Copyright

HarperVoyager

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpervoyagerbooks.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperVoyager 2015

Copyright © Robin Hobb 2015

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015

Cover illustration © Jackie Morris; lettering by Stephen Raw.

Map copyright © Nicolette Caven 2015

Robin Hobb asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007444212

Ebook Edition © August 2015 ISBN: 9780007444236

Version: 2018-09-24

Dedication

To Rudyard. Still my Best Beloved

after all these years

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Map

Chapter One: Winterfest Eve at Buckkeep

Chapter Two: Lord Feldspar

Chapter Three: The Taking of Bee

Chapter Four: The Fool’s Tale

Chapter Five: An Exchange of Substance

Chapter Six: The Witted

Chapter Seven: Secrets and a Crow

Chapter Eight: Farseers

Chapter Nine: The Crown

Chapter Ten: Tidings

Chapter Eleven: Withywoods

Chapter Twelve: The Shaysim

Chapter Thirteen: Chade’s Secret

Chapter Fourteen: Elfbark

Chapter Fifteen: Surprises

Chapter Sixteen: The Journey

Chapter Seventeen: Blood

Chapter Eighteen: The Changer

Chapter Nineteen: The Strategy

Chapter Twenty: Marking Time

Chapter Twenty-One: Vindeliar

Chapter Twenty-Two: Confrontations

Chapter Twenty-Three: Bonds and Ties

Chapter Twenty-Four: Parting Ways

Chapter Twenty-Five: Red Snow

Chapter Twenty-Six: A Glove

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Aftermath

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Repercussions

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Family

Chapter Thirty: Prince FitzChivalry

Chapter Thirty-One: Loose Ends

Chapter Thirty-Two: Travellers

Chapter Thirty-Three: Departure

Chapter Thirty-Four: Dragons

Chapter Thirty-Five: Kelsingra

Chapter Thirty-Six: An Elderling Welcome

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Heroes and Thieves

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Emergence

Keep Reading

About the Author

Also by Robin Hobb

About the Publisher

ONE
Winterfest Eve at Buckkeep

I am warm and safe in the den, with my two siblings. They are both heartier and stronger than I am. Born last, I am smallest of all. My eyes were slow to open, and I have been the least adventurous of the cubs. Both my brother and my sister have dared, more than once, to follow my mother to the mouth of the den dug deep in the undercut bank of the river. Each time, she has snarled and snapped at them, driving them back. She leaves us alone when she goes out to hunt. There should be a wolf to watch over us, a younger member of the pack who remains with us. But she is all that is left of the pack, and so she must go out to hunt alone and we must stay where she leaves us.

There is a day when she shakes free of us, long before we have had enough of her milk. She leaves us, going to the hunt, leaving the den as evening starts to creep across the land. We hear from her a single yelp. That is all.

My brother, the largest of us, is filled with both fear and curiosity. He whines loudly, trying to call her back to us, but there is no response. He starts to go to the entrance of the den and my sister follows him, but in a moment they come scrabbling back to hunker down in fear beside me. There are strange smells right outside the den, bad smells, blood and creatures unknown to us. As we hide and whimper, the blood-smell grows stronger. We do the only thing we know to do. We hunch and huddle against the far back wall of the den.

We hear sounds. Something that is not paws digs at the mouth of our den. It sounds like a large tooth biting into the earth, biting and tearing, biting and tearing. We hunch even deeper and my brother’s hackles rise. We hear sounds and we know there is more than one creature outside the den. The blood-smell thickens and is mingled with the smell of our mother. The digging noises go on.

Then there is another smell. In years to come I will know what it is, but in the dream it is not smoke. It is a smell that none of us understands, and it comes in driven wafts into the den. We cry, for it stings our eyes and sucks the breath from our lungs. The den becomes hot and airless and finally my brother crawls toward the den opening. We hear his wild yelping, and how it continues, and then there is the stink of fear-piss. My sister huddles behind me, getting smaller and stiller. And then she is not breathing or hiding any more. She is dead.

I sink down, my paws over my nose, my eyes blinded by the smoke. The digging noises go on and then something seizes me. I yelp and struggle, but it holds tight to my front leg and drags me from the den.

My mother is a hide and a bloody red carcass thrown to one side. My brother huddles in terror in the bottom of a cage in the back of a two-wheeled cart. They fling me in beside him and then drag out my sister’s body. They are angry she is dead, and they kick her about as if somehow their anger can make her feel pain now. Then, complaining of the cold and oncoming dark, they skin her and add her small hide to my mother’s. The two men climb onto the cart and whip up their mule, already speculating at the prices that wolf cubs will bring from the dog-fighting markets. My mother’s and sister’s bloody hides fill my nose with the stench of death.

It is only the beginning of a torment that lasts for a lifetime. Some days we are fed and sometimes not. We are given no shelter from the rain. The only warmth is that of our own bodies as we huddle together. My brother, thin with worms, dies in a pit, thrown in to whet the ferocity of the fighting dogs. And then I am alone. They feed me on offal and scraps or nothing at all. My feet become sore from pawing at the cage, my claws split and my muscles ache from confinement. They beat me and poke me to provoke me to hurl myself against bars I cannot break. They speak outside my cage of their plans to sell me for the fighting-pits. I hear the words but I do not understand them.

