The name of the wind

The Name of the Wind The Kingkiller Chronicle Day One Patrick Rothfuss To my mother, who taught me to love books and opened the door to Narnia, Pern, and Middle Earth And to my father, who taught me that if I was going to something, I should take my time and it right Acknowledgments To… …all the readers of my early drafts You are legion, too many to name, but not too many to love I kept writing because of your encouragement I kept improving because of your criticism If not for you, I would not have won… …the Writers of the Future contest If not for their workshop, I would never have met my wonderful anthology-mates from volume 18 or… …Kevin J Anderson If not for his advice, I would never have ended up with… …Matt Bialer, the best of agents If not for his guidance, I would never have sold the book to… …Betsy Wolheim, beloved editor and president of DAW If not for her, you would not be holding this book A similar book, perhaps, but this book would not exist And, lastly, to Mr Bohage, my high school history teacher In 1989 I told him I’d mention him in my first novel I keep my promises PROLOGUE A Silence of Three Parts IT WAS NIGHT AGAIN The Waystone Inn lay in silence, and it was a silence of three parts The most obvious part was a hollow, echoing quiet, made by things that were lacking If there had been a wind it would have sighed through the trees, set the inn’s sign creaking on its hooks, and brushed the silence down the road like trailing autumn leaves If there had been a crowd, even a handful of men inside the inn, they would have filled the silence with conversation and laughter, the clatter and clamor one expects from a drinking house during the dark hours of night If there had been music…but no, of course there was no music In fact there were none of these things, and so the silence remained Inside the Waystone a pair of men huddled at one corner of the bar They drank with quiet determination, avoiding serious discussions of troubling news In doing this they added a small, sullen silence to the larger, hollow one It made an alloy of sorts, a counterpoint The third silence was not an easy thing to notice If you listened for an hour, you might begin to feel it in the wooden floor underfoot and in the rough, splintering barrels behind the bar It was in the weight of the black stone hearth that held the heat of a long dead fire It was in the slow back and forth of a white linen cloth rubbing along the grain of the bar And it was in the hands of the man who stood there, polishing a stretch of mahogany that already gleamed in the lamplight The man had true-red hair, red as flame His eyes were dark and distant, and he moved with the subtle certainty that comes from knowing many things The Waystone was his, just as the third silence was his This was appropriate, as it was the greatest silence of the three, wrapping the others inside itself It was deep and wide as autumn’s ending It was heavy as a great river-smooth stone It was the patient, cut-flower sound of a man who is waiting to die CHAPTER ONE A Place for Demons IT WAS FELLING NIGHT, and the usual crowd had gathered at the Waystone Inn Five wasn’t much of a crowd, but five was as many as the Waystone ever saw these days, times being what they were Old Cob was filling his role as storyteller and advice dispensary The men at the bar sipped their drinks and listened In the back room a young innkeeper stood out of sight behind the door, smiling as he listened to the details of a familiar story “When he awoke, Taborlin the Great found himself locked in a high tower They had taken his sword and stripped him of his tools: key, coin, and candle were all gone But that weren’t even the worst of it, you see…” Cob paused for effect, “…cause the lamps on the wall were burning blue!” Graham, Jake, and Shep nodded to themselves The three friends had grown up together, listening to Cob’s stories and ignoring his advice Cob peered closely at the newer, more attentive member of his small audience, the smith’s prentice “Do you know what that meant, boy?” Everyone called the smith’s prentice “boy” despite the fact that he was a hand taller than anyone there Small towns being what they are, he would most likely remain “boy” until his beard filled out or he bloodied someone’s nose over the matter The boy gave a slow nod “The Chandrian.” “That’s right,” Cob said approvingly “The Chandrian Everyone knows that blue fire is one of their signs Now he was—” “But how’d they find him?” the boy interrupted “And why din’t they kill him when they had the chance?” “Hush now, you’ll get all the answers before the end,” Jake said “Just let him tell it.” “No need for all that, Jake,” Graham said “Boy’s just curious Drink your drink.” “I drank me drink