” Bast asked.
The boy nodded and flourished the dark stone between two fingers. It was flat and smooth and rounded, slightly smaller than the lid of a jam jar. “What now?”
Bast stroked his chin for a moment, as if trying to remember. “Well…now we need a needle. But it has to be borrowed from a house where no men live.”
Rike looked thoughtful for a moment, then brightened. “I can get one from Aunt Sellie!”
Bast fought the urge to curse. He’d forgotten Sellie’s older child had declared they didn’t care to be called Mikka any more. They were Grett now, and had been drinking harthan tea. “Oh, two women in the house is certainly adequate…” Bast lightly gilded the word with disdain. “…if that’s all you want. But the charm will be stronger if the needle comes from a house with a lot of women living in it. The more the better.”
Rike looked up for another moment, searching his memory. “Widow Creel has two daughters…” he mused.
“Dob’s living there too now,” Bast pointed out. “A house where no men or boys live.”
“But where a lot of girls live…” Rike stood there, dripping, slowly running through the options in his head. Finally he brightened. “Old Nan!” he said. “She don’t like me none. But I reckon she’d give me a pin.”
“A needle,” Bast stressed. “And you have to borrow it.” Bast watched the boys eyes narrow, and quickly added. “She has to lend it to you. You steal it, or try to buy it off her, it won’t work for the charm.” He raised an eyebrow at the boy. “Also, I hope it goes without saying that you can’t tell her what you truly need the needle for.”
“I can’t tell what I don’t know,” Rike groused, but only very softly.
Bast half expected the boy to follow up with questions about the particulars of the charm Bast had been hinting at. Or that he might complain about the fact Old Nan lived all the way off on the other side of town, about as far southwest as you could go and still be considered part of Newarre. It would take the boy half an hour to get there, and even then, Old Nan might not be home.
But Rike didn’t so much as sigh. He just nodded seriously, turned, and took off at a sprint, bare feet flying as he headed to the southern end of the king’s road.
Nodding to himself, Bast continued in the direction he’d been heading, off to the northern outskirts of the town….