I did understand the words. I spasmed awake, and for a moment everything was wrong, everything was foreign. I was huddled in a ball, shuddering, and my fur had been stripped away to bare skin and my legs were bent at the wrong angles and confined by something. My senses were as deadened as if I were wadded in a sack. All around me were the smells of those hated creatures. I bared my teeth and, snarling, fought my way out of my bonds.

Even after I landed on the floor, the blanket trailing after me and my body asserting that I was, indeed, one of those hated humans, I stared in confusion around the dark room. It felt as if it should be morning, but the floor beneath me was not the smooth oaken plank of my bedchamber, nor did the room smell as if it belonged to me. I came slowly to my feet, my eyes striving to adjust. My straining vision caught the blinking of tiny red eyes, and then translated them to the dying embers of a fire. In a fireplace.

As I felt my way across the chamber, the world fell into place around me. Chade’s old rooms at Buckkeep Castle emerged from the blackness when I poked at the embers and added a few sticks of wood. Numbly, I found fresh candles and kindled them, awakening the room to its perpetual twilight. I looked around, letting my life catch up with me. I judged that the night had passed and that outside the thick and windowless walls, day had dawned. The dire events of the previous day – how I had nearly killed the Fool, left my child in the charge of folk I did not fully trust, and then dangerously drained Riddle of Skill-strength to bring the Fool to Buckkeep – rushed over me in a sweeping tide. They met the engulfing memories of all the evenings and nights I’d spent in this windowless chamber, learning the skills and secrets of being the king’s assassin. When finally the sticks caught flame, enriching the thin candlelight in the room, I felt as if I had made a long journey to return to myself. The wolf’s dream of his horrific captivity was fading. I wondered briefly why it had come back in such intensity, and then let it go. Nighteyes, my wolf, my brother, was long gone from this world. The echoes of him lived on in my mind, my heart and my memories, but in what I faced now, he was no longer at my back. I stood alone.

Except for the Fool. My friend had returned to me. Battered, beaten, and possibly not in his right mind, but he was at my side again. I held a candle high and ventured back to the bed we had shared.

The Fool was still deeply asleep. He looked terrible. The marks of torture were written on his scarred face, hardship and starvation had chapped and chafed his skin and thinned his hair to broken straw. Even so, he looked better than when first I had seen him. He was clean, and fed, and warm. And his even breathing was that of a man given a fresh infusion of strength. I wished I could say I had given it to him. All unwitting, I had stolen strength from Riddle and passed it to my friend during our Skill-passage through the standing stones. I regretted how I had abused Riddle in my ignorance but I could not deny the relief I felt to hear the Fool’s steady breathing. Last night he had had the strength to talk with me, and he had walked a bit, bathed himself and eaten a meal. That was far more than I would have expected of the battered beggar I had first seen.

But borrowed strength is not true strength. The hasty Skill-healing I’d practised on him had robbed him of his scanty physical reserves, and the vitality I had stolen from Riddle and given to him could not long sustain him. I hoped the food and rest he had taken yesterday had begun to rebuild his body. I watched him sleeping so deeply and dared to hope he would live. Moving softly, I picked up the bedding I had dragged to the floor in my fall and arranged it warmly around him.

He was so changed. He had been a man who loved beauty in all its forms. His tailored garments, the ornaments in his chambers, the hangings for his bed and windows, even the tie that had held back his immaculately groomed hair had all been chosen with harmony and fashion in mind. But that man was gone. He had come back to me as a ragbag scarecrow of a man. The flesh of his face had fallen to skin-coated bones. Battered, blinded, wearing the scars of torture, the Fool had been so transformed by hardship that I hadn’t recognized him. Gone was the lithe and limber jester with the mocking smile. Gone, too, elegant Lord Golden with his fine clothes and aristocratic ways. I was left with this cadaverous wretch.

His blind eyes were closed. His mouth was a finger’s width ajar. His breath hissed in and out. ‘Fool?’ I said and jogged his shoulder cautiously. His only response was a slight hitch in his breathing. Then he sighed out, as if giving up on pain and fear, before resuming the even respiration of deep sleep.

He had fled torture and travelled through hardship and privation to meet me. His health was broken and he feared deadly pursuit. I could not grasp how he had managed it, broken and blind. But he’d done it, and for one purpose. Last night, before he had surrendered to unconsciousness, he had asked me to kill for him. He wanted us to return to Clerres, to his old school and to the people who had tormented him. And as a special favour, he had asked that I use my old assassin’s skills to kill them all.

He knew that I’d left that part of my life behind me. I was a different man, a respectable man, a steward of my daughter’s home, the father of a little girl. Assassin no more. I’d left killing behind. It had been years since I’d been lean, the muscles of my arms as hard as the heart of a killer. I was a country gentleman now. We had both changed so much.

I could still recall the mocking smile and flashing glance that had once been his, charming and enraging at once. He had changed, but I was confident I still knew him in the important ways, the one that went beyond trivial facts such as where he had been born or who his parents had been. I’d known him since we were young. A sour smile twisted my mouth. Not since we were children. In some ways I doubted that either of us had ever truly been children. But the long years of deep friendship were a foundation I could not doubt. I knew his character. I knew his loyalty and dedication. I knew more of his secrets than anyone, and I had guarded those secrets as carefully as if they were my own. I’d seen him in despair, and incapacitated with terror. I’d seen him broken with pain and I’d seen him drunk to maudlin. And beyond that, I’d seen him dead, and been him dead, and walked his body back to life and called his spirit back to inhabit that body.

So I knew him. From the bones out.

Or so I had thought.