already,” Jake grumbled “I need t’nother but the innkeep’s still skinning rats in the back room.” He raised his voice and knocked his empty mug hollowly on the top of the mahogany bar “Hoy! We’re thirsty men in here!” The innkeeper appeared with five bowls of stew and two warm, round loaves of bread He pulled more beer for Jake, Shep, and Old Cob, moving with an air of bustling efficiency The story was set aside while the men tended to their dinners Old Cob tucked away his bowl of stew with the predatory efficiency of a lifetime bachelor The others were still blowing steam off their bowls when he finished the last of his loaf and returned to his story “Now Taborlin needed to escape, but when he looked around, he saw his cell had no door No windows All around him was nothing but smooth, hard stone It was a cell no man had ever escaped “But Taborlin knew the names of all things, and so all things were his to command He said to the stone: ‘Break!’ and the stone broke The wall tore like a piece of paper, and through that hole Taborlin could see the sky and breathe the sweet spring air He stepped to the edge, looked down, and without a second thought he stepped out into the open air….” The boy’s eyes went wide “He didn’t!” Cob nodded seriously “So Taborlin fell, but he did not despair For he knew the name of the wind, and so the wind obeyed him He spoke to the wind and it cradled and caressed him It bore him to the ground as gently as a puff of thistledown and set him on his feet softly as a mother’s kiss “And when he got to the ground and felt his side where they’d stabbed him, he saw that it weren’t hardly a scratch Now maybe it was just a piece of luck,” Cob tapped the side of his nose knowingly “Or maybe it had something to with the amulet he was wearing under his shirt.” “What amulet?” the boy asked eagerly through a mouthful of stew Old Cob leaned back on his stool, glad for the chance to elaborate “A few days earlier, Taborlin had met a tinker on the road And even though Taborlin didn’t have much to eat, he shared his dinner with the old man.” “Right sensible thing to do,” Graham said quietly to the boy “Everyone knows: ‘A tinker pays for kindness twice.’” “No no,” Jake grumbled “Get it right: ‘A tinker’s advice pays kindness twice.’” The innkeeper spoke up for the first time that night “Actually, you’re missing more than half,” he said, standing in the doorway behind the bar “A tinker’s debt is always paid: Once for any simple trade Twice for freely-given aid Twice for freely-given aid Thrice for any insult made.” The men at the bar seemed almost surprised to see Kote standing there They’d been coming to the Waystone every Felling night for months and Kote had never interjected anything of his own before Not that you could expect anything else, really He’d only been in town for a year or so He was still a stranger The smith’s prentice had lived here since he was eleven, and he was still referred to as “that Rannish boy,” as if Rannish were some foreign country and not a town less than thirty miles away “Just something I heard once,” Kote said to fill the silence, obviously embarrassed Old Cob nodded before he cleared his throat and launched back into the story “Now this amulet was worth a whole bucket of gold nobles, but on account of Taborlin’s kindness, the tinker sold it to him for nothing but an iron penny, a copper penny, and a silver penny It was black as a winter night and cold as ice to touch, but so long as it was round his neck, Taborlin would be safe from the harm of evil things Demons and such.” “I’d give a good piece for such a thing these days,” Shep said darkly He had drunk most and talked least over the course of the evening Everyone knew that something bad had happened out on his farm last Cendling night, but since they were good friends they knew better than to press him for the details At least not this early in the evening, not as sober as they were “Aye, who wouldn’t?” Old Cob said judiciously, taking a long drink “I din’t know the Chandrian were demons,” the boy said “I’d heard—” “They ain’t demons,” Jake said firmly “They were the first six people to refuse Tehlu’s choice of the path, and he cursed them to wander the corners —” “Are you telling this story, Jacob Walker?” Cob said sharply “Cause if you are, I’ll just let you get on with it.” The two men glared at each other for a long moment Eventually Jake looked away, muttering something that could, conceivably, have been an apology Cob turned back to the boy “That’s the mystery of the Chandrian,” he explained “Where they come from? Where they go after they’ve done their bloody deeds? Are they men who sold their souls? Demons? Spirits? No one knows.” Cob shot Jake a profoundly disdainful look “Though every halfwit claims he