For my sweet boys: Oot and Cutie.

My favorite stories are the ones we tell each other. You’re the best part of my life. You deserve a perfect father, but I’m glad you have me instead.

—Pat

For Grace, who shows me how to be bold and
reminds me of the magic in ordinary things.

—Nate

AUTHOR’S FOREWORD

You might not want to buy this book.

I know, that’s not the sort of thing an author is supposed to say. But I’d rather be honest with you right out of the gate.

First, if you haven’t read my other books, you probably don’t want to start here.

My first two books are The Name of the Wind and The Wise Man’s Fear. If you’re curious to try my writing, start there. They’re the best introduction to my words and my world. This book deals with Bast, a character from that series. And while I’ve done my best to make this story stand on its own, if you start here, you’re going to be missing a lot of context.

Second, if you have read my other work, you should know a version of this story was published in the beforetimes. Back in the long, long ago. Back before COVID. Back when Twitter was fun, and the world was green and new.

Which is to say a little less than ten years ago. I published a version of this story under the title “The Lightning Tree” in an anthology called Rogues. I talk about this a little in my author’s note at the end of the book, but suffice to say that the version you’re holding is wildly different: I’ve obsessively re-written it, added 15,000+ words, and worked with the fabulous Nate Taylor to add over 40 illustrations.

That said, if you read “The Lightning Tree” back in the day, you know the shape of this story. There’s much that is different, much changed, much added, but the bones are the same. So if you’re looking for something utterly new, you’re not going to find it here.

On the other hand, if you’d like to learn more about Bast, this book has a lot to offer. If you’re curious about faerie bargains and the secret desires hearts can hold. If you’re curious about magics only glimpsed in my other books. If you want to know more about what Bast does in his spare time in the small town of Newarre … .

Well, then this book might be for you.

DAWN: ARTISTRY

Bast almost made it out the back door of the Waystone Inn.

Technically, he had made it outside. Both feet were over the threshold and the door was only a crack away from being closed.

Then he heard his master’s voice and went perfectly still. He knew he hadn’t given himself away. He was intimate with every subtle sound the inn could make. Not just the simple tricks a child would think clever: carrying their shoes, leaving creaky doors open ahead of time, muffling footsteps on a rug … .

No. Bast was better than that. He could move through a room barely stirring the air. He knew which stairs sighed when it had rained the night before, which windows opened easy and which shutters caught the wind. He could tell when a detour out and over the peak of the roof would make less noise than the straight way through the upper hall.

That would be enough for some. But on the rare occasion when he actually cared, Bast found success as dull as ditchwater. Let others settle for mere excellence. Bast was an artist.

Because of this, Bast knew true silence was unnatural. To a careful ear, silence sounded like a knife in the dark.

So when Bast glided through the empty inn, he played the floorboards like an instrument. A sigh, a pause, a click, a creak. Sounds that would catch a guest just drifting off to sleep. But to someone who lived there … it was nothing. It was less than nothing. It was the comfortable sound of heavy timber bones settling slowly into earth, easy to ignore as a familiar lover stirring next to you in bed.

Knowing all this, Bast eyed the door. He kept the bright brass hinges oiled, but even so he shifted his grip and lifted so the door’s weight didn’t hang. Only then did he ease it slowly closed. A moth would make more noise.

Bast stood to his full height and grinned, his face sweet and sly and wild. In that moment, he looked less like a rakish young man, and more a naughty child who had stolen the moon and planned to eat it like a thin, pale silver cake. His smile was like the final crescent of remaining moon, sharp and white and dangerous.

“Bast!” The call came from the inn again, louder this time. Nothing so crass as a shout. His master did not bellow like a farmer calling cows, but his voice could carry like a hunting horn. Bast felt it tug him like a hand around his heart.

Bast sighed, then opened the door and strode briskly back inside. He made walking look like dancing. He was dark, and tall, and lovely. When he scowled, his face was still more sweet than others might look smiling. “Yes Reshi?” he called brightly.

After a moment the innkeeper stepped into the kitchen. He wore a clean white apron and his hair was red. His face held the stolid placidness of bored innkeepers everywhere. Despite the early hour, he looked tired.

He handed Bast a leather-bound book. “You almost forgot this,” he said without a hint of sarcasm.

Bast made a show of looking surprised. “Oh! Thank you, Reshi!”

“No bother, Bast.” The innkeeper’s mouth made the shape of a smile. “While you’re out today, would you mind picking up some eggs?”

Bast nodded, tucking the book under his arm. “Anything else?” he asked.

“Maybe some carrots too? I’m thinking we’ll do stew tonight. It’s Felling, so we’ll need to be ready for a crowd.” His mouth turned up slightly at one corner as he said this.

“Eggs and carrots,” Bast repeated dutifully.

The innkeeper started to turn away, then stopped. “Oh, the Tilman boy stopped by yesterday, looking for you.”

Bast tilted his head to one side, his expression puzzled.

“I think he’s Jessom’s son?” the innkeeper provided, holding up a hand to roughly chest height. “Dark hair? Name was …” He trailed off, narrowing his eyes as he tried to remember.

“Rike.” Bast dropped the name like a lump of hot iron, then pressed on quickly, hoping his master wouldn’t notice. “Tilmans are the woodcutters off to the south of town. No wives or kids. Was it Rike Williams? Dark eyes. Grubby?” Bast thought a moment, wondering how else he might describe the boy. “Probably looked nervous? Like he was making a point of not stealing anything?”

The last brought a glimmer of recognition to the innkeeper’s face, and he nodded. “Said he was looking for you, but didn’t leave any sort of message …” He raised an eyebrow at Bast. The look said more than it said.

“I haven’t the slightest idea what he wants,” Bast said, sounding honest. He was being honest, too. But better than anyone, Bast knew what that was worth. All that glittered wasn’t gilt, and sometimes it was worth a little work so that you seemed to be the thing you truly were.

Nodding, the innkeeper made a noncommittal noise and moved back toward the common room. If he said anything further, Bast didn’t hear it, as he was already running lightly through the dewy grass and the startling blue-grey light of dawn.