I took a deep breath and sighed it out, but there was no relief from the tension I felt. I was like a child, terrified of looking out into the darkness for fear of what I might see. I was denying what I knew was true. I did know the Fool, from his bones out. And I knew that the Fool would do whatever he thought he must do in order to set the world in its best track. He had let me tread the razor’s edge between death and life, had expected me to endure pain, hardship and loss. He had surrendered himself to a tortured death he had believed was inevitable. All for the sake of his vision of the future.

So if he believed that someone must be killed, and he could not kill that person himself, he would ask it of me. And he would freight the request with those terrible words. ‘For me.’

I turned away from him. Yes. He would ask that of me. The very last thing I ever wanted to do again. And I would say yes. Because I could not look at him, broken and in anguish, and not feel a sea-surge of anger and hatred. No one, no one could be allowed to hurt him as badly as they’d hurt him and continue to live. Anyone so lacking in empathy that they could systematically torment and physically degrade another should not be suffered to live. Monsters had done this to him. Regardless of how human they might appear, this evidence of their work spoke the truth. They needed to be killed. And I should do it.

I wanted to do it. The longer I looked at him, the more I wanted to go and kill, not quickly and quietly, but messily and noisily. I wanted the people who had done this to him to know they were dying and to know why. I wanted them to have time to regret what they’d done.

But I couldn’t. And that tore at me.

I would have to say no. Because as much as I loved the Fool, as deep as our friendship went, as furiously hot as my hatred burned, Bee had first rights to my protection. And dedication. Already I had violated that, leaving her to the care of others while I rescued my friend. My little girl was all I had left now of my wife Molly. Bee was my last chance to be a good father, and I hadn’t been doing very well at it lately. Years ago, I’d failed my older daughter Nettle. I’d left her to think another man was her father, given her over to someone else to raise. Nettle already doubted my ability to care for Bee. Already she had spoken of taking Bee out of my care and bringing her here, to Buckkeep, where she could oversee her upbringing.

I could not allow that. Bee was too small and too strange to survive among palace politics. I had to keep her safe, with me, at Withywoods, in a quiet and secure rural manor, where she might grow as slowly and be as odd as she wished. And as wonderful. So although I had left her to save the Fool, it was only this once and only for a short time. I’d go back to her. Perhaps, I consoled myself, if the Fool recovered enough, I could take him with me. Take him to the quiet and comfort of Withywoods, let him find healing and peace there. He was in no condition to make a journey back to Clerres, let alone aid me in killing whoever had done this to him. Vengeance, I knew, could be delayed, but the life of a growing child could not. I had one chance to be Bee’s father and that time was now. At any time, I could be an assassin for the Fool. So for now, the best I could offer him was peace and healing. Yes. Those things would have to come first.

For a time, I quietly wandered the assassin’s lair where I had spent many happy childhood hours. The clutter of an old man had given way to the tidy organizing skills of Lady Rosemary. She presided over these chambers now. They were cleaner and more pleasant, but somehow I missed Chade’s random projects and jumbles of scrolls and medicines. The shelves that had once held everything from a snake’s skeleton to a piece of bone turned to stone now displayed a tidy array of stoppered bottles and pots.

They were neatly labelled in a lady’s elegant hand. Here was carryme and elfbark, valerian and wolfsbane, mint and beargrease, sumac and foxglove, cindin and Tilth smoke. One pot was labelled OutIslander elfbark, probably to distinguish it from the far milder Six Duchies herb. A glass vial held a dark red mixture that swirled uneasily at the slightest touch. There were threads of silver in it that did not mingle with the red, yet did not float like oil on water. I’d never seen such a mixture. It had no label and I put it back carefully in the wooden rack that kept it upright. Some things were best left alone. I had no idea what karuge root was, nor bloodrun, but both had tiny red skulls inked next to their names.

On the shelf below were mortars and pestles, knives for chopping, sieves for straining and several small heavy pots for rendering. There were stained metal spoons, neatly racked. Below them was a row of small clay pots that puzzled me at first. They were no bigger than my fist, glazed a shiny brown, as were their tight-fitting lids. They were sealed shut with tar, except for a hole in the middle of each lid. A tail of twisted waxed linen emerged from each hole. I hefted one cautiously and then understood. Chade had told me that his experiment with his exploding powder had been progressing. These represented his most recent advance in how to kill people. I set the pot back carefully. The tools of the killing trade that I had forsaken stood in rows like faithful troops. I sighed, but not out of regret, and turned away from them. The Fool slept on.

I tidied the dishes from our late night repast onto a tray and otherwise brought the chamber to rights. The tub of bathwater, now cold and grey, remained, as did the repulsively soiled undergarment the Fool had worn. I did not even dare to burn it on the hearth for fear of the stench it would emit. I did not feel disgust, only pity. My own clothing from the day before was still covered in blood, both from a dog and the Fool. I told myself it was not all that noticeable on the dark fabric. Then, thinking again, I went to investigate the old carved wardrobe that had always stood beside the bed. At one time, it had held only Chade’s work robes, all of them of serviceable grey wool and most of them stained or scorched from his endless experiments. Only two work robes hung there now, both dyed blue and too small for me. There was also, to my surprise, a woman’s night robe and two simple shifts. A pair of black leggings that would have been laughably short on me. Ah. These were Lady Rosemary’s things. Nothing here for me.

