The Lightning Tree

  THE LIGHTNING TREE

  Patrick Rothfuss

  Morning: The Narrow Road

  Bast almost made it out the back door of

  the Waystone Inn.

  He actually had made it outside, both

  feet were over the threshold and the door

  was almost entirely eased shut behind

  him before he heard his master’s voice.

  Bast paused, hand on the latch. He

  frowned at the door, hardly a handspan

  from being closed. He hadn’t made any

  noise. He knew it. He was familiar with

  all the silent pieces of the inn, which

  floorboards sighed beneath a foot, which

  windows stuck …

  The back door’s hinges creaked

  sometimes, depending on their mood, but

  that was easy to work around. Bast

  shifted his grip on the latch, lifted up so

  that the door’s weight didn’t hang so

  heavy, then eased it slowly closed. No

  creak. The swinging door was softer than

  a sigh.

  Bast stood upright and grinned. His

  face was sweet and sly and wild. He

  looked like a naughty child who had

  managed to steal the moon and eat it. His

  smile was like the last sliver of

  remaining moon, sharp and white and

  dangerous.

  “Bast!” The call came again, louder

  this time. Nothing so crass as a shout, his

  master would never stoop to bellowing.

  But when he wanted to be heard, his

  baritone would not be stopped by

  anything so insubstantial as an oaken

  door. His voice carried like a horn, and

  Bast felt his name tug at him like a hand

  around his heart.

  Bast sighed, then opened the door

  lightly and strode back inside. He was

  dark, and tall, and lovely. When he

  walked he looked like he was dancing.

  “Yes, Reshi?” he called.

  After a moment the innkeeper stepped

  into the kitchen; he wore a clean white

  apron and his hair was red. Other than

  that, he was painfully unremarkable. His

  face held the doughy placidness of bored

  innkeepers everywhere. Despite the early

  hour, he looked tired.

  He handed Bast a leather book. “You

  almost forgot this,” he said without a hint

  of sarcasm.

  Bast took the book and made a show of

  looking surprised. “Oh! Thank you,

  Reshi!”

  The innkeeper shrugged and his mouth

  made the shape of a smile. “No bother,

  Bast. While you’re out on your errands,

  would you mind picking up some eggs?”

  Bast nodded, tucking the book under his

  arm. “Anything else?” he asked dutifully.

  “Maybe some carrots too. I’m thinking

  we’ll do stew tonight. It’s Felling, so

  we’ll need to be ready for a crowd.” His

  mouth turned up slightly at one corner as

  he said this.

  The innkeeper started to turn away, then

  stopped. “Oh. The Williams boy stopped

  by last night, looking for you. Didn’t

  leave any sort of message.” He raised an

  eyebrow at Bast. The look said more

  than it said.

  “I haven’t the slightest idea what he

  wants,” Bast said.

  The innkeeper made a noncommittal

  noise and turned back toward the

  common room.

  Before he’d taken three steps Bast was

  already out the door and running through

  the early-morning sunlight.

  By the time Bast arrived, there were

  already two children waiting. They

  played on the huge greystone that lay

  half-fallen at the bottom of the hill,

  climbing up the tilting side of it, then

  jumping down into the tall grass.

  Knowing they were watching, Bast took

  his time climbing the tiny hill. At the top

  stood what the children called the

  lightning tree, though these days it was

  little more than a branchless trunk barely

  taller than a man. All the bark had long

  since fallen away, and the sun had

  bleached the wood as white as bone. All

  except the very top, where even after all

  these years the wood was charred a

  jagged black.

  Bast touched the trunk with his

  fingertips and made a slow circuit of the

  tree. He went deasil, the same direction

  as the turning sun. The proper way for

  making. Then he turned and switched

  hands, making three slow circles

  widdershins. That turning was against the

  world. It was the way of breaking. Back

  and forth he went, as if the tree were a

  bobbin and he was winding and

  unwinding.

  Finally he sat with his back against the

  tree and set the book on a nearby stone.

  The sun shone on the gold gilt letters,

  Celum Tinture. Then he amused himself

  by tossing stones into the nearby stream

  that cut into the low slope of the hill

  opposite the greystone.

  After a minute, a round little blond boy

  trudged up the hill. He was the baker’s

  youngest son, Brann. He smelled of

  sweat and fresh bread and … something

  else. Something out of place.

  The boy’s slow approach had an air of

  ritual about it. He crested the small hill

  and stood there for a moment quietly, the

  only noise coming from the other two

  children playing below.

  Finally Bast turned to look the boy

  over. He was no more than eight or nine,

  well dressed, and plumper than most of

  the other town’s children. He carried a

  wad of white cloth in his hand.

