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  THE LIGHTNING TREE

Patrick Rothfuss

Morning: The Narrow Road

Bast near made information technology out the dorsum door of

the Waystone Inn.

He actually had made it exterior, both

feet were over the threshold and the door

was near entirely eased shut behind

him earlier he heard his master's voice.

Bast paused, hand on the latch. He

frowned at the door, inappreciably a handspan

from being closed. He hadn't made any

noise. He knew information technology. He was familiar with

all the silent pieces of the inn, which

floorboards sighed beneath a human foot, which

windows stuck …

The back door's hinges creaked

sometimes, depending on their mood, just

that was easy to work around. Bast

shifted his grip on the latch, lifted upwardly and then

that the door's weight didn't hang and 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 sweetness and sly and wild. He

looked like a naughty child who had

managed to steal the moon and consume it. His

smile was similar the last sliver of

remaining moon, precipitous and white and

dangerous.

"Bast!" The telephone call came again, louder

this fourth dimension. Zero so crass every bit a shout, his

master would never stoop to bellowing.

Just when he wanted to be heard, his

baritone would not be stopped past

anything then insubstantial as an oaken

door. His voice carried like a horn, and

Bast felt his proper name tug at him like a mitt

around his middle.

Bast sighed, then opened the door

lightly and strode back inside. He was

dark, and tall, and lovely. When he

walked he looked similar he was dancing.

"Yes, Reshi?" he called.

Afterward a moment the innkeeper stepped

into the kitchen; he wore a clean white

apron and his pilus was scarlet. 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 lot

nearly 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

fabricated the shape of a smile. "No bother,

Bast. While you're out on your errands,

would you heed picking up some eggs?"

Bast nodded, tucking the book under his

arm. "Anything else?" he asked dutifully.

"Perchance some carrots too. I'grand thinking

nosotros'll do stew tonight. Information technology's Felling, and then

we'll need to be gear up for a oversupply." His

mouth turned up slightly at i corner as

he said this.

The innkeeper started to turn away, then

stopped. "Oh. The Williams boy stopped

by concluding dark, looking for you lot. Didn't

go out any sort of message." He raised an

eyebrow at Bast. The look said more

than it said.

"I oasis't the slightest idea what he

wants," Bast said.

The innkeeper fabricated 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-morn sunlight.

By the fourth dimension Bast arrived, there were

already two children waiting. They

played on the huge greystone that lay

one-half-fallen at the bottom of the colina,

climbing upwards 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 tiptop

stood what the children chosen the

lightning tree, though these days information technology was

little more than than a branchless trunk barely

taller than a homo. All the bark had long

since fallen away, and the sun had

bleached the wood equally white as bone. All

except the very top, where even after all

these years the forest was charred a

jagged black.

Bast touched the trunk with his

fingertips and made a wearisome circuit of the

tree. He went deasil, the aforementioned direction

equally the turning sun. The proper way for

making. Then he turned and switched

hands, making three dull circles

widdershins. That turning was against the

world. It was the way of breaking. Back

and along he went, every bit 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 sunday shone on the gilt gilt letters,

Celum Tinture. So he tickled himself

by tossing stones into the nearby stream

that cut into the low slope of the loma

contrary the greystone.

Afterward 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'southward wearisome approach had an air of

ritual about it. He crested the small loma

and stood in that location for a moment quietly, the

only noise coming from the other two

children playing beneath.

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'due south children. He carried a

wad of white material in his mitt.

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 cast, spattered with bright

ruddy. Information technology stuck to his hand slightly. Bast

nodded; that was what he'd smelled

earlier.

"I was playing with my mum's knives,"

Brann said.

Bast examined the cut. Information technology ran shallow

along the meat nigh the thumb. Nothing

serious. "Hurt much?"

"Nothing similar the birching I'll get if she

finds out I was messing with her knives."

Bast nodded sympathetically. "Yous

make clean the knife and put it back?"

Brann nodded.

Bast tapped his lips thoughtfully. "You

idea you lot saw a big blackness rat. Information technology scared

you lot. You threw a knife at it and cut

yourself. Yesterday i of the other

children told you a story about rats

chewing off soldier'south ears and toes while

they slept. It gave you nightmares."

Brann gave a shudder. "Who told me

the story?"

Bast shrugged. "Pick someone yous

don't similar."

The boy grinned viciously.

Bast began to tick off things on his

fingers. "Get some claret on the knife

before y'all throw it." He pointed at the

cloth the male child had wrapped his manus in.

"Get rid of that, as well. The claret is dry out,

manifestly onetime. Can you piece of work up a adept

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

request you about your mitt, tell your

mum yous're lamentable if you lot broke her pocketknife."

Brann listened, nodding slowly at first,

and then faster. He smiled. "That's good." He

looked effectually nervously. "What practise I

owe you?"

"Whatever 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 sugariness

buns afterward today?"

Brann nodded.

"That's a adept start," Bast said. "What

have you lot got in your pockets?"

The male child dug around and held up both

his easily. He had two iron shims, a flat

greenish stone, a bird skull, a tangle of

string, and a bit of chalk.

Bast claimed the cord. And then, conscientious

not to touch the shims, he took the

dark-green stone between 2 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 become a birching anyway?"

Brann asked.

Bast shrugged. "That's your business.

Y'all wanted a prevarication. I gave yous a expert one.