It disturbed me to slip quietly from the rooms and leave the Fool sleeping, but I had errands to carry out. I suspected that someone would be sent in to do the cleaning and to supply the room afresh, and I did not like to leave him there unconscious and vulnerable. But at that point, I knew I owed Chade my trust. He had provided all for us the previous evening, despite his pressing duties.

The Six Duchies and the Mountain Kingdom sought to negotiate alliances, and to that end powerful representatives had been invited to come to Buckkeep Castle for the week of Winterfest. Yet even in the middle of an evening of feasting, music and dancing, not only Chade but King Dutiful and his mother, Lady Kettricken, had found time to slip away and greet me and the Fool, and Chade had still found a way to have this chamber well supplied with all we needed. He would not be careless of my friend. Whoever he sent to this chamber would be discreet.

Chade. I took a breath and reached for him with the Skill-magic. Our minds brushed. Chade? The Fool is asleep and I’ve some errands that I’d like—

Yes, yes, fine. Not now, Fitz. We’re discussing the Kelsingra situation. If they are not willing to control their dragons, we may have to form an alliance to deal with the creatures. I’ve made provisions for you and your guest. There is coin in a purse on the blue shelf if you need it. But now I must put my full attention to this. Bingtown claims that Kelsingra may actually be seeking an alliance with the Duchess of Chalced!

Oh. I withdrew. Abruptly, I felt like a child who had interrupted the adults discussing important things. Dragons. An alliance against dragons. Alliance with whom? Bingtown? And what could anyone hope to do against dragons save bribe them with enough meat to stupefy them? Would not befriending the arrogant carnivores be better than challenging them? I felt unreasonably snubbed that my opinion had not been consulted.

And in the next instance, I chided myself. Let Chade and Dutiful and Elliania and Kettricken manage the dragons. Walk away, Fitz.

I lifted a tapestry and slipped away into the labyrinth of secret corridors that wormed its way behind the walls of Buckkeep Castle. Once I had known the spy-ways as well as I knew the path to the stables. Despite the passing years, the narrow corridor that crept through interior walls or snaked along the outer walls of the castle had not changed.

But I had. I was no longer a skinny boy or even a youth. I was a man of sixty, and though I flattered myself that I was fit enough still to do a hard day’s work, I was no longer limber and lithe. The narrow corners that I had once ferreted past without a thought now required a bit of negotiating. I reached the old pantry entrance and hunched by the concealed door, ear pressed to the wall, waiting for a quiet moment before I emerged behind a meat rack full of dangling sausages.

I was saved only by the benign chaos of Winterfest. When I stepped out of the pantry into the corridor, a large woman in a flour-dusted apron demanded to know what was taking me so long. ‘Did you find the goose-grease for me, or not?’

‘I, I didn’t see it there,’ I replied and she responded tartly, ‘That’s because you went into the wrong pantry! Go along two more doors, down a flight of steps and take the second door to the cold room and look for it there, in a big brown crock on a shelf. Hurry up!’

She spun around and left me standing. As she walked away, she muttered loudly about hiring new help right before a feast-day. I blew out a nervous breath and turned to find a fellow of about my height and build labouring up the corridor with a heavy brown crock in his arms. I followed him and as he went into the kitchens, I stepped past the kitchen door and its exhaled aroma of fresh bread, steaming soups and roasting meats and hurried outside.

In the teeming courtyard of Buckkeep Castle on a wintry day, I was just one more man hurrying on an urgent errand. I looked up at the sky in surprise. Past noon. I had slept far longer than I’d intended. A brief break in the storms had bared the noon sun, but more snow was surely coming our way. Now I regretted how impulsively I had discarded my cloak the day before. I’d be lucky to regain the keep before the snow came down.

I went first to the infirmary, hoping to apologize to Riddle privately. But it was busier than usual, for apparently some of our guardsmen had got into a bit of a brawl last night. No great damage to any of them, save for one fellow who had been bitten on the cheek. The ugliness of that was enough to make anyone wince. Again, the noise and disorder were my allies as I swiftly discovered that Riddle was no longer there. I left, hoping that he was well recovered by now but surmising that he was actually recuperating someplace that was more conducive to rest. I stood outside the infirmary deciding what I should do next.

I hefted the purse Chade had left me. The coins I had hoped to spend to delight my little daughter still weighted it heavily – now supplemented by what Chade had left me. I had loaded my purse well at Withywoods in the belief that I would indulge her in every possible way on that market-day in Oaksbywater. Had it been only yesterday? Bleakness washed over me. What I had intended as a day of pleasure and indulgence had ended in violence and bloodshed. To save the Fool’s life, I had sent her home without me, in the dubious guardianship of Scribe FitzVigilant and Lady Shun. Little Bee, only nine and looking more like a six-year-old. I wondered what sort of day she was having. Nettle had promised to send a bird to let her know I had arrived safely at Buckkeep, and I knew that my elder daughter would never fail me at such a task. So, later today, I would write letters, to FitzVigilant and Revel, but most especially to Bee. A top-notch messenger on a good horse could have them there in three days. Four if more snow fell … For now, the bird message would have to suffice. And while I had this time, I would take myself to Buckkeep Town, not just to buy myself a fresh set of garb with what coin I had from Chade but also to buy gifts for Bee. Winterfest gifts, I decided, to show her I had thought of her even if I could not be with her. I’d brought Chade’s purse with me. I’d indulge myself by indulging her! Even if my gifts would reach her days late.