knows….” The story fell further into bickering at this point, about the nature of the Chandrian, the signs that showed their presence to the wary, and whether the amulet would protect Taborlin from bandits, or mad dogs, or falling off a horse Things were getting heated when the front door banged open Jake looked over “It’s about time you got in, Carter Tell this damn fool the difference between a demon and a dog Everybody kn—” Jake stopped midsentence and rushed to the door “God’s body, what happened to you?” Carter stepped into the light, his face pale and smeared with blood He clutched an old saddle blanket to his chest It was an odd, awkward shape, as if it were wrapped around a tangle of kindling sticks His friends jumped off their stools and hurried over at the sight of him “I’m fine,” he said as he made his slow way into the common room His eyes were wild around the edges, like a skittish horse “I’m fine I’m fine.” He dropped the bundled blanket onto the nearest table where it knocked hard against the wood, as if it were full of stones His clothes were crisscrossed with long, straight cuts His grey shirt in loose tatters except where it was stuck to his body, stained a dark, sullen red Graham tried to ease him into a chair “Mother of God Sit down, Carter What happened to you? Sit down.” Carter shook his head stubbornly “I told you, I’m fine I’m not hurt that bad.” “How many were there?” Graham said “One,” Carter said “But it’s not what you think—” “Goddammit I told you, Carter,” Old Cob burst out with the sort of frightened anger only relatives and close friends can muster “I told you for months now You can’t go out alone Not even as far as Baedn It ain’t safe.” Jake laid a hand on the old man’s arm, quieting him “Just take a sit,” Graham said, still trying to steer Carter into a chair “Let’s get that shirt off you and get you cleaned up.” Carter shook his head “I’m fine I got cut up a little, but the blood is mostly Nelly’s It jumped on her Killed her about two miles outside town, past the Oldstone Bridge.” A moment of serious silence followed the news The smith’s prentice laid a was leaving, and they didn’t know why So they clutched at her like shipwrecked sailors, clinging to the rocks despite the fact that they are being battered to death against them I almost felt sorry for them Almost So they hated me, and it shone in their eyes when Denna wasn’t looking I would offer to buy another round of drinks, but he would insist, and I would graciously accept, and thank him, and smile I have known her longer, my smile said True, you have been inside the circle of her arms, tasted her mouth, felt the warmth of her, and that is something I have never had But there is a part of her that is only for me You cannot touch it, no matter how hard you might try And after she has left you I will still be here, making her laugh My light shining in her I will still be here long after she has forgotten your name There were more than a few She went through them like a pen through wet paper She left them, disappointed Or, frustrated, they abandoned her, leaving her heartsore, moved to sadness but never as far as tears There were tears once or twice But they were not for the men she had lost or the men she had left They were quiet tears for herself, because there was something inside her that was badly hurt I couldn’t tell what it was and didn’t dare to ask Instead I simply said what I could to take the pain away and helped her shut her eyes against the world Occasionally I would talk about Denna with Wilem and Simmon Being true friends they gave me sensible advice and compassionate sympathy in roughly equal amounts The compassion I appreciated, but the advice was worse than useless They urged me toward the truth, told me to open my heart to her To pursue her Write her poetry Send her roses Roses They didn’t know her Despite the fact that I hated them, Denna’s men taught me a lesson that I might never have learned otherwise “What you don’t understand,” I explained to Simmon one afternoon as we sat under the pennant pole, “is that men fall for Denna all the time Do you know what that’s like for her? How tiresome it is? I am one of her few friends I won’t risk that I won’t throw myself at her She doesn’t want it I will not be one of the hundred cow-eyed suitors who go mooning after her like love-struck sheep.” “I just don’t understand what you see in her,” Sim said carefully “I know she’s charming Fascinating and all of that But she seems rather,” he hesitated, “cruel.” I nodded “She is.” Simmon watched me expectantly, finally said “What? No defense for her?” “No Cruel is a good word for her But I think you are saying cruel and thinking something else Denna is not wicked, or mean, or spiteful She is cruel.” Sim was