  The boy swallowed nervously. “I need

  a lie.”

  Bast nodded. “What sort of lie?”

  The boy gingerly opened his hand,

  revealing the wad of cloth to be a

  makeshift bandage, spattered with bright

  red. It stuck to his hand slightly. Bast

  nodded; that was what he’d smelled

  before.

  “I was playing with my mum’s knives,”

  Brann said.

  Bast examined the cut. It ran shallow

  along the meat near the thumb. Nothing

  serious. “Hurt much?”

  “Nothing like the birching I’ll get if she

  finds out I was messing with her knives.”

  Bast nodded sympathetically. “You

  clean the knife and put it back?”

  Brann nodded.

  Bast tapped his lips thoughtfully. “You

  thought you saw a big black rat. It scared

  you. You threw a knife at it and cut

  yourself. Yesterday one of the other

  children told you a story about rats

  chewing off soldier’s ears and toes while

  they slept. It gave you nightmares.”

  Brann gave a shudder. “Who told me


  the story?”

  Bast shrugged. “Pick someone you

  don’t like.”

  The boy grinned viciously.

  Bast began to tick off things on his

  fingers. “Get some blood on the knife

  before you throw it.” He pointed at the

  cloth the boy had wrapped his hand in.

  “Get rid of that, too. The blood is dry,

  obviously old. Can you work up a good

  cry?”

  The boy shook his head, seeming a little

  embarrassed by the fact.

  “Put some salt in your eyes. Get all

  snotty and teary before you run to them.

  Howl and blubber. Then when they’re

  asking you about your hand, tell your

  mum you’re sorry if you broke her knife.”

  Brann listened, nodding slowly at first,

  then faster. He smiled. “That’s good.” He

  looked around nervously. “What do I

  owe you?”

  “Any secrets?” Bast asked.

  The baker’s boy thought for a minute.

  “Old Lant’s tupping the Widow Creel

  …” he said hopefully.

  Bast waved his hand. “For years.

  Everyone knows.” Bast rubbed his nose,

  then said, “Can you bring me two sweet

  buns later today?”

  Brann nodded.

  “That’s a good start,” Bast said. “What

  have you got in your pockets?”

  The boy dug around and held up both

  his hands. He had two iron shims, a flat

  greenish stone, a bird skull, a tangle of

  string, and a bit of chalk.

  Bast claimed the string. Then, careful

  not to touch the shims, he took the

  greenish stone between two fingers and

  arched an eyebrow at the boy.

  After a moment’s hesitation, the boy

  nodded.

  Bast put the stone in his pocket.

  “What if I get a birching anyway?”

  Brann asked.

  Bast shrugged. “That’s your business.

  You wanted a lie. I gave you a good one.

  If you want me to get you out of trouble,

  that’s something else entirely.”

  The baker’s boy looked disappointed,

  but he nodded and headed down the hill.

  Next up the hill was a slightly older

  boy in tattered homespun. One of the

  Alard boys, Kale. He had a split lip and

  a crust of blood around one nostril. He

  was as furious as only a boy of ten can

  be. His expression was a thunderstorm.

  “I caught my brother kissing Gretta

  behind the old mill!” he said as soon as

  he crested the hill, not waiting for Bast to

  ask. “He knew I was sweet on her!”

  Bast spread his hands helplessly,

  shrugging.

  “Revenge,” the boy spat.

  “Public revenge?” Bast asked. “Or

  secret revenge?”

  The boy touched his split lip with his

  tongue. “Secret revenge,” he said in a

  low voice.

  “How much revenge?” Bast asked.

  The boy thought for a bit, then held up

  his hands about two feet apart. “This

  much.”

  “Hmmmm,” Bast said. “How much on a

  scale from mouse to bull?

  The boy rubbed his nose for a while.

  “About a cat’s worth,” he said. “Maybe a

  dog’s worth. Not like Crazy Martin’s dog

  though. Like the Bentons’ dogs.”

  Bast nodded and tilted his head back in

  a thoughtful way. “Okay,” he said. “Piss

  in his shoes.”

  The boy looked skeptical. “That don’t

  sound like a whole dog’s worth of

  revenge.”

  Bast shook his head. “You piss in a cup

  and hide it. Let it sit for a day or two.

  Then one night when he’s put his shoes

  by the fire, pour the piss on his shoes.

  Don’t make a puddle, just get them damp.

  In the morning they’ll be dry and

  probably won’t even smell too much …”

  “What’s the point?” the boy interrupted

  angrily. “That’s not a flea’s worth of

  revenge!”

