“But I do know, Reshi,” Bast said. “Ethel acetates and methans. And tinleach. There’s none of that.”

  The innkeeper blinked. “Did…?” He stopped. Started again. “Bast, have you actually been reading Celum Tinture?”

  “I did, Reshi! For the betterment of my education!” Bast beamed proudly. “And my desire to not poison our customers or go blind my own self. I got a taste, and I can say with confident authority that what Martin makes is far away from hillwine. It’s lovely stuff. Halfway to Rhis, and that’s not something I say lightly.”

  The innkeeper stroked his upper lip thoughtfully. “Where did you get some to taste?” he asked.

  “I traded for it,” Bast said, deftly skirting the edges of the truth. “Not only would it give Martin a chance to settle his tab, but it would help us get new stock in. I know that’s harder these days, roads bad as they are…”

  The innkeeper held up both hands helplessly. “I’m already convinced, Bast.”

  Bast grinned happily.

  “Honestly,” the innkeeper said, “I would have done it for the sole reason of celebrating you reading your lesson for once. But it will be nice for Martin, too. It will give him an excuse to stop by more often. It will be good for him.”

  Bast’s smile faded a bit.

  If the innkeeper noticed, he didn’t comment on it. “I’ll send a boy round to Martin’s and ask him to come by with a couple bottles.”

  “Get a dozen if he has them,” Bast said. “Or more. It’s getting cold at night. Winter’s coming, and what he’s got will be like drinking a piece of spring while sitting round the fire.”

  The innkeeper smiled. “I’m sure Martin will be flattered by your glowing recommendation.”

  Bast paled, his expression showing raw dismay. “By all the gorse no, Reshi,” he said, waving his hands frantically in front of himself. “Don’t tell him I said anything. Don’t even tell him I plan on drinking it. He hates me.”

  The innkeeper hid a smile behind his hand.

  “It’s not funny, Reshi,” Bast said angrily. “He throws rocks at me!”

  “Not for months,” the innkeeper pointed out. “Martin has been perfectly cordial to you the last several times he’s stopped by for a visit.”

  “Because there aren’t any rocks inside the inn,” Bast said.

  “Be fair, Bast,” the innkeeper continued chidingly. “He’s been civil for almost half a year. Polite even. Remember he apologized to you two months back? Have you heard of Martin ever apologizing to anyone else in town? Ever?”

  “No,” Bast said sulkily.

  The innkeeper nodded. “See? That’s a big gesture for him.”

  “I’m sure he’s turning a new leaf,” Bast muttered. “But if he’s here when I get home, I’m eating dinner on the roof.”

  * * *

  Bast was restless as he lay back on the grass beside the lightning tree. He shifted, stood, and went to get a drink from the stream that wound around the bottom of the hill. Coming back to the top, he circled the tall, white broken tree. Back and forth, winding and unwinding.

  He sat again, uncomfortably, like a cat that’s been rubbed backwards. He felt around inside himself, and found what he knew would be true. The only obligations binding him were old, familiar things. Most barely more than scars. Some few resembling wounds old soldiers had. A shoulder that grew stiff with cold. A knee that ached when rain was on the way.

  But nothing new. It was galling, as he’d been pleased how tidily he’d slid from underneath the unexpected dangers of the day. So why then did he feel more turned against himself than ever? Rucked up and tugged a dozen ways.

  Finally he pulled out the leather sack. He stilled himself, closed his eyes, and pulled a full fist of embrils, tossing them up with a fluid, flippant grace.

  He heard them hit the earth like hail, and opened his eyes to study them: a crescent of white horn, an oval of dark wood laying partly on top of the painted piper dancing on a piece of glazed white tile. There was a candle etched into an oblong stone, a disc of clay, the flat green stone he’d traded from the baker’s boy. There was the galling sun-bright bit of brass, and once again the one that very much looked like an old iron coin.

  Soon the sound of Kostrel and his too-big boots came up the hill to stand beside him. The boy folded his arms and tried to look cross, but he wasn’t good at it. His features were too friendly. While he was clearly trying for a scowl, his freckled face just barely held a frown.