I chose to hike down to the town rather than Skilling to Dutiful or Nettle to arrange a horse from the stables. Horses did not do well on the steeply cobbled streets, and Dutiful was doubtless still fully engaged with entertaining his trade delegations. Nettle was probably still very angry with me, as I well deserved. No harm in letting time cool her temper a bit.

I found the road wider than I recalled it, with trees cut back from the margin on both sides, and far fewer potholes and muddy swathes than I recalled. And the town was closer than it had been, for its sprawl of houses and shops had begun to crawl up the road to the castle. An area that once had been forest was now the outskirts of the town, with merchants of all sorts, a cheap tavern called the Buck Guard and what I suspected was a whorehouse behind it. The door of the Bawdy Trout was off its hinges and a scowling innkeeper was repairing it. Past it, old Buckkeep Town was decked out for the feast-day to come, with garlands and evergreen boughs and brightly-coloured pennants. The streets were busy, not just with deliveries to taverns and inns, but with all the travellers and tradesfolk that prospered during a holiday.

It took some time for me to find the items I needed. In one shop that was obviously accustomed to catering to sailors and guardsmen, I found two cheap ready-made shirts that almost fitted, a long vest of brown wool, a heavy cloak and some trousers that would do for a time. I had to smile as I realized I had become accustomed to a much better quality of clothing. After giving that a thought, I went to a tailor’s shop where I was swiftly measured and clothing was promised before two days had passed. I feared I would be in Buckkeep at least that long, but mentioned that if the clothing was ready faster, I would pay a bonus. I fumbled my way through estimating the Fool’s height and greatly diminished girth, and they told me that if I returned by late afternoon, they would have smallclothes and two serviceable house-robes for him. I told them he was ill and that soft fabrics would be appreciated. The coins I left with them promised swift work.

With that necessary shopping out of the way, I took myself down to where music and merry chaos dominated the streets. Here was the Winterfest of my youth: puppetry and juggling, song and dance, vendors offering sweets and savoury treats, hedge witches selling potions and charms, girls in holly wreaths and every noisy joy the heart could hope for. I missed Molly, and longed ardently to have Bee at my side, experiencing this with me.

I bought things for her. Ribbons with bells on them, sticks of candy, a silver necklace with three amber birds on it, a packet of spiced nuts, a green scarf with yellow stars woven into it, a small belt-knife with a good horn handle, and then a canvas bag to carry it all in. It came to me that a messenger could just as easily take this bag to her as a simple letter from me, and so I filled it. A necklace made from speckled seashells from some faraway beach, a pomander for her winter woollens chest, and on, until the bag would barely close. For the moment, it was a blue-sky day, with a fresh wind that tasted of the ocean. A gem of a day, and I enjoyed imagining her delight in all the trinkets she would discover in this bag. As I loitered amid the merriment, I thought of the words I would write on the letter to go with it, letters written plain and clear that she might read my thoughts herself and know how much I regretted leaving her. But soon the wind brought a fresh bank of dark grey snowclouds scudding in. Time to return to the castle.

I stopped by the tailor’s shop on my way back and was rewarded with garments for the Fool. As I left, lowering clouds that had been on the horizon stole in. Snow began to fall and the wind bared its teeth as I hurried up the steep road back to the castle. I was passed in at the gate as easily as I had left: the trade delegation and the merrymaking of Winterfest meant that the guards had been ordered to be generous in whom they admitted.

But it reminded me there was still a problem I’d soon have to solve. I needed an identity. Since I had shaved my beard to please my daughter, not only the staff of Withywoods but even Riddle had been astonished at my youthful appearance. After all the years I’d been absent from Buckkeep Castle, I feared to introduce myself as Tom Badgerlock, and not just because the streak of white in my hair that had prompted that name was long gone. The folk who recalled Tom Badgerlock would expect a man of sixty years, not someone who looked to be in his middle thirties.

Instead of using the kitchen entrance, I went about to a side hall and entered through a door mostly reserved for couriers and higher status servants. My bulging bag gained me entry, and to the one under-steward who asked me my business, I replied that I had a parcel for Lady Nettle and I was allowed to pass.

The wall-hangings and furniture of the castle had changed over the years, but the basic hierarchy of chambers remained as it had been since my boyhood. I went up a servant’s stair, gained the floor reserved for lesser nobility, spent a small amount of time apparently waiting for someone to let me into an apartment there and, as soon as the corridor was cleared, successfully gained access to the next floor and the door to Lady Thyme’s old chambers. The key turned smoothly and I entered the room. The concealed entrance to Chade’s old chamber was through a wardrobe of musty old women’s clothing.

My crawl through the wardrobe was as ungainly as it had been the night before, and I found myself wondering if all Chade’s secrecy was truly needed. I knew the Fool had asked for these rooms because he still feared pursuit, but I trusted that our passage through the stones would thwart anyone who had been following him. Then I recalled how the White girl had died, with parasites eating her eyes, and decided that caution was ever the better path. Keeping the Fool well hidden could do no harm.

One of Chade’s secretive minions had visited those chambers while I was gone. I needed to meet him. Or her. The Fool’s filthy garments had been taken and the tub had been emptied and pushed into the corner. Last night’s dishes and glasses had been tidied away. A heavy stoneware pot was lidded deep in the hearth, but the smell of braised beef had still escaped to flavour the room. A cloth had been spread on the table, and a loaf wrapped in a clean yellow napkin reposed next to a small dish of pale winter butter. There was a dusty bottle of red wine and a couple of cups, alongside plates and cutlery.