quiet for a long while before responding “I think she might be some of those other things, and cruel as well.” Good, honest, gentle Sim He could never bring himself to say bad things about another person, just imply them Even that was hard for him He looked up at me “I talked with Sovoy He’s still not over her He really loved her, you know Treated her like a princess He would have done anything for her But she left him anyway, no explanation.” “Denna is a wild thing,” I explained “Like a hind or a summer storm If a storm blows down your house, or breaks a tree, you don’t say the storm was mean It was cruel It acted according to its nature and something unfortunately was hurt The same is true of Denna.” “What’s a hind?” “A deer.” “I thought that was a hart?” “A hind is a female deer A wild deer Do you know how much good it does you to chase a wild thing? None It works against you It startles the hind away All you can is stay gently where you are, and hope in time that the hind will come to you.” Sim nodded, but I could tell he didn’t really understand “Did you know they used to call this place the Questioning Hall?” I said, pointedly changing the subject “Students would write questions on slips of paper and let the wind blow them around You would get different answers depending on the way the paper left the square.” I gestured to the gaps between the grey buildings Elodin had shown to me “Yes No Maybe Elsewhere Soon.” The belling tower struck and Simmon sighed, sensing it was pointless to pursue the conversation further “Are we playing corners tonight?” I nodded After he was gone I reached into my cloak and pulled out the note Denna had left in my window I read it again, slowly Then carefully tore away the bottom of the page where she had signed it I folded the narrow strip of paper with Denna’s name, twisted it, and let the courtyard’s ever-present wind tug it out of my hand to spin among the few remaining autumn leaves It danced along the cobblestones It circled and spun, making patterns too wild and varied for me to understand But though I waited until the sky grew dark, the wind never took it away When I left, my question was still wandering in the House of the Wind, giving no answers, hinting at many Yes No Maybe Elsewhere Soon Lastly, there was my ongoing feud with Ambrose I walked on pins and needles every day, waiting for him to take his revenge But the months passed and nothing happened Eventually, I came to the conclusion that he had finally learned his lesson and was keeping a safe distance from me I was wrong, of course Perfectly and completely wrong Ambrose had merely learned to bide his time He did manage to get his revenge, and when it came, I was caught flatfooted and forced to leave the University But that, as they say, is a story for another day CHAPTER NINETY-TWO The Music that Plays “THAT SHOULD DO FOR now, I imagine,” Kvothe said, gesturing for Chronicler to lay down his pen “We have all the groundwork now A foundation of story to build upon.” Kvothe came to his feet and rolled his shoulders, stretching his back “Tomorrow we’ll have some of my favorite stories My journey to Alveron’s court Learning to fight from the Adem Felurian…” He picked up a clean linen cloth and turned to Chronicler “Is there anything you need before you turn in for the night?” Chronicler shook his head, knowing a polite dismissal when he heard one “Thank you, no I’ll be fine.” He gathered everything into his flat leather satchel and made his way upstairs to his rooms “You too, Bast,” Kvothe said “I’ll take care of the cleaning up.” He made a shooing motion to forestall his student’s protest “Go on I need time to think about tomorrow’s story These things don’t plan themselves you know.” Shrugging, Bast headed up the stairs as well, his footsteps sounding hard on the wooden stairs Kvothe went about his nightly ritual He shoveled ashes out of the huge stone fireplace and brought in wood for tomorrow’s fire He went outside to extinguish the lamps beside the Waystone’s sign, only to find that he’d forgotten to light them earlier that evening He locked the inn, and after a moment’s consideration, left the key in the door so Chronicler could let himself out if he woke early in the morning Then he swept the floor, washed the tables, and rubbed down the bar, moving with a methodical efficiency Last came the polishing of the bottles As he went through the motions his eyes were far away, remembering He did not hum or whistle He did not sing In his room, Chronicler moved about restlessly, tired but too full of anxious energy to let sleep take him He removed the finished pages from his satchel and stowed them safely in the heavy wooden chest of drawers Then he cleaned all his pen’s nibs and set them out to dry He carefully