  Not bothering to look up at the boy, Bast held out a small book bound in deep green leather. When the boy reached out and took it with both hands, Bast felt the faintest thread of debt pull loose inside him.

  Kostrel opened the book and flipped some pages. “Looks like herbs or something?”

  Bast shrugged, continuing to stare pensively at the scattering of embrils on the ground.

  Kostrel’s attempt at petulance faded, and his expression returned to its more natural curiosity. “So…” he said casually. “Did you manage to catch Emberlee?”

  This pulled Bast’s attention away from the stones, and he looked up at the boy.

  “I did,” Bast said slowly, eyes still fixed carefully on Kostrel’s face. He saw it there again, something sitting not quite right. Not fear, or even nervousness. Those were too big, and would be obvious as a burr on his cuff. This was more like a grain of sand down the collar of his shirt.

  Kostrel saw him staring and looked away.

  It clicked into place then. Bast’s mouth went open in shock and admiration. “You didn’t find it,” he said. “She told you!”

  “What? Who?” Kostrel’s expression was shocked and innocent, and while he made a good showing, it was still a mistake. Bast had been playing that game longer than the boy had been alive.

  To his credit, Kostrel knew he’d been caught out, and immediately abandoned the act. “I got you though,” he said, eyes glittering with joy. His expression far more innocent than any he might try to feign.

  Bast shook his head, blinking with genuine surprise. “You did an amazing job selling it,” he said. “I hope you turned a profit, too. What did Emberlee charge you for her bathing spot?”

  Kostrel gave Bast a puzzled look. “Why would I buy it?” he said. “She wanted me to pass it off to you. She owed me a favor for that.”

  Twice in as many minutes, Bast was shocked into silence.

  Kostrel laughed at him. “Oh come on,” he said, rolling his eyes a bit. “You lot think you’re so sly and secret, but you’re not.”

  Bast looked genuinely offended. “I’ll have you know,” he said with affronted dignity, “that I am, in fact, quite sly. And secret as well.”

  Kostrel sighed a bit, and shrugged as if conceding a point. “You’re decent,” he said. “And Emberlee plays a good game too. But Kholi doesn’t have a lick of shame. And Dax—” Kostrel paused a moment, as if reconsidering his words. “Dax has many good qualities that make him ideally suited to sitting and watching sheep all day.”

  “He has more good qualities than that,” Bast said, smiling a wide smile.

  Kostrel rolled his eyes again. “I know he does. Because Kholi tells everyone. But he also blushes red as a slapped ass when anyone teases him.” The boy shook his head. “I swear, the lot of you hopping in and out of haystacks like rabbits, hiding in bushes. Everyone knows. Everyone with at least one eye and half a brain in their head.”

  Bast blinked, then tilted his head curiously. “What favor did you ask Emberlee for?”

  “A gentleman doesn’t tell,” Kostrel said with airy dignity, then gave a grin somehow more innocent and wicked than any Bast had ever seen.

  * * *

  Knowing better than to lock horns with Kostrel when he was even slightly spun, Bast went to get a drink from the stream and splash a little water on his face.

  As he collected himself, he was surprised to realize he didn’t mind losing a round to Kostrel. In fact, it filled him with an odd delight. It had been years since he’d been completely taken in, and any game grows boring if you always win. So he would need to dance a little faster if he wanted to keep Kostrel on his toes. And Emberlee as well, it seemed.

  When Bast came back to the top of the hill, Kostrel was staring at the scattering of embrils. “My granda has a Telgim set,” the boy said. “He used to throw stones to tell him the best time to plant. Drove my gran crazy.” He leaned forward to look more closely. “What’d you ask ’em?”

  “Nothing,” Bast said, sitting down again. But here, beside the tree, the near-lie prickled him. “There’s only one question anyone is ever truly interested in,” he amended. “What now?”

  The boy nodded, looking down. “You get anything?”

  Bast turned his head to see Kostrel eyeing the embrils so fiercely it was almost comical. A smile began to flicker on Bast’s face. “How would you read it?”