Kettricken was probably responsible for the two sensible linen nightgowns draped over the chair. Two pairs of loose trousers in the same weave were with them. Lambs’ wool bed stockings were neatly rolled into balls. I smiled, considering it quite possible that the former queen had raided her own wardrobe for these soft things. I gathered the clothing and set it on the foot of the Fool’s bed.

The garments left on the second chair were more puzzling. A sky-blue dress, with dagged sleeves and dozens more buttons than any garment required to close it was on the chair back. On the seat of the chair, almost-sensible trousers of black wool terminated in cuffs of blue-and-white stripes. The slippers beside them resembled a pair of small boats, with pointed and upturned toes and a thick heel. I thought they were too large for the Fool even if he had been well enough to walk around Buckkeep.

I had been aware of his deep and steady breathing since I entered the chamber. It was good that he still slept and I suppressed my boyish impulse to wake him and ask him how he felt. Instead, I found paper and sat down at Chade’s old worktable to compose my note to Bee. I was full of words, managed a greeting, and then stared at the paper for a time. There was so much I needed to say, from reassurances that I would quickly return to advice for dealing with FitzVigilant and Shun. Could I be certain that hers would be the only eyes to read what I wrote? I hoped so and yet my old training came to the fore and I decided not to commit to paper any words that could create ill feeling toward her. So I wrote only that I hoped she would enjoy these small things. As I had long promised, there was a knife for her belt, which I trusted she would use wisely. I reminded her that I would return home as soon as I could, and that I hoped she would use her time well while I was gone. I did not command her to study hard with her new tutor. In truth, I rather hoped that between my absence and the winter holiday, they would set lessons aside for a time. But I did not commit that thought to paper either. Instead I closed my message with hoping that she had enjoyed Winterfest and that I missed her terribly. Then I sat for a time promising myself that Revel at least would be sure that there was some festivity for the holiday. I had intended to find some minstrels that fateful day in Oaksbywater. Cook Nutmeg had proposed a menu that Revel had embellished. It was somewhere on my desk at home.

I had to do better by my daughter. I had to, and so I would. But there was little I could do about it until I returned home. The gifts would have to suffice until I could be there for Bee.

I spindled my note and tied it with some of Chade’s twine. I found his sealing wax and melted a bit onto the knot, and imprinted the blob with my signet ring. No charging buck for FitzChivalry Farseer, only the badger’s footprint that belonged to Holder Tom Badgerlock. I stood and stretched. I’d need to find a courier.

My Wit prickled. My nostrils flared, trying to find a scent. I did not move, but I let my gaze rove about the room. There. Behind a heavy tapestry of hounds pursuing a deer that concealed one of the secret entryways to the chamber, someone breathed. I centred myself in my body. My own breathing was silent. I did not reach for a weapon but I shifted my weight to my feet so that I could stand, move, leap or drop to the floor in an instant. I waited.

‘Don’t attack me, sir, please.’ A boy’s voice. The words had a country lad’s drawn-out vowels.

‘Come in.’ I made no promises.

He hesitated. Then, very slowly, he pushed the tapestry to one side and stepped out into the dim light of the chamber. He showed me his hands, the right one empty, the left holding a scroll. ‘A message for you, sir. That’s all.’

I assessed him carefully. Young, perhaps twelve. His body had not yet turned the corner to manhood. Bony, with narrow shoulders. He’d never be a large man. He wore the Buckkeep blue of a page. His hair was brown and as curly as a water dog’s, and his eyes were brown as well. And he was cautious. He’d shown himself but not stepped far into the room. That he had sensed danger and announced himself to me raised him in my estimation.

‘A message from whom?’ I asked.

The tip of his tongue wet his lips. ‘A man who knew to send it to you here. A man who taught me the way to come here.’

‘How do you know I’m the one it’s for?’

‘He said you’d be here.’

‘But anyone might be here.’

He shook his head but didn’t argue with me. ‘Nose broken a long time ago and old blood on your shirt.’

‘Bring it to me, then.’

He came like a fox thinking of stealing a dead rabbit from a snare. He walked lightly and did not take his eyes from me. When he reached the table’s edge, he set the scroll down and stepped back.

‘Is that all?’ I asked him.

He glanced around the room, at the firewood and the food. ‘And whatever else you might wish me to fetch for you, sir.’

‘And your name is …?’

Again he hesitated. ‘Ash, sir.’ He waited, watching me.

‘There’s nothing else I need, Ash. You may go.’

‘Sir,’ he replied. He stepped back, not turning nor taking his eyes from me. One slow step after another he retreated until his hands touched the tapestry. Then he whisked himself behind it. I waited, but did not hear the scuff of his steps on the stairs.

After a moment, I rose silently and ghosted toward the tapestry. But when I snatched it back, empty air met my gaze. He was gone as if he’d never been there. I permitted myself a nod. On his third try, Chade seemed to have found himself a worthy apprentice. I wondered how much of the training he did, or if Lady Rosemary taught the boy, and where they had found him … and then I set it firmly out of my thoughts. None of my business. And if I were wise, I’d ask few questions and become as little involved in the current state of assassinations and politics at Buckkeep as I could. My life was complicated enough already.

