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CHAPTER SIX

Sympathy

Kvothe gestured for Chronicler to put down his pen. "That's enough for the moment," he said quietly.

The inn fell silent. That silence had an edge to it now, or perhaps that was just how it seemed to Bast. He stared at the innkeeper, wild-eyed. Kvothe stared back, his expression closed and wary.

Chronicler placed his pen on the bar and stretched his hand. He did not notice the tension between the two men. His lips were pinched tightly together, as if he were trying to hide a smile.

Kvothe glanced over at him and stiffened, just slightly. "This amuses you?" he said.

"Oh, it's not that," Chronicler said. "It's a fantastic story. Very dark and poignant." He paused. "But you have to admit, it's a little far-fetched."

The innkeeper's eyes narrowed. "Oh?"

Chronicler's cheeks reddened, but he pressed on. "Look," he said, "just yesterday, you let three run-of-the-mill mercenary types wallop the shit out of you, and today you're trying to convince me you're one of the Chand-"

"It's a filthy fucking lie!" Bast leapt to his feet. His chair clattered to the floor.

Chronicler gaped at him. Kvothe did not. He had been watching Bast from the corner of his eye, had been watching his expression flash between disbelief and anger and betrayal. "Bast-"

"Don't," Bast cried. "Just ... don't." He stumbled towards the door. He couldn't stop shaking. He clutched his chest. There was a pain there, one he didn't have words for. It felt like everything inside him was shattering.

His eyes turned a bright, violent blue. "Bast, your glamour-" Kvothe warned.

"Damn my glamour!" Bast shouted.

A window shattered. The shards became a thousand black daggers, all sharp and wicked, all aimed at Kvothe. Chronicler cried out and threw himself to the floor.

Kvothe did not. He gaze cut through the blades. It cut through Bast. The daggers touched his face, and suddenly they were nothing but black smoke. Then they were gone entirely, and the window was whole again.

"Bast -" Kvothe choked.

Bast shook his head violently. "No," he said. "I'm done. I won't listen to any more of this." He backed up against the door. His eyes were the palest blue now, so bright they were almost white.

"You can't leave," Chronicler said. It came out as a nervous whine. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I need to finish this story today. The Earl -"

"You can keep your damn appointment," Bast snapped. "I told you, I'm done listening. Finish the story without me."

"But ... where are you going?"

Bast bared his teeth at the balding man. His nails dug gouges into the doorframe. "I am going to fucking kill something," he hissed.

He strode out the door and slammed it behind him. The force of it knocked a coat rack from the wall, shook plaster loose from the ceiling.

Chronicler turned to the innkeeper. "Is he serious?"

Kvothe stared after his apprentice for a long time, saying nothing. Finally, he shrugged. "Probably." He shifted a few bottles around on the counter and sighed. "Where were we?"

Bast slipped through the front door of the Waystone Inn late in the evening, long after the moon had risen. He was surprised to find the door unlocked. But of course it was unlocked. His Reshi had left it that way on purpose. It was his way of telling Bast that he wasn't angry, that he wanted him to come home.

Bast stepped into the taproom and glanced around, his expression intent. It was almost as if he expected the inn to have changed somehow in his absence, to have become something other than what it had always been. But no, it was still itself. That meant that everything was still in its place, and everything was still a-kilter. Still wrong, still broken. He snorted, as if to clear his nostrils of the smell of wood ash and polish. The air outside was fresh and chill, but the air in the inn was warm and stale, like flat beer. It turned his stomach.

He turned his back on the taproom and mounted the stairs in a sullen silence. He felt impossibly heavy, but it didn't stop him from stepping lightly. He knew where to place every foot to keep the floor from creaking.

He paused at the top of the stairs. He had intended to go straight to bed. He really had. But Kvothe's door was wide open, and the warm light from his fire was casting dancing shadows along the corridor wall. That doorway invited. It pleaded. Bast took a cautious step forward, then another.

His Reshi stood in the center of the room, before the fireplace, waiting for him. He did not turn to face him. But he knew that he was there. "Speak your mind, Bast," he said quietly. "I am so weary of silence."

Bast said nothing at first. He just breathed in and out, slowly and deeply. Purposefully. He had a question for his master. It was an important question. It had to be asked. Still, he was not sure he wanted to hear the answer.

He asked anyway.

"Did you ride with Iax, when he marched on the Twyleth Mael? When he cast my father from his throne?" He took a deep, shuddering breath. "Did you help him do it?"

A long silence. "I was there," Kvothe whispered finally. "I did not help Iax usurp your father. But I was there." He did not turn around, did not meet his apprentice's eyes.

