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The Lightning Tree Page 3


  can make a thing seem other than it is.

  They could make a white shirt seem like

  it was blue. Or a torn shirt seem like it

  was whole. Most of the folk have at least

  a scrap of this art. Enough to hide

  themselves from mortal eyes. If their hair

  was all of silver-white, their glammourie

  could make it look as black as night.”

  Kostrel’s face was lost in wonder yet

  again. But it was not the gormless, gaping

  wonder of before. It was a thoughtful

  wonder. A clever wonder, curious and

  hungry. It was the sort of wonder that

  would steer a boy toward a question that

  started with a how.

  Bast could see the shape of these things

  moving in the boy’s dark eyes. His damn

  clever eyes. Too clever by half. Soon

  those vague wonderings would start to

  crystallize into questions like “How do

  they make their glammourie? ” or even worse. “How might a young boy break

  it?”

  And what then, with a question like that

  hanging in the air? Nothing good would

  come of it. To break a promise fairly

  made and lie outright was retrograde to

  his desire. Even worse to do it in this

  place. Far easier to tell the truth, then

  make sure something happened to the boy

  …

  But honestly, he liked the boy. He

  wasn’t dull, or easy. He wasn’t mean or

  low. He pushed back. He was funny and

  grim and hungry and more alive than any

  three other people in the town all put

  together. He was bright as broken glass

  and sharp enough to cut himself. And

  Bast too, apparently.

  Bast rubbed his face. This never used

  to happen. He had never been in conflict

  with his own desire before he came here.

  He hated it. It was so simply singular

  before. Want and have. See and take. Run

  and chase. Thirst and slake. And if he

  were thwarted in pursuit of his desire …

  what of it? That was simply the way of

  things. The desire itself was still his, it

  was still pure.

  It wasn’t like that now. Now his desires

  grew complicated. They constantly

  conflicted with each other. He felt

  endlessly turned against himself. Nothing

  was simple anymore, he was pulled so

  many ways …

  “Bast?” Kostrel said, his head cocked

  to the side, concern plain on his face.

  “Are you okay?” he asked. “What’s the

  matter?”

  Bast smiled an honest smile. He was a

  curious boy. Of course. That was the

  way. That was the narrow road between

  desires. “I was just thinking. Grammarie

  is much harder to explain. I can’t say I

  understand it all that well myself.”

  “Just do your best,” Kostrel said

  kindly. “Whatever you tell me will be

  more than I know.”

  No, he couldn’t kill this boy. That

  would be too hard a thing.

  “Grammarie is changing a thing,” Bast

  said, making an inarticulate gesture.

  “Making it into something different than

  what it is.”

  “Like turning lead into gold?” Kostrel

  asked. “Is that how they make faerie

  gold?”

  Bast made a point of smiling at the

  question. “Good guess, but that’s

  glammourie. It’s easy, but it doesn’t last.

  That’s why people who take faerie gold

  end up with pockets full of stones or

  acorns in the morning.”

  “Could they turn gravel into gold?”

  Kostrel asked. “If they really wanted

  to?”

  “It’s not that sort of change,” Bast said,

  though he still smiled and 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. “Let me try something

  else. What have you got in your

  pockets?”

  Kostrel rummaged about and held out

  his hands. There was a brass button, a

  scrap of paper, a stub of pencil, a small

  folding knife … and a 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 or fancy, 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 and set it down on the ground

  between them. “What’s this?”

  Kostrel stuffed the rest of his

  belongings into his pocket. “It’s my

  knife.”

  “That’s it?” Bast asked.

  The boy’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

  “What else could it be?”

  Bast brought out his own knife. It was a

  little larger, and instead of wood, it was

  carved from a piece of antler, polished

  and beautiful. Bast opened it, and the

  bright blade shone in the sun.

  He laid his knife next to the boy’s.

  “Would you trade your knife for mine?”

  Kostrel eyed the knife jealously. But

  even so, 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.

  “It’s something the 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 into the best knife. Not just for

  them, but for anyone. ” Bast picked up his

  own knife and closed it. “If they were

  really skilled, they could do it with

  something other than a knife. They could

  make a fire that was more of what a fire

&nb
sp; 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.

  “Is that what she did to make 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 …”

  The boy grinned, he seemed to have no

  trouble doing that.

  “A woman can be a thing of beauty,”

  Bast said slowly. “She 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 yet again.

  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 glammourie?” he asked.

  “Ah,” said Bast, smiling. “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’s the

  difference between a shirt that looks

  white and a shirt that is white?” he

  countered.

  “A woman isn’t the same as a shirt,”

  Kostrel said with vast disdain. “You’d

  know if you touched her. If she looked all

  soft and rosy like Emberlee, but her hair

  felt like a horse’s tail, you’d know it

  wasn’t real.”

  “Glammourie 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 visibly at that. The shift

  from Emberlee to a glamoured pig

  obviously left him feeling more than

  slightly appalled. Bast waited a moment

  for him to recover.

  “Wouldn’t it be harder to glamour a

  pig?” he asked at last.

