The Lightning Tree

  lovely line of her neck from her perfect

  shell-like ear, down to the gentle swell

  of breast that showed above her bodice.

  Eyes intent on the young woman, Bast

  stepped on a loose stone and stumbled

  awkwardly down the hill. He blew one

  hard, squawking note, then dropped a

  few more from his song as he threw out

  one arm wildly to catch his balance.

  The shepherdess laughed then, but she

  was pointedly looking at the other end of

  the valley. Perhaps the sheep had done

  something humorous. Yes. That was

  surely it. They could be funny animals at

  times.

  Even so, one can only look at sheep for

  so long. She sighed and relaxed, leaning

  back against the sloping trunk of the tree.

  The motion accidentally pulled the hem

  of her skirt up slightly past her knee. Her

  calves were round and tan and covered

  with the lightest down of honey-colored

  hair.

  Bast continued down the hill. His steps

  delicate and graceful. He looked like a

  stalking cat. He looked like he were

  dancing.

  Apparently satisfied the sheep were

  safe, the shepherdess sighed again,

  closed her eyes, and lay her head against

  the trunk of the tree. Her face tilted up to

  catch the sun. She seemed about to sleep,

  but for all her sighing her breath seemed

  to be coming rather quickly. And when

  she shifted restlessly to make herself

  more comfortable, one hand fell in such a

  way that it accidentally drew the hem of

  her dress even farther up until it showed

  a pale expanse of thigh.

  It is hard to grin while playing

  shepherd’s

  pipes.

  Somehow

  Bast

  managed it.

  The sun was climbing the sky when Bast

  returned to the lightning tree, pleasantly

  sweaty and in a state of mild dishevel.

  There were no children waiting near the

  greystones this time, which suited him

  perfectly.

  He did a quick circle of the tree again

  when he reached the top of the hill, once

  in each direction to ensure his small

  workings were still in place. Then he

  slumped down and at the foot of the tree

  and leaned against the trunk. Less than a

  minute later his eyes were closed and he

  was snoring slightly.

  After the better part of an hour, the

  near-silent sound of footsteps roused

  him. He gave a great stretch and spied a

  thin boy with freckles and clothes that

  were slightly past the point where they

  might merely be called well-worn.

  “Kostrel!” Bast said happily. “How’s

  the road to Tinuë?”

  “Seems sunny enough to me today,” the

  boy said as he came to the top of the hill.

  “And I found a lovely secret by the

  roadside. Something I thought you might

  be interested in.”

  “Ah,” Bast said. “Come have a seat

  then. What sort of secret did you stumble

  on?”

  Kostrel sat cross-legged on the grass

  nearby. “I know where Emberlee takes

  her bath.”

  Bast raised a half-interested eyebrow.

  “Is that so?”

  Kostrel grinned. “You faker. Don’t

  pretend you don’t care.”

  “Of course I care,” Bast said. “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 Ania.”

  “Ania’s legs are skinny as a chicken’s,”

  Kostrel observed calmly.

  Bast smiled at the boy. “To each his

  own. But yes. I am interested. What

  would you like in trade? An answer, a

  favor, a secret?”

  “I want a favor and information,” the

  boy said with a small smirk. His dark

  eyes were sharp in his lean face. “I want

  good answers to three questions. And 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 and

  smiled. “No favor. But I’ll give you three

  answers on a subject named beforehand,”

  he countered. “Any subject except that of

  my employer, whose trust in me I cannot

  in good conscience betray.”

  Kostrel nodded in agreement. “Three

  full answers,” he said. “With no

  equivocating or bullshittery.”

  Bast nodded. “So long as the questions

  are focused and specific. No ‘ tell me

  everything you know about’ nonsense.”

  “That wouldn’t be a question,” Kostrel

  pointed out.

  “Exactly,” Bast said. “And you agree

  not to tell anyone else where Emberlee is

  having her bullshittery 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.”

  Bast chuckled. “Three full, earnest

  answers on a single subject with the

  understanding that I’m the only one

  you’ve told.”