  Bast held up a pacifying hand. “When

  his feet get sweaty, he’ll start to smell

  like piss.” Bast said calmly. “If he steps

  in a puddle, he’ll smell like piss. When

  he walks in the snow, he’ll smell like

  piss. It will be hard for him to figure out

  exactly where it’s coming from, but

  everyone will know your brother is the

  one that reeks.” Bast grinned at the boy.

  “I’m guessing your Gretta isn’t going to

  want to kiss the boy who can’t stop

  pissing himself.”

  Raw admiration spread across the

  young boy’s face like sunrise in the

  mountains. “That’s the most bastardly

  thing I’ve ever heard,” he said,

  awestruck.

  Bast tried to look modest and failed.

  “Have you got anything for me?”

  “I found a wild beehive,” the boy said.

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

  “Where?”

  “It’s off past the Orissons’. Past

  Littlecreek.” The boy squatted and drew

  a map in the dirt. “You see?”

  Bast nodded. “Anything else?”

  “Well … I know where Crazy Martin

  keeps his still …”

  Bast raised his eyebrows at that.

  “Really?”

  The boy drew another map and gave

  some directions. Then he stood and

  dusted off his knees. “We square?”

  Bast scuffed his foot in the dirt,

  destroying the map. “We’re square.”

  The boy dusted off his knees, “I’ve got

  a message too. Rike wants to see you.”

  Bast shook his head firmly. “He knows

  the rules. Tell him no.”

  “I already told him,” the boy said with

  a comically exaggerated shrug. “But I’ll

  tell him again if I see him …”

  There were no more children waiting

  after Kale, so Bast tucked the leather

  book under his arm and went on a long,

  rambling stroll. He found some wild

  raspberries and ate them. He took a drink

  from the Ostlar’s well.

  Eventually Bast climbed to the top of a

  nearby bluff where he gave a great

  stretch before tucking the leather-bound

  copy of Celum Tinture into a spreading

  hawthorn tree where a wide branch made

  a cozy nook against the trunk.

  He looked up at the sky then, clear and

  bright. No clouds. Not much wind. Warm

  but not hot. Hadn’t rained for a solid

  span. It wasn’t a market day. Hours

  before noon on Felling …

  Bast’s brow furrowed a bit, as if

  performing some complex calculation.

  Then he nodded to himself.

  Then Bast headed back down the bluff,

  past Old Lant’s place and around the

  brambles that bordered the Alard farm.

  When he came to Littlecreek he cut some

  reeds and idly whittled at them with a

  small bright knife. Then brought the

  string out of h
is pocket and bound them

  together, fashioning a tidy set of

  shepherd’s pipes.

  He blew across the top of them and

  cocked his head to listen to their sweet

  discord. His bright knife trimmed some

  more, and he blew again. This time the

  tune was closer, which made the discord

  far more grating.

  Bast’s knife flicked again, once, twice,

  thrice. Then he put it away and brought

  the pipes closer to his face. He breathed

  in through his nose, smelling the wet

  green of them. Then he licked the fresh-

  cut tops of the reeds, the flicker of his

  tongue a sudden, startling red.

  Then he drew a breath and blew against

  the pipes. This time the sound was bright

  as moonlight, lively as a leaping fish,

  sweet as stolen fruit. Smiling, Bast

  headed off into the Bentons’ back hills,

  and it wasn’t long before he heard the

  low, mindless bleat of distant sheep.

  A minute later, Bast came over the crest

  of a hill and saw two dozen fat, daft

  sheep cropping grass in the green valley

  below. It was shadowy here, and

  secluded. The lack of recent rain meant

  the grazing was better here. The steep

  sides of the valley meant the sheep

  weren’t prone to straying and didn’t need

  much looking after.

  A young woman sat in the shade of a

  spreading elm that overlooked the valley.

  She had taken off her shoes and bonnet.

  Her long, thick hair was the color of ripe

  wheat.

  Bast began playing then. A dangerous

  tune. It was sweet and bright and slow

  and sly.

  The shepherdess perked up at the sound

  of it, or so it seemed at first. She lifted

  her head, excited … but no. She didn’t

  look in his direction at all. She was

  merely climbing to her feet to have a

  stretch, rising high up onto her toes,

  hands twining over her head.

  Still apparently unaware she was being

  serenaded, the young woman picked up a

  nearby blanket, spread it beneath the tree,

  and sat back down. It was a little odd, as

  she’d been sitting there before without

  the blanket. Perhaps she’d just grown

  chilly.

  Bast continued to play as he walked

  down the slope of the valley toward her.

  He did not hurry, and the music he made

  was sweet and playful and languorous all

  at once.

  The shepherdess showed no sign of

  noticing the music or Bast himself. In fact

  she looked away from him, toward the

  far end of the little valley, as if curious

  what the sheep might be doing there.

  When she turned her head, it exposed the