removed the bandage on his shoulder, threw the foul-smelling thing in the chamber pot, and replaced the lid before washing his shoulder clean in the hand basin Yawning, he went to the window and looked out at the little town, but there was nothing to see No lights, no movement He opened the window a crack, letting in the fresh autumn air Drawing the curtains, Chronicler undressed for bed, lying his clothes over the back of a chair Last of all he removed the simple iron wheel from around his neck and laid it on the nightstand Turning down his bed, Chronicler was surprised to see the sheets had been changed sometime during the day The linen was crisp and smelled pleasantly of lavender After a moment’s hesitation, Chronicler moved to the door of his room and locked it He laid the key on the nightstand, then frowned and picked up the stylized iron wheel and put it back around his neck before snuffing the lamp and crawling into bed For the better part of an hour, Chronicler lay sleepless in his sweetsmelling bed, rolling restlessly from side to side Finally he sighed and threw off the covers He relit the lamp with a sulfur match and climbed back out of bed Then he walked over to the heavy chest of drawers beside the window and pushed at it It wouldn’t budge at first, but when he put his back into it, he managed to slide it slowly across the smooth wooden floor After a minute the weighty piece of furniture was pressed against the door of his room Then he climbed back into bed, rolled down the lamp, and quickly fell into a deep and peaceful sleep It was pitch black in the room when Chronicler woke with something soft pressing against his face He thrashed wildly, more a reflex than an attempt to get away His startled shout was muffled by the hand clamped firmly over his mouth After his initial panic, Chronicler went quiet and limp Breathing hard through his nose, he lay there, eyes wide in the darkness “It’s just me,” Bast whispered without removing his hand Chronicler said something muffled “We need to talk.” Kneeling beside the bed, Bast looked down at the dark shape Chronicler made, twisted in his blankets “I’m going to light the lamp and you’re not going to make any loud noises Alright?” Chronicler nodded against Bast’s hand A moment later a match flared, filling the room with jagged red light and the acrid smell of sulfur Then gentler lamplight welled up Bast licked his fingers and pinched the match between them Trembling slightly, Chronicler sat up in the bed and put his back against the wall Bare-chested, he gathered the blankets self-consciously around his waist and glanced toward the door The heavy dresser was still in place Bast followed his gaze “That shows a certain lack of trust,” he said dryly “You better not have scratched up his floors He gets mad as hell about that sort of thing.” “How did you get in here?” Chronicler demanded Bast flailed his hands franticly at Chronicler’s head “Quiet!” he hissed “We have to be quiet He has ears like a hawk.” “How…” Chronicler began more softly, then stopped “Hawks don’t have ears.” Bast gave him a puzzled look “What?” “You said he has ears like a hawk That doesn’t make any sense.” Bast frowned and made a dismissive gesture “You know what I mean He can’t know that I’m here.” Bast sat on the edge of the bed and smoothed down his pants self-consciously Chronicler gripped the blankets bunched around his waist “Why are you here?” “Like I said, we need to talk.” Bast looked at Chronicler seriously “We need to talk about why you’re here.” “This is what I do,” Chronicler said, irritated “I collect stories And when I get the chance I investigate odd rumors and see if there’s any truth behind them.” “Out of curiosity, which rumor was it?” Bast asked “Apparently you got soppy drunk and let something slip to a wagoneer,” Chronicler said “Rather careless, all things considered.” Bast gave Chronicler a profoundly pitying look “Look at me,” Bast said, as if talking to a child “Think Could some wagon herder get me drunk? Me?” Chronicler opened his mouth Closed it “Then…” “He was my message in a bottle One of many You just happened to be the first person to find one and come looking.” Chronicler took a long moment to digest this piece of information “I thought you two were hiding?” “Oh we’re hiding alright,” Bast said bitterly “We’re tucked away so safe and sound that he’s practically fading into the woodwork.” “I can understand you feeling a little stifled around here,” Chronicler said “But honestly, I don’t see what your master’s bad mood has to with the price of butter.” Bast’s eyes flashed angrily “It has everything to with the price of butter!” he said through his teeth “And it’s a damn sight more than a bad mood, you ignorant, wretched anhaut-fehn This place is