If you want me to get you out of trouble,

that'due south something else entirely."

The baker'south male child looked disappointed,

but he nodded and headed down the loma.

Next up the hill was a slightly older

male child in tattered homespun. One of the

Alard boys, Kale. He had a separate lip and

a chaff of blood around ane nostril. He

was as furious every bit simply a boy of x tin

be. His expression was a thunderstorm.

"I defenseless my brother kissing Gretta

backside the old manufactory!" he said equally before long as

he crested the hill, not waiting for Bast to

ask. "He knew I was sweetness on her!"

Bast spread his easily helplessly,

shrugging.

"Revenge," the boy spat.

"Public revenge?" Bast asked. "Or

secret revenge?"

The male child touched his split up lip with his

tongue. "Hush-hush revenge," he said in a

low vox.

"How much revenge?" Bast asked.

The boy thought for a scrap, and then held up

his easily near two feet autonomously. "This

much."

"Hmmmm," Bast said. "How much on a

scale from mouse to bull?

The boy rubbed his nose for a while.

"Most a cat's worth," he said. "Perhaps a

dog'due south worth. Non 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 male child looked skeptical. "That don't

sound similar a whole dog'southward worth of

revenge."

Bast shook his head. "You piss in a cup

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

And so one dark when he's put his shoes

by the fire, pour the piss on his shoes.

Don't make a pool, simply go them damp.

In the morning they'll be dry and

probably won't even smell too much …"

"What's the indicate?" the boy interrupted

angrily. "That's not a flea's worth of

revenge!"

Bast held up a pacifying hand. "When

his anxiety get sweaty, he'll showtime to smell

like piss." Bast said calmly. "If he steps

in a pool, he'll odour like piss. When

he walks in the snow, he'll olfactory property like

piss. Information technology will be hard for him to figure out

exactly where information technology'south coming from, only

everyone will know your brother is the

ane that reeks." Bast grinned at the boy.

"I'one thousand guessing your Gretta isn't going to

want to osculation the boy who tin can't stop

pissing himself."

Raw adoration spread across the

young boy's face similar sunrise in the

mountains. "That'due south the well-nigh 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 volition do for a commencement," Bast said.

"Where?"

"It's off past the Orissons'. By

Littlecreek." The male child squatted and drew

a map in the dirt. "You see?"

Bast nodded. "Annihilation else?"

"Well … I know where Crazy Martin

keeps his yet …"

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 run into 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. "Only I'll

tell him again if I see him …"

There were no more children waiting

after Kale, and so Bast tucked the leather

volume nether his arm and went on a long,

rambling stroll. He found some wild

raspberries and ate them. He took a potable

from the Ostlar's well.

Eventually Bast climbed to the acme of a

nearby bluff where he gave a great

stretch earlier tucking the leather-leap

re-create of Celum Tinture into a spreading

hawthorn tree where a wide branch fabricated

a cozy nook against the trunk.

He looked up at the heaven then, clear and

bright. No clouds. Non much wind. Warm

merely not hot. Hadn't rained for a solid

span. It wasn't a market day. Hours

earlier noon on Felling …

Bast's forehead furrowed a bit, as if

performing some complex adding.

And so he nodded to himself.

And then Bast headed back downward the bluff,

past Old Lant'due south identify 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

minor vivid knife. Then brought the

cord out of h

is pocket and jump them

together, fashioning a tidy set up of

shepherd'south pipes.

He blew beyond the height of them and

cocked his head to listen to their sweetness

discord. His bright pocketknife trimmed some

more than, and he blew over again. This fourth dimension the

melody was closer, which made the discord

far more grating.

Bast's knife flicked once again, once, twice,

thrice. Then he put it away and brought

the pipes closer to his confront. He breathed

in through his nose, smelling the moisture

green of them. So he licked the fresh-

cutting tops of the reeds, the flicker of his

tongue a sudden, startling red.

Then he drew a breath and blew confronting

the pipes. This fourth dimension the sound was brilliant

as moonlight, lively as a leaping fish,

sugariness equally stolen fruit. Grin, Bast

headed off into the Bentons' dorsum hills,

and it wasn't long earlier he heard the

low, mindless bleat of distant sheep.

A minute later on, Bast came over the crest

of a loma and saw two dozen fatty, daft

sheep cropping grass in the greenish 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 demand

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 pilus was the colour of ripe

wheat.

Bast began playing then. A dangerous

tune. It was sweet and bright and slow

and sly.

The shepherdess perked upwardly at the sound

of it, or so information technology seemed at kickoff. She lifted

her caput, excited … but no. She didn't

look in his direction at all. She was

merely climbing to her anxiety to have a

stretch, rising high upwards onto her toes,

easily twining over her head.

Yet apparently unaware she was existence

serenaded, the immature woman picked up a

nearby blanket, spread it below the tree,

and sat back down. Information technology was a little odd, as

she'd been sitting at that place before without

the coating. Perhaps she'd just grown

chilly.

Bast continued to play equally he walked

down the slope of the valley toward her.

He did not hurry, and the music he fabricated

was sweet and playful and languorous all

at one time.

The shepherdess showed no sign of

noticing the music or Bast himself. In fact

she looked abroad from him, toward the

far end of the trivial valley, equally if curious

what the sheep might be doing there.

When she turned her head, it exposed the

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