The Lightning Tree

by Patrick Rothfuss

  give it to her. River stone works best if

  it’s given as a gift.”

  Rike nodded, not looking up. “What if

  she won’t wear it?” he asked quietly.

  Bast blinked, confused. “She’ll wear it

  because you gave it to her,” he said.

  “What if she doesn’t?” he asked.

  Bast opened his mouth, then hesitated

  and closed it again. He looked up and

  saw the first of twilight’s stars emerge.

  He looked down at the boy. He sighed.

  He wasn’t good at this.

  So much was so easy. Glamour was

  second nature. It was just making folk see

  what they wanted to see. Fooling folk

  was simple as singing. Tricking folk and

  telling lies, it was like breathing.

  But this? Convincing someone of the

  truth that they were too twisted to see?

  How could you even begin?

  It was baffling. These creatures. They

  were fraught and frayed in their desire. A

  snake would never poison itself, but

  these folk made an art of it. They

  wrapped themselves in fears and wept at

  being blind. It was infuriating. It was

  enough to break a heart.

  So Bast took the easy way. “It’s part of

  the magic,” he lied. “When you give it to

  her, you have to tell her that you made it

  for her because you love her.”

  The boy looked uncomfortable, as if he

  were trying to swallow a stone.

  “It’s essential for the magic,” Bast said

  firmly. “And then, if you want to make

  the magic stronger, you need to tell her

  every day. Once in the morning and once

  at night.”

  The boy nodded, a determined look on

  his face. “Okay. I can do that.”

  “Right then,” Bast said. “Sit down here.

  Prick your finger.”

  Rike did just that. He jabbed his stubby

  finger and let a bead of blood well up

  then fall onto the stone.

  “Good,” Bast said, sitting down across

  from the boy. “Now give me the needle.”

  Rike handed over the needle. “But you

  said it just needed—”

  “Don’t tell me what I said,” Bast

  groused. “Hold the stone flat so that the

  hole faces up.”

  Rike did.

  “Hold it steady,” Bast said, and pricked

  his own finger. A slow bead of blood

  grew. “Don’t move.”

  Rike braced the stone with his other

  hand.

  Bast turned his finger, and the drop of

  blood hung in the air for a moment before

  falling straight through the hole to strike

  the greystone underneath.

  There was no sound. No stirring in the

  air. No distant thunder. If anything, it

  seemed there was a half second of

  perfect brick-heavy silence in the air. But

  it was probably nothing more than a brief

  pause in the wind.

  “Is that it?” Rike asked after a moment,

  clearly expecting something more.

  “Yup,” Bast said, licking the blood

  from his finger with a red, red tongue.

  Then he worked his mouth a little and

  spat out the wax he had been chewing.

  He rolled it between his fingers and

  handed it to the boy. “Rub this into the

  stone, then take it to the top of the highest

  hill you can find. Stay there until the last

  of the sunset fades, and then give to her

  tonight.”

  Rike’s eyes darted around the horizon,

  looking for a good hill. Then he leapt

  from the stone and sprinted off.

  Bast was halfway back to the Waystone

  Inn when he realized he had no idea

  where his carrots were.

  When Bast came in the back door, he

  could smell bread and beer and

  simmering stew. Looking around the

  kitchen he saw crumbs on the breadboard

  and the lid was off the kettle. Dinner had

  already been served.

  Stepping softly, he peered through the

  door into the common room. The usual

  folk sat hunched at the bar, there was Old

  Cob and Graham, scraping their bowls.

  The smith’s prentice was running bread

  along the inside of his bowl, then stuffing

  it into his mouth a piece at time. Jake

  spread butter on the last slice of bread,

  and Shep knocked his empty mug politely

  against the bar, the hollow sound a

  question in itself.

  Bast bustled through the doorway with

  a fresh bowl of stew for the smith’s

  prentice as the innkeeper poured Shep

  more beer. Collecting the empty bowl,

  Bast disappeared back into the kitchen,

  then he came back with another loaf of

  bread half-sliced and steaming.

  “Guess what I caught wind of today?”

  Old Cob said with the grin of a man who

  knew he had the freshest news at the

  table.

  “What’s that?” The boy asked around

  half a mouthful of stew.

  Cob reached out and took the heel of

  the bread, a right he claimed as the oldest

  person there, despite the fact that he

  wasn’t actually the oldest, and the fact

  that nobody else much cared for the heel.

  Bast suspected he took it because he was

  proud he still had so many teeth left.

  Cob grinned. “Guess,” he said to the

  boy, then slowly slathered his bread with

  butter and took a big bite.

  “I reckon it’s something about Jessom

  Williams,” Jake said blithely.

  Old Cob glared at him, his mouth full of

  bread and butter.

