"Why in the world would you lock the door?" Bast took a look around the room, to the thin sheaf of papers in Chronicler's hand. "And you moved the dresser?" His eyes narrowed dangerously. "That betrays a certain lack of trust, you know. You better not have scratched up his floors. He gets mad as hell about that sort of thing. And," Bast took a deep breath, "are you doctoring what he said? He'll kill you if he finds out."

"No, no. Nothing like that," Chronicler assured him. His hands gripped the papers a little too tightly.

It happened so fast, Chronicler's eyes barely registered it. A split second, and Bast had crossed the room, his fingers tightened around Chronicler's neck. A sense of numbness, colored spots dancing before fading vision. Chronicler tried to draw a breath, failed, tried again.

"Arlisvedi." It was scarcely a whisper, but it threw Bast across the room, his fingers torn from Chronicler's neck, leaving gouged lines. Chronicler winced softly, then, a bit regretfully, "Fystegravehi."

Bast stiffened in pain. He collapsed into a fetal position, then violently rolled to his feet and launched himself at Chronicler, only to be stopped in mid air by some invisible wall.

"Stop! We aren't enemies here." Chronicler released the binding of iron and fell back on his bed. "You realize Kvothe probably heard all that, right?"

A silence. The young man seemed smaller than before yet his eyes still danced dangerously into those of his adversary. Whole worlds seemed to be contained in those mesmerizing black pupils. Yet the old man met his gaze with a steel Bast would have thought impossible to effect against one of the Fae. Only one person Bast knew had that power…

"You're stronger than I thought."

"I-I suppose I am." The old man spoke with a certain nervousness, the steel gone from his bearing. Whatever he had had before was gone, as if he was reluctant to use his terrible power. His hands shook nervously.

"What were you doing, anyway?" Bast asked.

Chronicler stretched. "Nothing much. Just a few memos to myself. Some things I need to remember."

"Like what?" Bast took a step forward.

In the soft silence, the sounds of night could be clearly heard. Beyond the darkness hidden creatures crouched.

"Nothing," Chronicler said at last. "Nothing you would be interested in anyway. An old man's ramblings…" He had the sense that Bast still didn't trust him, and readied his clasp of iron, just in case.

For a long time neither man moved. Then Bast shrugged. It was an easy, careless shrug, one you would give a close relative or old-time friend; it was so genuine it seemed contrived. "Well, if you need anything, you know where to find me. Although," Bast looked significantly at Chronicler, "I'm told that I react dangerously to those who disturb my rest. So beware." Nonchalantly, he turned his back, walked toward the window, and disappeared into the night.

And then it was still.


The scrael were impatient, as only scrael can be. They chittered and scratched at the Wayside's firm walls. Eight of their number had been killed recently. Not that it mattered to them, lacking a brain as they were. But a portion of one of their number was inside, and like a magnet they were drawn toward it. In minutes their scrabbling would make its way to a door or window, where their sharp pincers would shred to splinters any-

Something tall walked out of the inn and came into view. It was a man, and he was tall, and old. Instinctively the scrael swarmed him. Their legs clattered excitedly across the grey pavement, leaving marks. When they were a foot away the man raised a hand. The scrael stopped.

If scrael could be confused they certainly would have been. As it was, they tried in vain to cross the unseen barrier that held them in their place, to no avail.

The man spoke a word and as if by magic the scrael all drew up their legs as one and followed the man into the inn.


Chronicler limped slowly inside. His whole body still hurt from his initial encounter with the accursed scrael. Perhaps it would have been better to simply stop them then and there. But no, Kvothe had the situation well in hand, and interfering would have forced him to reveal himself. That was the last thing he needed right now. Chronicler smiled grimly. Kvothe was not the only one who could hide himself in plain view. He crept to his room, slid into bed, and slept the deep sleep of stories.


Dawn arrived, and with it, the sun, as surely as if it had never left. While it peaked over the horizon slowly, the silent orange rays eventually made their way through the length of Newarre. They grumbled their way past the butcher's place; they flitted past the small but well-known Mary's Perfume Shop; and they trudged their long way through drying stalks in fields that grew slowly barren in the long harvest. Everywhere they went they seemed to bring a certain brightness that dispelled the gloom and malaise that grasped the small town. Perhaps not completely, the world still wasn't perfect, but then, nothing ever was, nowadays.

At last the shining rays touched the great huddled Wayside. Inside the Wayside, its occupants stirred. A man groaned heavily and turned over in his bed. A younger man glanced at his window and instantly regretted it, his eyes blinded by the brilliant yellow sun. A boy, with chopped hair and an incessant grin fixed to his features, sat silently cross legged in his bed. He alone had no need for sleep. Bastas, son of Remmen, prince of Twilight and the Telwyth Mael, had noted the sun's arrival with some approval, but outwardly made no sign except a slight furrowing of the brow as he looked off into the distance, concentrating.

A noise alerted him – a chittering, scratching sound that barely reached his razor-sharp hearing. It was a fae-like sound, reminding Bast of days of old, full of danger and laughter, those terms always associated with the fae. Bast swung from his bed, lithe as a cat, determined on following the sound.

On a hunch he slipped past Kvothe's blundering form and headed toward Chronicler's room, then smiled. The sound was getting louder.