killing him.” Chronicler went pale at Bast’s outburst “I…I’m not…” Bast closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, obviously trying to calm himself “You just don’t understand what’s going on,” he said, speaking to himself as much as Chronicler “That’s why I came, to explain I’ve been waiting for months for someone to come Anyone Even old enemies come to settle scores would be better than him wasting away like this But you’re better than I’d hoped for You’re perfect.” “Perfect for what?” Chronicler asked “I don’t even know what the problem is.” “It’s like…have you ever heard the story of Martin Maskmaker?” Chronicler shook his head and Bast gave a frustrated sigh “How about plays? Have you seen The Ghost and the Goosegirl or The Ha’penny King?” Chronicler frowned “Is that the one where the king sells his crown to an orphan boy?” Bast nodded “And the boy becomes a better king than the original The goosegirl dresses like a countess and everyone is stunned by her grace and charm.” He hesitated, struggling to find the words he wanted “You see, there’s a fundamental connection between seeming and being Every Fae child knows this, but you mortals never seem to see We understand how dangerous a mask can be We all become what we pretend to be.” Chronicler relaxed a bit, sensing familiar ground “That’s basic psychology You dress a beggar in fine clothes, people treat him like a noble, and he lives up to their expectations.” “That’s only the smallest piece of it,” Bast said “The truth is deeper than that It’s…” Bast floundered for a moment “It’s like everyone tells a story about themselves inside their own head Always All the time That story makes you what you are We build ourselves out of that story.” Frowning, Chronicler opened his mouth, but Bast held up a hand to stop him “No, listen I’ve got it now You meet a girl: shy, unassuming If you tell her she’s beautiful, she’ll think you’re sweet, but she won’t believe you She knows that beauty lies in your beholding.” Bast gave a grudging shrug “And sometimes that’s enough.” His eyes brightened “But there’s a better way You show her she is beautiful You make mirrors of your eyes, prayers of your hands against her body It is hard, very hard, but when she truly believes you…” Bast gestured excitedly “Suddenly the story she tells herself in her own head changes She transforms She isn’t seen as beautiful She is beautiful, seen.” “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Chronicler snapped “You’re just spouting nonsense now.” “I’m spouting too much sense for you to understand,” Bast said testily “But you’re close enough to see my point Think of what he said today People saw him as a hero, and he played the part He wore it like a mask but eventually he believed it It became the truth But now…” he trailed off “Now people see him as an innkeeper,” Chronicler said “No,” Bast said softly “People saw him as an innkeeper a year ago He took off the mask when they walked out the door Now he sees himself as an innkeeper, and a failed innkeeper at that You saw what he was like when Cob and the rest came in tonight You saw that thin shadow of a man behind the bar tonight It used to be an act….” Bast looked up, excited “But you’re perfect You can help him remember what it was like I haven’t seen him so lively in months I know you can it.” Chronicler frowned a bit “I’m not sure….” “I know it will work,” Bast said eagerly “I tried something similar a couple of months ago I got him to start a memoir.” Chronicler perked up “He wrote a memoir?” “Started a memoir,” Bast said “He was so excited, talked about it for days Wondering where he should begin his story After his first night’s writing he was like his old self again He looked three feet taller with lightning on his shoulders.” Bast sighed “But something happened The next day he read what he’d written and went into one of his dark moods Claimed the whole thing was the worst idea he’d ever had.” “What about the pages he wrote?” Bast made a crumpling motion with his hands and tossed imaginary papers away “What did they say?” Chronicler asked Bast shook his head “He didn’t throw them away He just…threw them They’ve been lying on his desk for months.” Chronicler’s curiosity was almost palpable “Can’t you just…” he waggled his fingers “You know, tidy them up?” “Anpauen No.” Bast looked horrified “He was furious after he read them.” Bast shivered a little “You don’t know what he’s like when he’s really angry I know better than to cross him on something like that.” “I suppose you know best,” Chronicler said dubiously Bast gave an emphatic nod “Exactly That’s why I came to talk to you Because I know best You need to keep him from focusing on the dark things If not…” Bast shrugged and repeated the motion of