Bast wrapped his arms around himself. He had not been there when it happened, or he would have known. He had always preferred the changing light of the mortal world to the eternal twilit shadows of his father's court. And he was the third of five siblings, no one had expected more of him. No, he had not been there when Iax and his armies claimed his father's throne. But he had seen the aftermath of the battle, if it could be called that. The shattered towers, the burning meadows. The scorching sun, high as noon, driving back the shadows.

He had been told the palace was changed now, and more beautiful than ever. There were fifty turrets, they said, all black stone and smooth as glass. It was a wonder and a terror to behold. But it was nothing like his home.

That was the worst of it. The Shaper King had brought war to the mortals, but he had brought change to the Fae. He had not just changed the land and sky and stone. He had changed the folk. When Bast's father and sisters had defied him, he had transformed them into pawning, dumb beasts, no better than anhaut-fehn.

Bast had heard his sister Kestian was Iax's mistress now. He closed his eyes and remembered her as she had been before, beautiful and ancient and proud, with eyes and hair the color of fire. It didn't do to remember her any other way.

"Bast, I am sorry," Kvothe said. His voice was bitter. "I am truly sorry, for all the good that it does either of us." He hesitated. "You should hear what I told Chronicler today. You should know that I am no longer one of the Seven. Haliax has no power over me now."

Bast nodded slowly. "I know that."

The red-haired man looked surprised. "Do you?" He turned to face his pupil for the first time that evening and stilled, his eyes wide. "God's body, Bast! What have you been doing?"

Bast shied away, the muscles in his oddly hinged legs rippling as he fell into a self-conscious half-crouch. His deep blue eyes were wide and cautious. He had not restored his glamour.

He was nude, save for the belt knife he wore slung across his shoulders. He did not want to wear clothes right now. They were a human thing, like modesty and guilt, like love and death. He was so tired of all of these things. So tired of trying. He wanted life to be as it had been before. Before the world broke, before he met this man. He wanted his life to be simple again, wanted to play his pipes and dance and hunt and fuck.

But he couldn't, of course. Not anymore, not now that everything had changed. He hunted, and he fucked, and he played his pipes. But it didn't stop him from loving his Reshi, or hating him either. It didn't stop him from worrying - about his master, about the Chandrian, even about the oncoming winter. Today, those worries had driven him from a fine hunt in the woods. It had been freedom, that hunt, like wind through the trees - fast and focused, strike and kill, blood in his mouth. But still those worries had tugged at him. They had driven him back here, to his Reshi's door. That, too, worried him. The humanness of it.

It was all too much. He shrugged helplessly.

The innkeeper's expression softened. He walked over to his washbasin and lifted a towel off of the dresser. He placed the basin on the floor and sat down beside it. He soaked the rag in the clean water, then wrung it out.

"Come here," he said. Bast gave him a confused look.

"You're dripping blood on my floor," Kvothe explained.

Bast blinked and held out his arms. His Reshi was right, they were crusted with blood, all the way up to his elbows. He had known that already. But he had not realized the blood was still dripping like that, bright and wet, through his fingers. Of course that would bother his Reshi. He liked things clean.

Bast walked forward and sat.

Kvothe ran the cloth along Bast's arm. It was warm, which was odd. Bast wondered if Kvothe had done something, with sympathy perhaps, to make it so. That would be a good sign, he thought. He was not sure anymore. His master dipped the cloth in the basin again. The blood clouded the water, red tendrils reaching outwards.

"The soldiers?" Kvothe asked. His tone was carefully neutral.

Bast shook his head regretfully. "Just a deer. I didn't see anyone else."

Kvothe frowned. "Really? I'm surprised. I wouldn't have expected that band of thieves to travel very quickly."

Bast stiffened, just slightly. His Reshi didn't notice, or pretended not to. His hand paused above his pupil's arm for only a moment, then continued.

They sat in silence as Kvothe cleaned Bast's arms, then his chest. Bast closed his eyes. He took comfort in this small, shared moment. It gave him hope that all would be well between them again. "It was a good kill, Reshi," he said hesitantly. "I'll bring the rest back here tomorrow and carve it for you. It will make a good stew."

It was a peace offering, of sorts. The red-haired man nodded. "That would be good, Bast, thank you."

More silence now. Bast was becoming more comfortable with it. "Reshi -"

"Mmm?"

"I know you are not ... one of them. I just can't figure out how."

"I would be shocked if you had." Kvothe paused and considered his student. "Perhaps we should make it a lesson."

Bast sat straight up. "Yes, please," he said.