  Kostrel folded to the ground in the boneless way that children have. “I don’t know the proper names for all of them,” he admitted. “My granda only showed me a bit, and mostly when he’d had a few nips and wanted to rile up Gran.”

  “Names are fine,” Bast said, shrugging with one shoulder. “But if you know what something’s called, it’s hard to keep wondering what it is.” He gestured. “The embrils aren’t like names that pin things to a page. Their nature is to twist and change. They remind us that the world is vast and deep. They teach us of the distance between catch and keep.”

  Kostrel smiled. “That sounds like my granda. He says reading them keeps a mind from getting stiff, like old leather that hasn’t been oiled.” He leaned forward. “Show me how you’d read it first.”

  Bast sighed, sounding stuck between frustration and exhaustion. “We’ve got the moon.” He touched the crescent of white horn. He moved his finger to the green stone with the woman’s face. “Then here’s a woman sleeping. And here’s the lamp unlit. So it’s night? A woman is sleeping at night?” He shook his head. “That’s a long walk for not much road.”

  “Here’s the piper.” Bast pointed to a painted figure on the white tile, a drum strapped to his hip. “He’s overlapped by the closed eye. So he’s asleep too?” He flicked his fingers at the teardrop of the penance piece. “The burning tower signifies ruin and destruction…but it’s shaped like a drop, so…water? Maybe rain?”

  “Then there’s the candle and the stone arch,” Bast said. “If they were next to each other, it could mean a journey. If the woman’s sleeping, it might be a dream…”

  Kostrel pointed to the piece of jagged metal that very much looked like an iron coin. “What about that one, with the crown?”

  Bast shrugged, but not as casually as before. Perhaps his mouth drew slightly tight as well. He was about to dismiss the question, but seeing the boy’s eyes, Bast remembered silence was the worst option with Kostrel. If Bast didn’t give him something, the boy would fixate on this like a bit of gristle stuck between his teeth.

  “Iron crown is authority or rule,” Bast said, trying to sound bored. “But marred I’d read it as domination.” He paused, then decided he might as well make a clean breast of it. “By itself, it signifies the Shattered King. Majesty and power, but in ruin. Fallen into despair.”

  “Despair?” Kostrel asked, puzzled.

  Bast blinked and shook his head, genuinely irritated. “No,” he said. “I meant disrepair.” He bulled ahead quickly, gesturing at the entire spread. “It’s a mess. Parts of it fit together, but…” He threw his hands into the air and let them fall again, exasperated. “It doesn’t really say anything.”

  “That’s not how I’d read it at all…” Kostrel said hesitantly.

  Bast made a welcoming gesture. “Please.”

  Kostrel touched the green stone gently with one finger. “This is a moss agate. Moss is soft and delicate, but agate is a hard, hard stone.” He slid the broken crown above the face carved into the green stone. “She’s a queen.”

  He scooted forward so his shorter arms could reach the embrils. “I don’t think she’s sleeping, either.” He slid the brass coin closer. “This isn’t rain. It’s a tear. She’s soft but hard. Powerful and sad. Her tower is broken.” He made a sweeping gesture. “She’s the Weeping Queen.”

  He pointed at the piece of horn showing the crescent moon. “I don’t know about that. Maybe it’s not even the moon? Maybe it’s a bowl? Or horns? Since it’s so thin, maybe it means something is about to end? Like when the moon has almost gone away?”

  Kostrel’s tone grew more confident as he continued. “The piper isn’t sleeping either.” He touched the clay disk. “The lamp is his. A lamp is what you use to find your way, or read at night. Unlit? That means the piper’s in the dark. That means he’s lost, or ignorant.”

  The boy brought his finger back to the piper. “The closed eye? He’s blind. He’s supposed to play for folk, make them dance to his tune. But he’s the one dancing.” Kostrel was caught up enough that he laughed at this. “He’s dancing but he’s too blind to even know it!”

  He pointed. “The candle isn’t lit either. So…is he three times blind? Or…wasted potential? Fire that’s waiting?” Kostrel trailed off, tapping his lips.