crumpling and throwing away a piece of paper “But I’m collecting the story of his life The real story.” Chronicler made a helpless gesture “Without the dark parts it’s just some silly f—” Chronicler froze halfway through the word, eyes darting nervously to the side Bast grinned like a child catching a priest midcurse “Go on,” he urged, his eyes were delighted, and hard, and terrible “Say it.” “Like some silly faerie story,” Chronicler finished, his voice thin and pale as paper Bast smiled a wide smile “You know nothing of the Fae, if you think our stories lack their darker sides But all that aside, this is a faerie story, because you are gathering it for me.” Chronicler swallowed hard and seemed to regain some of his composure “What I mean is that what he’s telling is a true story, and true stories have unpleasant parts His more than most, I expect They’re messy, and tangled, and…” “I know you can’t get him to leave them out,” Bast said “But you can hurry him along You can help him dwell on the good things: his adventures, the women, the fighting, his travels, his music….” Bast stopped abruptly “Well…not the music Don’t ask about that, or why he doesn’t magic anymore.” Chronicler frowned “Why not? His music seems…” Bast’s expression was grim “Just don’t,” he said firmly “They’re not productive subjects I stopped you earlier,” he tapped Chronicler’s shoulder meaningfully, “because you were going to ask him what went wrong with his sympathy You didn’t know any better Now you Focus on the heroics, his cleverness.” He waved his hands “That sort of thing.” “It’s really not my place to be steering him one way or another,” Chronicler said stiffly “I’m a recorder I’m just here for the story The story’s the important thing, after all.” “Piss on your story,” Bast said sharply “You’ll what I say, or I’ll break you like a kindling stick.” Chronicler froze “So you’re saying I work for you?” “I’m saying you belong to me.” Bast’s face was deadly serious “Down to the marrow of your bones I drew you here to serve my purpose You have eaten at my table, and I have saved your life.” He pointed at Chronicler’s naked chest “Three ways I own you That makes you wholly mine An instrument of my desire You will as I say.” Chronicler’s chin lifted a bit, his expression hardening “I will as I see fit,” he said, slowly raising a hand to the piece of metal that lay against his naked chest Bast’s eyes flickered down, then up again “You think I’m playing at some game?” His expression was incredulous “You think iron will keep you safe?” Bast leaned forward, slapped Chronicler’s hand away, and grabbed the circle of dark metal before the scribe could move Immediately Bast’s arm stiffened and his eyes clenched shut in a grimace of pain When he reopened them they were solid blue, the color of deep water or the darkening sky Bast leaned forward, bringing his face close to Chronicler’s The scribe panicked and tried to scrabble sideways out of the bed, but Bast took hold of his shoulder and held him fast “Hear my words, manling,” he hissed “Do not mistake me for my mask You see light dappling on the water and forget the deep, cold dark beneath.” The tendons in Bast’s hand creaked as he tightened his grip on the circle of iron “Listen You cannot hurt me You cannot run or hide In this I will not be defied.” As he spoke, Bast’s eyes grew paler, until they were the pure blue of a clear noontime sky “I swear by all the salt in me: if you run counter to my desire, the remainder of your brief mortal span will be an orchestra of misery I swear by stone and oak and elm: I’ll make a game of you I’ll follow you unseen and smother any spark of joy you find You’ll never know a woman’s touch, a breath of rest, a moment’s peace of mind.” Bast’s eyes were now the pale blue-white of lightning, his voice tight and fierce “And I swear by the night sky and the ever-moving moon: if you lead my master to despair, I will slit you open and splash around like a child in a muddy puddle I’ll string a fiddle with your guts and make you play it while I dance.” Bast leaned closer until their faces were mere inches apart, his eyes gone white as opal, white as a full-bellied moon “You are an educated man You know there are no such things as demons.” Bast smiled a terrible smile “There is only my kind.” Bast leaned closer still, Chronicler smelled flowers on his breath “You are not wise enough to fear me as I should be feared You not know the first note of the music that moves me.” Bast pushed himself away from Chronicler and took several steps back from the bed Standing at the edge of the candle’s flickering light, he opened his hand and the circle of iron fell to the wooden floor, ringing dully After a moment, Bast drew a slow, deep breath He ran his hands through his