Kvothe's lips twitched into the shadow of a smile. "Don't think this will get you out of reading Celum Tincture tomorrow," he said sternly. "You ought to have finished it a month ago."

Bast gave his master an innocent, slightly puzzled look. Kvothe snorted. "Very well, let me think a moment." He scrubbed a few drops of blood off of the floor, his expression distant.

"How does Haliax control the Seven?" he said after a moment.

"He knows their names."

Kvothe nodded. "Yes. So let's cut straight to the heart of it. How might I go about making sure he can't use my name against me?"

For a moment, Bast simply stared at the innkeeper in complete bewilderment. Then his blood turned cold. No. He wouldn't. Surely not. Nobody could be that stupid, not even ... He clenched his fists to keep them from shaking.

"Don't tell me you're trying to change your name," he hissed, suddenly furious. "Don't tell me that the whole reason we're hiding in this backwater village in the middle of nowhere is so that you can turn yourself into some ... some small-minded village ninny, some wood-splitting, pie-making ... "

Kvothe raised his hands beseechingly, palms out. "Gods above, man, calm yourself!" he said. "Of course I'm not! What earthly good could that do? The second Haliax found me, he would take one look at me and pluck my name right out of my head again."

He shook his head. "No, Bast, the only way to keep him out for good is to put my name somewhere no one else can get to it. Not even me."

Bast relaxed a fraction. "So you're not trying to change your name?"

"No. Gods no. Better to keep it locked away."

Bast smiled widely in relief. "Alright then, I'll bite. How did you lock up your name?"

Kvothe's answering smile was almost shy, like that of a boy showing his father a toy whistle he'd carved. His eyes darted to the thrice-locked chest.

"Your chest!" Bast exclaimed. His eyes widened. Then they narrowed. He shook his head. "No," he said slowly, "That's not possible. I could probably make a box that could hold a true name. If I had many years, and the proper sort of box. The perfect box. A box just like yours, in fact. But you couldn't. Surely not. You know less of grammarie than I know of alchemy."

Kvothe shook his head. "Not grammarie. Not alchemy, for that matter."

"Naming?" Bast said.

Kvothe shook his head again.

"Artificery, then. It can't be sympathy. You don't use it anymore."

Kvothe looked surprised. "Don't I?" he said.

"Don't you?" Bast said incredulously. He paused. He looked deeply uncomfortable. "I thought your Alar had failed you. I was certain of it."

"There's nothing wrong with my Alar," Kvothe said indignantly. "Not at the moment, anyway." He scowled. "It isn't as easy as it sounds, you know, to walk around with your mind split in two all the time. I'd like to see you do it for four months straight and then try to make a double binding on top of it. Besides, I'm two years out of practice. I don't know why you keep expecting me to do the impossible."

Bast looked abashed. "Reshi, I'm sorry. I-"

Kvothe sighed. "Don't worry about it. I shouldn't have said any of that." He rubbed his eyes. "Forgive me, Bast. It's been a long day." He stared down at his hands. The haunted expression had returned, the one he wore so often these days. He flexed his left hand absently, grimacing in pain.

"Reshi?" Bast said. The innkeeper continued to stare at his hand, unheeding. "Kvothe?"

Kvothe looked up sharply. "What?"

"I still don't understand. Why are you splitting your mind in two?"

For a moment, the red-haired man simply looked confused. Then he waved his hand dismissively. "Oh, that. It's an old trick Ben taught me. I mentioned it to you once. You split your mind in two, then use one half to hide something from the other half."

"Something like a name?" Bast said.

"Something like a key," Kvothe said. He glanced at the chest, his expression rueful. "It doesn't stop me from trying, mind you."

There was a pause. "Did you call me Kvothe, just now?" he said. He cocked his head to the side. The corners of his lips turned up into a mischievous half-smile, the smile of a man who knows something he should not. "Am I no longer your reshiuen then?"

Bast stilled. He had never used this term with his master. He had never dared.

"Where did you learn that word?" he said warily.

Kvothe snorted. "Felurian taught it to me. I may have a terrible ear for your language, Bast, but I have an excellent memory. She taught me all such words. Father, brother, cousin. Son. That is what you mean when you call me that, isn't it?"

Bast blushed deeply. "I did not mean for you to understand me," he stammered. "I did not think you would approve."

"I don't," he said sharply. Bast recoiled, and Kvothe froze. After a moment, he held up a conciliatory hand. "I'm sorry, Bast. I don't mean to be harsh with you."

