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.

  MID-DAY: BIRDS

  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, and as he walked down the sloping bank to the water he drew it over his head and used it to wipe 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 willows 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. When he was fully dressed, his face and long, dexterous hands made him look rather lean, but without his shirt, his shoulders were surprisingly muscled, more what you might expect to see on a fieldhand, 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 down 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 a 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 surprisingly 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, tapping the heel of his hand against his temple, as if trying to jog water from his ear.