  “What I heard,” Jake drawled slowly,

  smiling as Old Cob tried furiously chew

  his mouth clear, “was that Jessom was

  out running his traplines and he got

  jumped by a cougar. Then while he was

  legging it away, he lost track of hisself

  and went right over Littlecliff. Busted

  himself up something fierce.”

  Old Cob finally managed to swallow.

  “You’re thick as a post, Jacob Walker.

  That ain’t what happened at all. He fell

  off Littlecliff, but there weren’t a cougar.

  Cougar ain’t going to attack a full-grown

  man.”

  “It will if he’s all smelling of blood,”

  Jake insisted. “Which Jessom was, on

  account of the fact that he was baggin’ up

  all his game.”

  There was a muttering of agreement at

  this, which obviously irritated Old Cob.

  “It weren’t a cougar,” he insisted. “He

  was drunk off his feet. That’s what I

  heard. Stumbling-lost drunk. That’s the

  only sense of it. ’Cause Littlecliff ent

  nowhere near his trapline. Unless you

  think a cougar chased him for almost a

  mile …”

  Old Cob sat back in his chair then,

  smug as a judge. Everyone knew Jessom

  was a bit of a drinker. And while

  Littlecliff wasn’t really a mile from the

&nbs
p; Williams’s land, it was too far to be

  chased by a cougar.

  Jake glared venomously at Old Cob, but

  before he could say anything Graham

  chimed in. “I heard it was drink too. A

  couple kids found him while they were

  playing by the falls. They thought he was

  dead, and ran to fetch the constable. But

  he was just head-struck and drunk as a

  lord. There was all manner of broken

  glass too. He was cut him up some.”

  Old Cob threw his hands up in the air.

  “Well ain’t that wonderful!” he said,

  scowling back and forth between Graham

  and Jake. “Any other parts of my story

  you’d like to tell afore I’m finished?”

  Graham looked taken aback. “I thought

  you were—”

  “I wasn’t finished,” Cob said, as if

  talking to a simpleton. “I was reelin’ it

  out slow. I swear. What you folk don’t

  know about tellin’ stories would fit into

  a book.”

  A tense silence settled among the

  friends.

  “I got some news too,” the smith’s

  prentice said almost shyly. He sat

  slightly hunched at the bar, as if

  embarrassed at being a head taller than

  everyone else and twice as broad across

  the shoulders. “If’n nobody else has

  heard it, that is.”

  Shep spoke up. “Go on, boy. You don’t

  have to ask. Those two just been gnawing

  on each other for years. They don’t mean

  anything by it.”

  “Well I was doing shoes,” the prentice

  said, “when Crazy Martin came in.” The

  boy shook his head in amazement and

  took a long drink of beer. “I ain’t only

  seen him a few times in town, and I

  forgot how big he is. I don’t have to look

  up to see him. But I still think he’s

  biggern me. And today he looked even

  bigger still ’cause he was furious. He

  was spittin’ nails. I swear. He looked

  like someone had tied two angry bulls

  together and made them wear a shirt!”

  The boy laughed the easy laugh of

  someone who’s had a little more beer

  than he’s used to.

  There was a pause. “What’s the news

  then?” Shep said gently, giving him a

  nudge.

  “Oh!” the smith’s prentice said. “He

  came asking Master Ferris if he had

  enough copper to mend a big kettle.” The

  prentice spread his long arms out wide,

  one hand almost smacking Shep in the

  face.

  “Apparently someone found Martin’s

  still.” The smith’s prentice leaned

  forward, wobbling slightly, and said in

  hushed voice. “Stole a bunch of his drink

  and wrecked up the place a bit.”

  The boy leaned back in his chair and

  crossed his arms proudly across his

  chest, confident of a story well told.

  But there was none of the buzz that

  normally accompanied a piece of good

  gossip. He took another drink of beer,

  and slowly began to look confused.

  “Tehlu anyway,” Graham said, his face

  gone pale. “Martin’ll kill him.”

  “What?” the prentice said. “Who?”

  “Jessom, you tit,” Jake snapped. He

  tried to cuff the boy on the back of his

  head and had to settle for his shoulder

  instead. “The fellow who got skunk

  drunk in the middle of the day and fell off

  a cliff carrying a bunch of bottles?”

  “I thought it was a cougar,” Old Cob

  said spitefully.

  “He’ll wish it was ten cougars when

  Martin gets him,” Jake said grimly.

  “What?” The smith’s prentice laughed.

  “Crazy Martin? He’s addled, sure, but he

  a i n’ t mean. A couple span ago he

  cornered me and talked bollocks about

  barley for two hours.” He laughed again.

  “About how it was healthful. How wheat

  would ruin a man. How money was dirty.

  How it chained you to the earth or some

  nonsense.”

