DAY THREE

Remember Me

The night was cold and still. The Waystone Inn lay in silence, and it was a silence of three parts.

The first silence was tightly coiled within the selas vines winding along the windowsills of the inn. If there had of been a gentle wind, the red blooms would have fluttered like the eyelids of a lovely girl, and the silence would have shied away at the sight of her. If there had of been guests in the rooms, they might have lit candles and read by the window, and the sound of rustling paper would have jostled the silence on its way. If there had of been music playing in the inn… but of course, there was no music. There were none of these things, and so the silence of the inn remained.

The second silence lingered in the woods surrounding the Waystone. It wove through the rennel branches hanging above a narrow pathway, hiding the stars from sight. It snapped in the last sparks of a scattered fireplace, the dull embers fading into the night. It glinted in the green glass of a broken wine bottle, the dark red liquid seeping into another, darker fluid. This silence was sharp and menacing, and best left seething into the night to vanish with the first pale light of dawn.

The third silence was a heavy one. It wavered at the treeline behind the Waystone Inn, one moment a young man, the next moment something else entirely. It was beneath his sharp crescent fingernails that plucked at the warm, wet cloth of his ruined shirt. The silence traced the lines of his mouth and weighed the corners down.

This was Bast, and this silence belonged to him. He stepped forward and then back, this way and then that, moving with the gentle sway of the willow tree as he gazed up at the dark inn.

It was his nature to seek out his desires, and he had followed his nature this evening, with thanks to the unwitting encouragement of the Chronicler. No doubt the balding scribe would have a fit if he ever learned the impact of his words on Bast tonight. It was one of those strange traits of humans, the way that every thought and every choice was weighed and measured and dissected until there was no pleasure left in the obtaining of a thing. The seeking and seizing of desires was an integral component of the nature of Fae, the calling beautiful in its simplicity. Want and take. Thirst and slake. Bast had followed his nature that evening and the human world was rid of two less wicked men who dared to hurt his Reshi.

But Bast's pleasure had failed to kindle during the carnage. He had felt and heard nothing but silence as shattered glass parted pliant flesh. There had been nothing but silence as he revealed his artful killing to an audience of owls and fireflies. He had felt no joy or satisfaction, no pride or relief. His nature had not been sated.

Perhaps his nature was changing.

Bast shivered and stared at the back door of the inn. He dreaded returning to his cold bed entombed with its heavy green curtains. He dreaded descending into the kitchen the following morning to find his master, apron-bound and quiet, frying potatoes. He dreaded sitting at the small round table, his eyes wide and his hands clenched, as he listened to the final day of Kvothe's story.

Tomorrow, Reshi would tell of how they met. About his chance crossing with Bast's father Remmen, and subsequently his meeting with Bast, at the summerturn revel. Reshi would explain his complicated agreement to teach Bast the ways of humans, the intricacies of naming, and the art of self-awareness. Bast snorted. It was typical of Kvothe to deem himself qualified to teach someone else self-awareness.

Bast blinked against the first featherlight touch of rain and glanced up at the sky through the willow branches. Heavy clouds had gathered above the inn, and Bast saw a flash of lightning flick through the troubled night sky.

What else would his master say.

Of course, Kvothe would tell the truth of Princess Ariel and the killing of the king. Perhaps Kvothe would grudgingly recount their failed mission into the vaults of the Tehlin archives in Atur. Bast hoped Kvothe would tell the story about the Aturan noble, the baronesses birthday, and the crate of candied ants. Bast grinned at that.

What else would his master say.

Bast's grin faded as other memories flared in his mind, flickering as bright and brief as the thin cracks of lightning high above.

Would Kvothe speak about the strange music they played together? Of how Kvothe would play lute and Bast the flute, and when they played it felt as if the world turned slower. How Kvothe's deep baritone twined perfectly with Bast's own sweet tenor, their music wild and rich and sweet as clover dew.

What else would his master say.

Would he remember those few nights that they played a wilder, purer kind of music? Would Kvothe remember the music they made beneath the shade of holly-hidden waystones, not so long ago?

They had been travelling along a long-forgotten road between Modeg and the Eld, on a journey from someplace to somewhere else. They had made their meals and their beds, and they had talked into the late hours of the night, their voices twining. Bast – ever the enthusiastic student - initiated a study of Kvothe's fine hands. And then, quite naturally, Kvothe's hands made a study of Bast's body. Bast had learned ways of being pleasured that evening that he'd only flippantly entertained when he first met his master. Kvothe had been gentle but firm, his movements glacial and unstoppable as a summer storm. Bast had clutched at the scarred back, his eyes wholly blue and staring up at unfamiliar stars obscured by damp red curls and green eyes dark with arousal.

Would Kvothe consider this important to his story?

Bast eyes, now wholly blue, closed as the rain began to fall in earnest. He swayed with the willow, listening to the weary creaking of the limbs and shivering as a lace of leaves touched the exposed skin of his bloodstained hands.

It was all that Bast wanted, really. He wanted Kvothe to remember him.