flickering shadow.
For a moment he looked at the bottles behind the bar, then turned and made his own slow climb upstairs.
Bast stepped slowly into his room, closing the door behind himself.
He moved quietly through the dark to stand before the hearth. Nothing but ash and cinder remained from the morning’s fire. Bast opened the woodbin, but there was nothing inside except a thick layer of chaff and chips at the bottom.
The dim light from the window glinted in his dark eyes and showed the outline of his face as he stood motionless, as if trying to decide what to do. After a moment he let the lid of the bin fall closed, wrapped himself in a blanket, and folded himself onto a small couch in front of the empty fireplace.
He sat there for a long while, eyes open in the dark.
There was a faint scuffle outside his window. Then nothing. Then a faint scraping. Bast turned and saw a dark shape outside, moving in the night.
Bast went motionless, then slid smoothly from the couch to stand in front of the fireplace. Eyes still on the window, his hands hunted carefully across the top of the mantel.
There was another scrape at the window, louder this time. Bast’s eyes darted away from the window to the mantel, and he caught up something with both hands. Metal gleamed faintly in the dim moonlight as he crouched, his body tense as a coiled spring.
For a long moment there was nothing. No sound. No movement outside the window or in the darkened room.
Bast sighed. Relaxing out of his tense crouch, he walked over to the window, threw the drop bar, and opened it.
“My window doesn’t have a lock,” Chronicler said petulantly. “Why does yours?”
“Obvious reasons,” Bast said.
“Can I come in?”
Bast shrugged and moved back toward the fireplace while Chronicler climbed awkwardly through the window. Bast struck a match and lit a lamp on a nearby table, then carefully set a pair of long knives on the mantel. One was slender and sharp as a blade of grass, the other keen and graceful as a thorn.
Chronicler looked around as light swelled to fill the room. It was large, with rich wood paneling and thick carpets. Two lounging couches faced each other in front of the fireplace, and one corner of the room was dominated by a huge canopy bed with deep green curtains.
There were shelves filled with pictures, trinkets, and oddments. Locks of hair wrapped in ribbon. Whistles carved from wood. Dried flowers. Rings of horn and leather and woven grass. A hand-dipped candle with leaves pressed into the wax.
And, in what was obviously a recent addition, holly boughs decorated parts of the room. One long garland ran along the headboard of the bed, and another was strung along the mantle, weaving in and out through the handles of a pair of bright, leaf-bladed hatchets hanging there.
Bast sat back in front of the cold fireplace and wrapped a rag blanket around his shoulders like a shawl. It was a chaos of ill-matching fabric and faded color except for a bright red heart sewn squarely in the center.
“We need to talk,” Chronicler said softly.
Bast shrugged, his eyes fixed dully on the fireplace.
Chronicler took a step closer. “I need to ask you . . .”
“You don’t have to whisper,” Bast said without looking up. “We’re on the other side of the inn. Sometimes I have guests. It used to keep him awake, so I moved to this side of the building. There are six solid walls between my room and his.”
Chronicler sat on the edge of the other couch, facing Bast. “I need to ask about some of the things you said tonight. About the Cthaeh.”
“We shouldn’t talk about the Cthaeh.” Bast’s voice was flat and leaden. “It’s not healthy.”
“The Sithe then,” Chronicler said. “You said if they knew about this story, they’d kill everyone involved. Is that true?”
Bast nodded, eyes still on the fireplace. “They’d burn this place and salt the earth behind them.”
Chronicler looked down, shaking his head. “I don’t understand this fear you have of the Cthaeh,” he said.
“Well,” Bast said, “evidence seems to indicate that you’re not terribly smart.”
Chronicler frowned and waited patiently.
Bast sighed, finally pulling his eyes away from the fireplace. “Think. The Cthaeh knows everything you’re ever going to do. Everything you’re going to say . . .”
“That makes it an irritating conversationalist,” Chronicler said. “But not—”
Bast’s expression went suddenly furious. “
Chronicler went pale at the venom in Bast’s voice, but he didn’t flinch. “You’re not angry at me,” he said calmly, looking Bast in the eye. “You’re just angry, and I happen to be nearby.”
Bast glared at him, but said nothing.
Chronicler leaned forward. “I’m trying to help, you know that, right?”
Bast nodded sullenly.
“That means I need to understand what’s going on.”
Bast shrugged, his sudden flare of temper had burned itself out, leaving him listless again.
“Kvothe seems to believe you about the Cthaeh,” Chronicler said.
“He knows the hidden turnings of the world,” Bast said. “And what he doesn’t understand he’s quick to grasp.” Bast’s fingers flicked idly at the edges of the blanket. “And he trusts me.”
“But doesn’t it seem contrived? The Cthaeh gives a boy a flower, one thing leads to another, and suddenly there’s a war.” Chronicler made a dismissive motion. “Things don’t work that way. It’s too much coincidence.”
“It’s not coincidence.” Bast gave a short sigh. “A blind man has to stumble through a cluttered room. You don’t. You use your eyes and pick the easy way. It’s clear to you as anything. The Cthaeh can see the future. All futures. We have to fumble through. It doesn’t. It merely looks and picks the most disastrous path. It is the stone that stirs the avalanche. It is the cough that starts the plague.”
“But if you know the Cthaeh is trying to steer you,” Chronicler said. “You would just do something else. He gives you the flower, and you just sell it.”
Bast shook his head. “The Cthaeh would know. You can’t second-guess a thing that knows your future. Say you sell the flower to the prince. He uses the flower to heal his betrothed. A year later she catches him diddling the chambermaid, hangs herself in disgrace, and her father launches an attack to avenge her honor.” Bast spread his hands helplessly. “You still get civil war.”
“But the young man who sold the flower stays safe.”
“Probably not,” Bast said grimly. “More likely he gets drunk as a lord, catches the pox, then knocks over a lamp and sets half the city on fire.”
“You’re just making things up to prove your point,” Chronicler said. “You’re not actually proving anything.”
“Why do I need to prove anything to you?” Bast asked. “Why would I care what you think? Be happy in your silly little ignorance. I’m doing you a favor by not telling you the truth.”
“What truth is that?” Chronicler said, plainly irritated.
Bast gave a weary sigh, and looked up at Chronicler, his expression utterly empty of all hope. “I would rather fight Haliax himself,” he said. “I’d rather face all the Chandrian together than have ten words of conversation with the Cthaeh.”
This gave Chronicler a bit of a pause. “They’d kill you,” he said. Something in his voice made it a question.