He lowered the bloody rag to the floor and stared at his hands. "I don't blame you for what you did," he said finally. "You were acting according to your nature, in the way of the Fae. You did not know better then." He paused. "But you do now, I think." This last was more question than statement, hopeful but uncertain.

Bast nodded vigorously. "I do," he said. He paused, then smiled crookedly. "I am sorry, too, you know. For all the good it will do either of us."

The red-haired man nodded and smiled himself, but his smile was brittle, distant. His fingers tightened on the rag. He shook his head. Bast sensed that he had a question now, too, one that he was afraid to ask.

"Did she know? My mother?"

Bast shook his head slowly. "No. Even lying in my arms, she spoke of her bard. She loved him very deeply. I did not want her to feel ... shame ... for lying also with me." He paused, uncertain how much he should say. "I know many songs. Songs that make your kind desire such things, and songs that make them forget."

Kvothe raised his eyebrows, and the dark-haired man ducked his head. "Songs I don't use anymore," he emphasized. "Let Felurian have her slavering paramours. I prefer the chase."

Kvothe gave Bast a small smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. It rarely did, these days. He sighed. He placed the rag in the basin and stood.

He stared out the window a long time. "I wish -" he started, then shook his head fiercely. "Damn it, what is the point?"

A long pause. "It is good, Bast," he said finally, "to have a family again."

Bast stood and stepped towards the red-haired man. Slowly, painstakingly, he reached out and placed a hand on Kvothe's shoulder. The innkeeper sighed and touched the other man's fingers lightly with his own.

Encouraged, Bast wrapped his arms entirely around his Reshi's chest and rested his chin on his shoulder. Kvothe stiffened, but Bast did not pull away. He knew already how such small gestures derailed his Reshi, this legend among men, who had killed gods and kings but still shied from loud noises and a loving touch. They stood like that for a long time, staring out at the burning world.

"I am changing," Kvothe said. For the first time, he sounded afraid.

"I know."

The red-haired man shuddered. "I can't afford to. If my Alar fails me ... "

"It will not," Bast said firmly. "I will not let that happen."

"Oh, Bast," he sighed. "I don't deserve your faith in me." Another silence. Then -"What if it is already too late?"

Bast drew back, circling to face Kvothe. "It is never too late," he said angrily. "A thing, unmade, can be made again. What was can be as it has been."

"Sometimes, yes, if the circumstances are right. But what is there here to bring me back?" Reshi's gesture took in the room, the inn, the town. He walked across the room to stare again into the fire. "I know you hoped the story would do it, Bast. But the story is finished now, and all I feel is ... tired." He looked up, and there were tears in his eyes. "I am so tired, Bast. I want to be myself again. I have to. But I don't know if I have the energy. Even if I did, I wouldn't know how."

There was a faint sound in the hallway, barely more than a scuffle. Both men leapt backwards. Bast reached for one of his long knives, then relaxed. It was only Chronicler.

Kvothe shook his head in disbelief. "You must really have a death wish," he said, "sneaking up on us like this."

Chronicler stumbled back, his face flaming red with embarrassment. He covered his eyes. "I am sorry, so sorry. I didn't mean to sneak. And I wasn't eavesdropping, I swear it. I just ..." he trailed off, then straightened, as if suddenly remembering his bearings. "It's just, you've a guest downstairs. I was going to send her away, the inn being closed and all. But, well ..." He made a small helpless gesture with his hands and coughed awkwardly, "well, I'll let you see for yourself. Anyway, I told her I'd fetch you. So here I am."

Bast and Kvothe glanced at one another, eyebrows raised. The red-haired man rubbed his face and sighed deeply.

He shook himself, straightened, and smiled. It was the placid smile of a innkeeper in a small village that had fallen on hard times. It was the smile of a man pleased, despite the hour, to have the chance to make some coin, and see to some company, before the heavy snows started and the roads closed for winter. It was a small gesture, from a relatively small man, with soft copper hair and grey-green eyes.

"Let's not keep the lady waiting, Bast," he said softly. He strode out of the room, across the hall, and down the stairs.

She stood in shadow with her back to the stairs, studying the sword mounted on the wall. Her hair was long and dark, braided in a complex knot that disappeared into the cowl of a travel-worn blue cloak. The knot in her hair had loosened in the wind, so that dark strands now fell across her forehead and into her wide, dark eyes. She turned as Kvothe descended the stairs, and smiled. Her smile was like sunlight on deep water, like the first breath of music in a long-silent room. She set a pale leather harp case atop a table and stepped into the firelight.

" I'd like to stay through the winter," she said, and her words were like wind and memory and song. "I hope you still have the space."

The end.