  The prentice dropped his voice and

  hunched his shoulders a bit, widening his

  eyes and doing a passable Crazy Martin

  impression. “You know? ” he said,

  making his voice rough and darting his

  eyes around. “Yeah. You know. You hear

  what I’m sayin? ”

  The prentice laughed again, rocking

  back on his stool. He had obviously had

  a little more beer than was good for him.

  “People think they have to be afraid of

  big folk, but they don’t. I’ve never hit a

  man in my life.”

  Everyone just stared at him. Their eyes

  were deadly earnest.

  “Martin killed one of Ensal’s dogs for

  growling at him,” Shep said. “Right in

  the middle of market. Threw a shovel

  like it was a spear. Then gave it a

  kicking.”

  “Nearly killed that last priest,” Graham

  said. “The one before Abbe Leodin.

  Nobody knows why. Fellow went up to

  Martin’s house. That evening Martin

  brought him to town in a wheelbarrow

  and left him in front of the church.” He

  looked at the smith’s prentice. “That was

  before your time though. Makes sense

  you wouldn’t know.”

  “Punched a tinker once,” Jake said.

  “Punched a tinker? ” the innkeeper

  burst out, incredulous.

  “Reshi,” Bast said gently. “Martin is

  fucking crazy. ”

  Jake nodded. “Even the levy man

  doesn’t go up to Martin’s place.”

  Cob looked like he was going to call

  Jake out again, then decided to take a

  gentler tone. “Well yes,” he said. “True

  enough. But that’s ’cause Martin pulled

  his full rail in the king’s army. Eight

  years.”

  “And came back mad as a frothing

  dog,” Shep said.

  Old Cob was already off his stool and

  halfway to the door. “Enough talk. We

  got to let Jessom know. If he can get out

  of town until Martin cools down a bit

  …”

  “So … when he’s dead?” Jake said

  sharply. “Remember when he threw a

  horse through the window of the old inn

  because the barman wouldn’t give him

  another beer?”

  “ A tinker?” the innkeeper repeated,

  sounding no less shocked than before.

  Silence descended at the sound of

  footsteps on the landing. Everyone eyed

  the door and went still as stone, except

  for Bast, who slowly edged toward the

  doorway to the kitchen.

  Everyone breathed a huge sigh of relief

  when the door opened to reveal the tall,

  slim shape of Carter. He closed the door

  behind him, not noticing the tension in the

  room. “Guess who’s standing a round of

  bottle whiskey for everyone tonight?” he

  called out cheerfully, then stopped where
/>
  he stood, confused by the roomful of grim

  expressions.

  Old Cob started to walk to the door

  again, motioning for his friend to follow.

  “Come on Carter, we’ll explain on the

  way. We’ve got to find Jessom double

  quick.”

  “You’ll have a long ride to find him,”

  Carter said. “I drove him all the way to

  Baden this afternoon.”

  Everyone in the room seemed to relax,

  “That’s why you’re so late,” Graham

  said, his voice thick with relief. He

  slumped back onto his stool and tapped

  the bar hard with a knuckle. Bast drew

  him another beer.

  Carter frowned. “Not so late as all

  that,” he groused. “I’d like to see you

  make it all the way to Baden and back in

  this time, that’s more’n forty miles …”

  Old Cob put a hand on the man’s

  shoulder. “Nah. It ain’t like that,” he

  said, steering his friend toward the bar.

  “We were just a little spooked. You

  probably

  saved

  that

  damn

  fool’s

  Jessom’s life by getting him out of town.”

  He squinted at him. “Though I’ve told

  you you shouldn’t be out on the road by

  yourself these days …”

  The innkeeper fetched Carter a bowl

  while Bast went outside to tend to his

  horse. While he ate, his friends told him

  the day’s gossip in dribs and drabs.

  “Well that explains it,” Carter said.

  “Jessom showed up reeking like a rummy

  and looking like he’d been beat by

  twelve different demons. Paid me to

  drive him to the Iron Hall, and he took

  the king’s coin right there.” Carter took a

  drink of beer. “Then paid me to take him

  to Baden straight off. Didn’t want to stop

  off at his house for his clothes or

  anything.”

  “Not much need for that,” Shep said.

  “They’ll dress and feed him in the king’s

  army.”

  Graham let out a huge sigh. “That was a

  near miss. Can you imagine what would

  happen if the azzie came for Martin?”

  Everyone was silent for a moment,

  imagining the trouble that would come if

  an officer of the Crown’s Law was

  assaulted here in town.

  The smith’s prentice looked around at

  him, “What about Jessom’s family?” he

  asked, plainly worried. “Will Martin

  come after them?”

  The men at the bar shook their head in

  concert. “Martin is crazy,” Old Cob said.

  “But he’s not that sort. Not to go after a

  woman or her wee ones.”

  “I heard he punched the tinker because