  “You’re

  clever,”

  Bast

  said

  encouragingly. “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 thoughtfully.

  “Can you use glammourie and grammarie

  at the same time?”

  Bast was more genuinely impressed

  this time. “That’s what I’ve heard.”

  Kostrel nodded to himself. “That’s

  what Felurian must do,” he said. “Like

  cream on icing on cake.”

  “I think so,” Bast said. “The one I met

  …” He stopped abruptly, his mouth

  snapped shut.

  “You’ve met one of the Fae?”

  Bast grinned like a beartrap. “Yes.”

  This time Kostrel felt the hook and line

  both. But it was too late. “You bastard!”

  “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. “Give

  me my penny,” he demanded.

  Bast reached into his pocket and pulled

  out a copper penny. “Where’s does

  Emberlee take her bath?”

  Kostrel glowered furiously, then said,

  “Out past Oldstone bridge, up toward the

  hills about half a mile. There’s a little

  hollow with an elm tree.”

  “And when?”

  “After lunch on the Boggan farm. After

  she finishes the washing up and hangs the

  laundry.”

  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. He tried to

  do it quietly to spare the boy’s feelings

  but didn’t meet with much success.

  Kostrel turned at the bottom of the hill,

  and shouted, “And you still owe me a

  book!”

  Bast

  stopped

  laughing

  then

  as

  something jogged loose in his memory.

  He panicked for a moment when he

  realized Celum Tinture wasn’t in its

  usual spot.

  Then he remembered leaving the book

  in the tree on top of the bluff and relaxed.

  The clear sky showed no sign of rain. It

  was safe enough. Besides, it was nearly

  noon, perhaps a little past. So he turned

  and hurried down the hill, not wanting to

  be late.

  Bast sprinted most of the way to the little

  dell, and by the time he arrived he was

  sweating like a hard-run horse. His shirt

  stuck to him unpleasantly, so as he

  walked down the sloping bank to the

  water, he pulled it off and used it to mop

  the sweat from his face.

  A long, flat jut of stone pushed out into

  Littlecreek there, forming one side of a

  calm pool where the stream turned back

  on itself. A stand of willow trees

  overhung the water, making it private and

  shady. The shoreline was overgrown

  with thick bushes, and the water was

  smooth and calm and clear.

  Bare-chested, Bast walked out onto the

  rough jut of stone. Dressed, his face and

  hands made him look rather lean, but

  shirtless his wide shoulders were

  surprising, more what you might expect

  to see on a field hand, rather than a

  shiftless sort that did little more than

  lounge around an empty inn all day.

  Once he was out of the shadow of the

  willows, Bast knelt to dunk his shirt in

  the pool. Then he wrung it over his head,

  shivering a bit at the chill of it. He

  rubbed his chest and arms briskly,

  shaking drops of water from his face.

  He set the shirt aside, grabbed the lip of

  stone at
the edge of the pool, then took a

  deep breath and dunked his head. The

  motion made the muscles across his back

  and shoulders flex. A moment later he

  pulled his head out, gasping slightly and

  shaking water from his hair.

  Bast stood then, slicking back his hair

  with both hands. Water streamed down

  his chest, making runnels in the dark hair,

  trailing down across the flat plane of his

  stomach.

  He shook himself off a bit, then stepped

  over to dark niche made by a jagged

  shelf of overhanging rock. He felt around

  for a moment before pulling out a knob of

  butter-colored soap.

  He knelt at the edge of the water again,

  dunking his shirt several times, then

  scrubbing it with the soap. It took a

  while, as he had no washing board, and

  he obviously didn’t want to chafe his

  shirt against the rough stones. He soaped

  and rinsed the shirt several times,

  wringing it out with his hands, making the

  muscles in his arms and shoulders tense

  and twine. He did a thorough job, though

  by the time he was finished, he was

  completely soaked and spattered with

  lather.

  Bast spread his shirt out on a sunny

  stone to dry. He started to undo his pants,

  then stopped and tipped his head on one

  side, trying to jog loose water from his

  ear.

  It might be because of the water in his

  ear that Bast didn’t hear the excited

  twittering coming from the bushes that

  grew along the shore. A sound that could,

  conceivably, be sparrows chattering

  among the branches. A flock of

  sparrows. Several flocks, perhaps.

  And if Bast didn’t see the bushes

  moving either? Or note that in among the

  hanging foliage of the willow branches

  there were colors normally not found in

  trees? Sometimes a pale pink, sometimes

  blushing

  red.

  Sometimes

  an

  ill-

  considered yellow or a cornflower blue.

  And while it’s true that dresses might

  come in those colors … well … so did

  birds. Finches and jays. And besides, it

  was fairly common knowledge among the

  young women of the town that the dark

  young man who worked at the inn was

  woefully nearsighted.

  The sparrows twittered in the bushes as

  Bast worked at the drawstring of his

  pants again. The knot apparently giving

  him some trouble. He fumbled with it for

  a while, then grew frustrated and gave a

  great, catlike stretch, arms arching over

  his head, his body bending like a bow.

  Finally he managed to work the knot