The Name of the Wind

His eyes brightened. “But there’s a better way. You show her she is beautiful. You make mirrors of your eyes, prayers of your hands against her body. It is hard, very hard, but when she truly believes you ...” Bast gestured excitedly. “Suddenly the story she tells herself in her own head changes. She transforms. She isn’t seen as beautiful. She is beautiful, seen.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Chronicler snapped. “You’re just spouting nonsense now.”

“I’m spouting too much sense for you to understand,” Bast said testily. “But you’re close enough to see my point. Think of what he said today. People saw him as a hero, and he played the part. He wore it like a mask but eventually he believed it. It became the truth. But now ...” he trailed off.

“Now people see him as an innkeeper,” Chronicler said.

“No,” Bast said softly. “People saw him as an innkeeper a year ago. He took off the mask when they walked out the door. Now he sees himself as an innkeeper, and a failed innkeeper at that. You saw what he was like when Cob and the rest came in tonight. You saw that thin shadow of a man behind the bar tonight. It used to be an act....”

Bast looked up, excited. “But you’re perfect. You can help him remember what it was like. I haven’t seen him so lively in months. I know you can do it.”

Chronicler frowned a bit. “I’m not sure....”

“I know it will work,” Bast said eagerly. “I tried something similar a couple of months ago. I got him to start a memoir.”

Chronicler perked up. “He wrote a memoir?”

“Started a memoir,” Bast said. “He was so excited, talked about it for days. Wondering where he should begin his story. After his first night’s writing he was like his old self again. He looked three feet taller with lightning on his shoulders.” Bast sighed. “But something happened. The next day he read what he’d written and went into one of his dark moods. Claimed the whole thing was the worst idea he’d ever had.”

“What about the pages he wrote?”

Bast made a crumpling motion with his hands and tossed imaginary papers away.

“What did they say?” Chronicler asked.

Bast shook his head. “He didn’t throw them away. He just... threw them. They’ve been lying on his desk for months.”

Chronicler’s curiosity was almost palpable. “Can’t you just ...” he waggled his fingers. “You know, tidy them up?”

“Anpauen. No.” Bast looked horrified. “He was furious after he read them.” Bast shivered a little. “You don’t know what he’s like when he’s really angry. I know better than to cross him on something like that.”

“I suppose you know best,” Chronicler said dubiously

Bast gave an emphatic nod. “Exactly. That’s why I came to talk to you. Because I know best. You need to keep him from focusing on the dark things. If not ...” Bast shrugged and repeated the motion of crumpling and throwing away a piece of paper.

“But I’m collecting the story of his life. The real story.” Chronicler made a helpless gesture. “Without the dark parts it’s just some silly f—” Chronicler froze halfway through the word, eyes darting nervously to the side.

Bast grinned like a child catching a priest midcurse. “Go on,” he urged, his eyes were delighted, and hard, and terrible. “Say it.”

“Like some silly faerie story,” Chronicler finished, his voice thin and pale as paper.

Bast smiled a wide smile. “You know nothing of the Fae, if you think our stories lack their darker sides. But all that aside, this is a faerie story, because you are gathering it for me.”

Chronicler swallowed hard and seemed to regain some of his composure. “What I mean is that what he’s telling is a true story, and true stories have unpleasant parts. His more than most, I expect. They’re messy, and tangled, and ...”

“I know you can’t get him to leave them out,” Bast said. “But you can hurry him along. You can help him dwell on the good things: his adventures, the women, the fighting, his travels, his music....” Bast stopped abruptly. “Well ... not the music. Don’t ask about that, or why he doesn’t do magic anymore.”

Chronicler frowned. “Why not? His music seems ...”

Bast’s expression was grim. “Just don’t,” he said firmly. “They’re not productive subjects. I stopped you earlier,” he tapped Chronicler’s shoulder meaningfully, “because you were going to ask him what went wrong with his sympathy. You didn’t know any better. Now you do. Focus on the heroics, his cleverness.” He waved his hands. “That sort of thing.”

“It’s really not my place to be steering him one way or another,” Chronicler said stiffly. “I’m a recorder. I’m just here for the story. The story’s the important thing, after all.”

“Piss on your story,” Bast said sharply. “You’ll do what I say, or I’ll break you like a kindling stick.”

Chronicler froze. “So you’re saying I work for you?”