hair Chronicler remained where he was, pale and sweating Bast bent to pick up the iron ring by its broken cord, knotting it together again with quick fingers “Listen, there’s no reason we can’t be friends,” he said matter-of-factly as he turned and held the necklace out to Chronicler His eyes were a human blue again, his smile warm and charming “There’s no reason we can’t all get what we want You get your story He gets to tell it You get to know the truth He gets to remember who he really is Everyone wins, and we all go our separate ways, pleased as peaches.” Chronicler reached out to take hold of the cord, his hand trembling slightly “What you get?” he asked, his voice a dry whisper “What you want out of this?” The question seemed to catch Bast unprepared He stood still and awkward for a moment, all his fluid grace gone For a moment it looked as if he might burst into tears “What I want? I just want my Reshi back.” His voice was quiet and lost “I want him back the way he was.” There was a moment of awkward silence Bast scrubbed at his face with both hands and swallowed hard “I’ve been gone too long,” he said abruptly, walking to the window and opening it He paused with one leg over the sill and looked back at Chronicler “Can I bring you anything before you go to sleep? A nightcap? More blankets?” Chronicler shook his head numbly and Bast waved as he stepped the rest of the way out the window, closing it gently behind him EPILOGUE IT WAS NIGHT AGAIN A Silence of Three Parts The Waystone Inn lay in silence, and it was a silence of three parts The first part was a hollow, echoing quiet, made by things that were lacking If there had been horses stabled in the barn they would have stamped and champed and broken it to pieces If there had been a crowd of guests, even a handful of guests bedded down for the night, their restless breathing and mingled snores would have gently thawed the silence like a warm spring wind If there had been music…but no, of course there was no music In fact there were none of these things, and so the silence remained Inside the Waystone a man huddled in his deep, sweet-smelling bed Motionless, waiting for sleep, he lay wide-eyed in the dark In doing this he added a small, frightened silence to the larger, hollow one They made an alloy of sorts, a harmony The third silence was not an easy thing to notice If you listened for an hour, you might begin to feel it in the thick stone walls of the empty taproom and in the flat, grey metal of the sword that behind the bar It was in the dim candlelight that filled an upstairs room with dancing shadows It was in the mad pattern of a crumpled memoir that lay fallen and un-forgotten atop the desk And it was in the hands of the man who sat there, pointedly ignoring the pages he had written and discarded long ago The man had true-red hair, red as flame His eyes were dark and distant, and he moved with the weary calm that comes from knowing many things The Waystone was his, just as the third silence was his This was appropriate, as it was the greatest silence of the three, wrapping the others inside itself It was deep and wide as autumn’s ending It was heavy as a great river-smooth stone It was the patient, cut-flower sound of a man who is waiting to die Table of Contents Acknowledgments PROLOGUE CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE CHAPTER THIRTEEN CHAPTER FOURTEEN CHAPTER FIFTEEN CHAPTER SIXTEEN CHAPTER SEVENTEEN CHAPTER EIGHTEEN CHAPTER NINETEEN CHAPTER TWENTY CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE CHAPTER THIRTY CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE CHAPTER FORTY CHAPTER FORTY-ONE CHAPTER FORTY-TWO CHAPTER FORTY-THREE CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE CHAPTER FORTY-SIX CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT CHAPTER FORTY-NINE CHAPTER FIFTY CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE CHAPTER SIXTY CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE CHAPTER SEVENTY CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE CHAPTER EIGHTY CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE CHAPTER NINETY CHAPTER NINETY-ONE CHAPTER NINETY-TWO EPILOGUE ... The innkeeper met each of their eyes briefly, as if measuring them Then he turned purposefully back to the table, and they edged farther away Kote pressed the iron shim to the black side of the. .. later, the innkeeper stood in the doorway of the Waystone and let his eyes relax to the darkness Footprints of lamplight from the inn’s windows fell across the dirt road and the doors of the smithy... music…but no, of course there was no music In fact there were none of these things, and so the silence remained Inside the Waystone a pair of men huddled at one corner of the bar They drank with