  “You are,” the boy said sullenly. “I

  came here first.”

  “And with the understanding that you

  won’t tell Emberlee anyone knows.”

  Kostrel looked so offended at this that

  Bast didn’t bother waiting for him to

  agree. “And with the understanding that

  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,” Kostrel growled. “But if you

  don’t know the answer to my question, I

  get to ask another.”

  Bast thought about it for a moment, then

  nodded.

  “And if I pick a subject you don’t know

  much about, I get to chose another.”

  Another nod. “That’s fair.”

  “And you loan me another book,” the

  boy said, his dark eyes glaring. “And a

  copper penny. And you have to describe

  her breasts to me.”

  Bast threw back his head and laughed.

  “Done.”

  They shook on the deal, the boy’s thin

  hand was delicate as a bird’s wing.

  Bast leaned against the lightning tree,

  yawning and rubbing the back of his

  neck. “So. What’s your subject?”

  Kostrel’s grim look lifted a little then,

  and he grinned excitedly. “I want to

  know about the Fae.”

  It says a great deal that Bast finished

  his great yawp of a yawn as if nothing

  were the matter. It is quite hard to yawn

  and stretch when your belly feels like
/>
  you’ve swallowed a lump of bitter iron

  and your mouth has gone suddenly dry.

  But

  Bast

  was

  something

  of

  a

  professional dissembler, so he yawned

  and stretched, and even went so far as to

  scratch himself under one arm lazily.

  “Well?” the boy asked impatiently. “Do

  you know enough about them?”

  “A fair amount,” Bast said, doing a

  much better job of looking modest this

  time. “More than most folk, I imagine.”

  Kostrel leaned forward, his thin face

  intent. “I thought you might. You aren’t

  from around here. You know things.

  You’ve seen what’s really out there in

  the world.”

  “Some of it,” Bast admitted. He looked

  up at the sun. “Ask your questions then. I

  have to be somewhere come noon.”

  The boy nodded seriously, then looked

  down at the grass in front of himself for a

  moment, thinking. “What are they like?”

  Bast blinked for a moment, taken aback.

  Then he laughed helplessly 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 to shim me!” he said, leveling a finger

  at Bast. “I said no bullshittery!”

  “I’m not. Honest I’m not.” Bast raised

  his hands defensively. “It’s just an

  impossible question to answer is all.

  What would you say if I asked you what

  people were like? How could you

  answer that? There are so many kinds of

  people, and they’re all different.”

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

  “Give me a big answer.”

  “It’s not just big,” Bast said. “It would

  fill a book.”

  The

  boy

  gave

  a

  profoundly

  unsympathetic shrug.

  Bast scowled. “It could be argued that

  your question is neither focused nor

  specific.”

  Kostrel raised an eyebrow. “So we’re

  arguing now? I thought we were trading

  information? Fully and freely. 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 some pretty

  short corn, wouldn’t you?”

  Bast sighed. “Fair enough. But if I told

  you every rumor and snippet I’d ever

  heard, this would take a span of days.

  Most of it would be useless, and some

  probably wouldn’t even be true because

  it’s just from stories that I’ve heard.”

  Kostrel frowned, but before he could

  protest, Bast held up a hand. “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 on the subject. Okay?”

  “Two secrets.” Kostrel said, his dark

  eyes glittering with excitement.

  “Fair enough.” Bast took a deep breath.

  “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. In the Fae,

  they have raum and dennerlings and …”

  “And trow?”

  Bast nodded. “And trow. They’re real.”

  “And dragons?”

  Bast shook his head. “Not that I’ve ever

  heard. Not anymore …”

  Kostrel looked disappointed. “What

  about the fair folk? Like faerie tinkers

  and such?” The boy narrowed his eyes.

  “Mind you, this isn’t a new question,

  merely 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

  shrugged. “And sometimes Abbe Leodin

  lets me read his books. What do they

  look like?”

  “Like regular people,” Bast said.