I was hungry, but thought I’d wait a bit longer to see if the Fool would awaken and eat with me. I went back to the worktable and drew Chade’s scroll toward me. Within the first two lines, I felt the webs of Buckkeep intrigue tightening around me again. ‘As you are here, with little to do other than wait for his health to improve, perhaps you are willing to make yourself useful? Clothing has been provided, and the expectation has been planted that the court will be visited by Lord Feldspar of Spiretop, a small but well-established holding in the far northwest corner of Buck. Lord Feldspar is as stony as his name, fond of drink, and there is a rumour that a copper mine on his holding has recently begun to produce very fine grade ore. Thus he has come to Buckkeep to be a party to the current trade negotiations.’

There was more. I was never once addressed by name, the handwriting was not recognizably Chade’s, but oh, the game clearly was. I finished reading the scroll and went to consider the outlandish dress that had been left for me. I sighed. I had some time yet before I would be expected to join them for an evening meal and conversation in the great hall. I knew my role. Talk little, listen a great deal, and report back to Chade all details as to who sought me out to make an offer and how rich the offer was. I could not imagine what the greater game was. I knew that Chade would have decided what I needed to know and given me exactly that much. Weaving his webs as he ever did.

And yet despite my annoyance, I felt a stirring of the old excitement as well. It was Winterfest eve. The castle kitchen would have outdone itself, there would be music and dancing and folk from all over the Six Duchies. With my new identity and in dress that would both draw attention to me and mark me as a stranger, I would once more spy for Chade as I had when I was a youth.

I held the dress up against me. No. Not a dress, a fussy and foppish long jacket, to go with the impractical shoes. The buttons were dyed bone, carved into little blue posies, and they were not just on the front but on the long cuffs as well. Lots of buttons. Buttons that did no buttoning, but were mere ornamentation. The fabric was soft, a kind I had not seen before, and when I held the garment by the shoulders, it proved far heavier than I had expected it to be. I frowned, then quickly realized that the secret pockets had already been loaded for me.

I found a very nice set of small burglary picks and a tiny fine-toothed saw blade. In another pocket, there was an extremely sharp blade of the sort favoured by cutpurses. I doubted I was deft enough to ply that trade. The few times I’d done it for Chade it had not been for the coins but to see what love-notes were in Regal’s purse, or which servant seemed to possess far more wages than an honest serving-man would carry. Years ago. So many years ago.

I heard a low moan from the Fool’s bed. I slung the jacket over my arm and hastened to his side. ‘Fool. Are you awake?’

His brow was lined, his eyes tightly closed, but at my voice something almost like a smile bent his mouth. ‘Fitz. It’s a dream, isn’t it?’

‘No, my friend. You’re here at Buckkeep. And safe.’

‘Oh, Fitz. I am never safe.’ He coughed a bit. ‘I thought I was dead. I became aware, but then there wasn’t any pain, and I wasn’t cold. So I thought I was dead, finally. Then I moved, and all the pains woke up.’

‘I’m sorry, Fool.’ I was to blame for his most recent injuries. I hadn’t recognized him when I saw him clutching Bee. And so I had rushed to save my child from a diseased and possibly mad beggar, only to discover that the man I had stabbed half a dozen times was my oldest friend in the world. The swift Skill-healing I’d imposed on him had closed the knife wounds and kept him from bleeding to death. But it had weakened him as well, and in the course of that healing, I’d become aware of the multitude of old injuries and the infections that still raged inside him. Those would kill him, slowly, if I could not help him gain strength enough for a more thorough healing. ‘Are you hungry? There’s beef cooked to tenderness by the hearth. And red wine, and bread. And butter.’

He was silent for a time. His blind eyes were a dull grey in the dim light of the room. They moved in his face as if he still strove to see out of them. ‘Truly?’ he asked in a shaky voice. ‘Truly all that food? Oh, Fitz. I almost don’t dare to move, lest I wake up and find the warmth and the blankets all a dream.’

‘Shall I bring your food there, then?’

‘No, no, don’t do that. I spill so badly. It’s not just that I can’t see, it’s my hands. They shake. And twitch.’

He moved his fingers and I felt ill. On one hand, all the soft pads of his fingers had been sliced away to leave thickly-scarred tips. The knuckles of both hands were overly large on his bony fingers. Once he had had such elegant hands, such clever hands for juggling and puppetry and woodcarving. I looked away from them. ‘Come, then. Let’s take you back to the chair by the fireside.’

‘Let me lead, then, and you only warn me of a disaster. I’d like to learn the room. I’ve become quite clever at learning rooms since they blinded me.’

I could think of nothing to say to that. He leaned heavily on my arm but I let him make his own groping way. ‘More to the left,’ I cautioned him once. He limped, as if every step on his swollen feet pained him. I wondered how he had managed to come so far, alone and blinded, following roads he could not see. Later, I told myself. There would be time for that tale later.

His reaching hand touched the chair back and then felt down it to the arm. It took him some time to manoeuvre himself into the chair and settle there. The sigh he gave was not one of contentment but of a difficult task accomplished. His fingers danced lightly on the tabletop. Then he stilled them in his lap. ‘The pain is bad, but even with the pain, I think I can manage the journey back. I will rest here, for a time, and heal a bit. Then, together, we will go back to burn out that nest of vermin. But I will need my vision, Fitz. I must be a help to you, not a hindrance, as we make our way back to Clerres. Together, we will bring them the justice they deserve.’

Justice. The word soaked into me. Chade had always called our assassin’s tasks ‘quiet work’ or ‘the king’s justice’. If I took on this quest of his, what would it be? The Fool’s justice? ‘Food in just a moment,’ I said, letting his worry go unanswered for now.