  Bast was looking at the embrils more intently now. “What about the arch?” he asked, something odd in his tone.

  Kostrel didn’t seem to notice. “I dunno about that. It’s canted, so…maybe it’s supposed to be a hole the piper might fall into?” The boy thought a moment longer, then shrugged and rubbed his nose. “My granda used to say you shouldn’t work too hard to make all the pieces fit. When he did a bigger read, he said there was always one pull you needed to ignore. Half of reading proper was figuring out which one.”

  Bast reached out, grinning suddenly as he tousled Kostrel’s hair. Then without any preamble, he gathered up his embrils and was down the hillside fast as dancing, heading off, far and away.

  * * *

  Bast had been trotting briskly for a quarter mile when he finally heard Rike calling his name through the trees. Surprised, Bast slowed to a stop and watched the boy run up the thin dirt path toward him.

  “I’ve got it!” Rike said triumphantly. Breathless, he held up his hand. The entire lower half of his body was dripping wet.

  “What, already?” Bast asked.

  The boy nodded and flourished the dark stone between two fingers. It was flat and smooth and rounded, slightly smaller than the lid of a jam jar. “What now?”

  Bast stroked his chin for a moment, as if trying to remember. “Well…now we need a needle. But it has to be borrowed from a house where no men live.”

  Rike looked thoughtful for a moment, then brightened. “I can get one from Aunt Sellie!”

  Bast fought the urge to curse. He’d forgotten Sellie’s older child had declared they didn’t care to be called Mikka any more. They were Grett now, and had been drinking harthan tea. “Oh, two women in the house is certainly adequate…” Bast lightly gilded the word with disdain. “…if that’s all you want. But the charm will be stronger if the needle comes from a house with a lot of women living in it. The more the better.”

  Rike looked up for another moment, searching his memory. “Widow Creel has two daughters…” he mused.

  “Dob’s living there too now,” Bast pointed out. “A house where no men or boys live.”

  “But where a lot of girls live…” Rike stood there, dripping, slowly running through the options in his head. Finally he brightened. “Old Nan!” he said. “She don’t like me none. But I reckon she’d give me a pin.”

  “A needle,” Bast stressed. “And you have to borrow it.” Bast watched the boys eyes narrow, and quickly added. “She has to lend it to you. You steal it, or try to buy it off her, it won’t work for the charm.” He raised an eyebrow at the boy. “Also, I hope it goes without saying that you can’t tell her what you truly need the needle for.”

  “I can’t tell what I don’t know,” Rike groused, but only very softly.

  Bast half expected the boy to follow up with questions about the particulars of the charm Bast had been hinting at. Or that he might complain about the fact Old Nan lived all the way off on the other side of town, about as far southwest as you could go and still be considered part of Newarre. It would take the boy half an hour to get there, and even then, Old Nan might not be home.

  But Rike didn’t so much as sigh. He just nodded seriously, turned, and took off at a sprint, bare feet flying as he headed to the southern end of the king’s road.

  Nodding to himself, Bast continued in the direction he’d been heading, off to the northern outskirts of the town….

  MOONRISE: SWEETNESS

  Sure that Rike would be busy for at least an hour, Bast took his time. He hopped a fence to cut through the Forsens’ fields. He climbed a tree and found a pine cone that he liked. He ignored a cat. He chased a squirrel. He found an old well covered by a dozen badly rotting planks.

  The Williams farm wasn’t a farm in any proper sense, not for a long while at any rate. The fields had been fallow so long, it was hard to see that they had ever been plowed at all, overrun with brambles and spotted with sapling trees. The tall barn had fallen into disrepair, and half the roof gaped open, a dark hole against the clear blue sky.

  Walking up the long path through the fields, Bast turned a corner and saw Rike’s house. It told a different story than the barn. It was small but tidy. The shingles needed some repair, but otherwise it looked well tended-to. Yellow curtains were blowing out the kitchen window, and the flower-box was spilling over with fox fiddle and marigold.

 

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