  “Like you and me?” the boy asked.

  Bast fought back a smile. “Just like you

  or me. You wouldn’t hardly notice if they

  passed you on the street. But there are

  others. Some of them are … They’re

  different. More powerful.”

  “Like Varsa never-dead?”

  “Some,” Bast conceded. “But some are

  powerful in other ways. Like the mayor

  is powerful. Or like a moneylender.”

  Bast’s expression went sour. “Many of

  those … they’re not good to be around.

  They like to trick people. Play with them.

  Hurt them.”

  Some of the excitement bled out of

  Kostrel at this. “They sound like

  demons.”

  Bast hesitated, then nodded a reluctant

  agreement. “Some are very much like

  demons,” he admitted. “Or so close as it

  makes no difference.”

  “Are some of them like angels, too?”

  the boy asked.

  “It’s nice to think that,” Bast said. “I

  hope so.”

  “Where do they come from?”

  Bast cocked his head. “That’s your

  second question then?” he asked. “I’m

  guessing it must be, as it’s got nothing to

  do with what the Fae are like …”

  Kostrel grimaced, seeming a little

  embarrassed, though Bast couldn’t tell if

  he was ashamed he’d gotten carried

  away with his questions, or ashamed

  he’d been caught trying to get a free

  answer. “Sorry,” he said. “Is it true that a

  faerie can never lie?”

  “Some can’t,” Bast said. “Some don’t

  like to. Some are happy to lie but

  wouldn’t ever go back on promise or

  break their word.” He shrugged. “Others

  lie quite well, and do so at every

  opportunity.”

  Kostrel began to ask something else,

  but Bast cleared his throat. “You have to

  admit,” he said. “That’s a pretty good

  answer. I even gave you a few free

  questions, to help with the focus of

  things, as it were.”

  Kostrel gave a slightly sullen nod.

  “Here’s your first secret.” 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 wearing

  a burlap shirt. But when they do come,

  they like some places better than others.

  They like wild places. Secret places.

  Strange places. There are many types of

  fae, many courts and houses. And all of

  them are ruled according to their own

  desires …”

  B
ast continued in a tone of soft

  conspiracy. “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 stone. Places that are close to water

  and air. When all four come together …”

  Bast paused to see if the boy would

  interject something here. But Kostrel’s

  face had lost the sharp cunning it had

  held before. He looked like a child

  again, mouth slightly agape, his eyes

  wide with wonder.

  “Second secret,” Bast said. “The fae

  folk look nearly like we do, but not

  exactly. Most have something about them

  that makes them different. Their eyes.

  Their ears. The color of their hair or

  skin. Sometimes they’re taller than

  normal, or shorter, or stronger, or more

  beautiful.”

  “Like Felurian”

  “Yes, yes,” Bast said testily. “Like

  Felurian. But any of the Fae who has the

  skill to travel here will have craft enough

  to hide those things.” 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

  closed

  his

  mouth

  and

  swallowed hard. He didn’t fight the line.

  Didn’t even know that he’d been hooked.

  “What sort of magic can they do?”

  Bast rolled his eyes dramatically. “Oh

  come now, that’s another whole book’s

  worth of question.”

  “Well maybe you should just write a

  book then,” Kostrel said flatly. “Then

  you can lend it to me and kill two birds

  with one stone.”

  The comment seemed to catch Bast off

  his stride. “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.”

  Bast looked thoughtful for a moment,

  then shook his head as if to clear it.

  “Okay. Here’s the bones of what I know.

  They don’t think of it as magic. They’d

  never use that term. They’ll talk of art or

  craft. They talk of seeming or shaping.”

  He looked up at the sun and pursed his

  lips. “But if they were being frank, and

  they are rarely frank, mind you, they

  would tell you almost everything they do

  is either glammourie or grammarie.

  Glammourie is the art of making

  something seem. Grammarie is the craft

  of making something be.”

  Bast rushed ahead before the boy could

  interrupt. “Glammourie is easier. They