I did not trust him to be wise enough to exercise restraint with how much food he took. I dished the food up for him, a small portion of meat cut into little bites and bread buttered and cut into strips. I poured wine for him. I took his hand, thinking to guide it to the dish, but I had not warned him, and he jerked back as if I had burned him with a poker, nearly oversetting his dishes. ‘Sorry,’ we exclaimed in unison. I grinned at that, but he did not.

‘I was trying to show you where your food was,’ I explained gently.

His head was bent as if he were looking down in shame. ‘I know,’ he said quietly. Then, like timid mice, his crippled hands crept to the edge of the table, and then ventured cautiously forward until he found the edge of his plate. His hands moved lightly over the dish, touching what was there. He picked up a piece of the meat and put into his mouth. I started to tell him there was a fork at the side of his plate. I stopped myself. He knew that. I would not correct a tormented man as if he were a forgetful child. His hands crabbed over to the napkin and found it.

For a time, we ate together in silence. When he had finished what was on the plate, he asked softly if I would cut more meat and bread for him. As I did that, he asked suddenly, ‘So. How was your life while I was gone?’

For a moment, I froze. Then I transferred the cut meat to his plate. ‘It was a life,’ I said, and was amazed at how steady my voice was. I groped for words; how does one summarize twenty-four years? How does one recount a courtship, a marriage, a child, and a widowing? I began.

‘Well. That last time I left you? I became lost in the Skill-pillar on the way home. A passage that had taken but moments on my previous journeys took me months. When the pillar finally spat me out, I was near senseless. And when I came to my wits, some days later, I found you had been and gone. Chade gave me your gift, the carving. I finally met Nettle. That did not go well, at first. I, uh, I courted Molly. We married.’ My words ground to a halt. Even telling the tale in such bald terms, my heart broke over all I had had, and all I had lost. I wanted to say we had been happy. But I could not bear to put that in the past tense.

‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ he spoke the formal words. From him, they were sincere. It took me aback for a few moments.

‘How did you …?’

‘How did I know?’ He made a small incredulous sound. ‘Oh, Fitz. Why do you think I left? To leave you to find a life as close as possible to the one that I had always foreseen would follow my death. In so many futures, after my death, I saw you court Molly tirelessly, win her back, and finally take for yourself some of the happiness and peace that had always eluded you when I was near. In so many futures, I foresaw that she would die and you would be left alone. But that does not undo what you had, and that was the best I could wish for you. Years with your Molly. She loved you so.’

He resumed eating. I sat very still. My throat was clenched so tight that the pain nearly choked me. It was difficult even to breathe past that lump. Blind as he was, I think he still knew of my distress. For a long time he ate very slowly, as if to stretch out both the meal and the silence I needed. Slowly he wiped the last of the meat juices from his plate with his final bite of bread. He ate it, wiped his fingers on the napkin, and then walked his hand over to his wine. He lifted it and sipped, his face almost beatific. He set the cup down and then said quietly, ‘My memories of yesterday are very confusing to me.’

I held my silence.

‘I had walked through most of the previous night, I think. I remember the snow, and knowing that I must not stop until I found some sort of shelter. I had a good stick, and that helps more than I can say when a man has no eyes. And bad feet. It’s hard for me to walk without a stick, now. But I did. I knew I was on the road to Oaksbywater. Now I remember. A cart passed me, with the driver cursing and shouting at me to get out of the way. So I did. But I found his cart-tracks in the snow and knew that if I followed them, they had to lead me to some sort of shelter. So I walked. My feet got numb, and that meant less pain, but I fell more often. I think it was very late when I reached Oaksbywater. A dog barked at me, and someone shouted at it. The cart-tracks led to a stable. I could not get inside, but there was a pile of straw and manure outside.’ He folded his lips for a moment and then said wryly, ‘I’ve learned that dirty straw and manure are often warm.’

I nodded, then realized he could not see me. ‘They are,’ I conceded.

‘I slept a bit, and then woke when the town started to stir around me. I heard a girl singing and recognized one of the old Winterfest songs from when I lived at Buckkeep. And so I knew it might be a good day to beg. Holidays bring out the kindness in some people. So I thought I would beg and try to get some food in me and then, if I encountered someone who seemed kind, I would ask them to put me on the path to Withywoods.’

‘So you were coming to find me.’

He nodded slowly. His hand crept back to his wine cup. He found it, drank sparingly and set it down. ‘Of course I was coming to find you. So. I was begging, but the shopkeeper kept ranting at me to move on. I knew I should. But I was so tired, and the place where I had settled was out of the wind. Wind is a cruel thing, Fitz. A day that is cold but bearable when the air is still becomes a constant torment when a wind rises.’ His voice fell away and he hunched his shoulders as if even the memory of wind could freeze him now.

‘Then, hmm. A boy came by. He gave me an apple. Then the shopkeeper cursed me and shouted at her husband to come and drive me off. And the boy helped me to move away from the door. And …’ The Fool’s words trailed away. His head moved, wagging from side to side. I did not think he was aware of it. It reminded me of a hound casting about for a lost scent. Then plaintive words burst from him. ‘It was so vivid, Fitz! He was the son I was seeking. The boy touched me and I could see with his vision. I could feel the strength he might have, some day, if he were trained, if he were not corrupted by the Servants. I’d found him and I could not contain my joy.’ Yellowish tears spilled slowly from his eyes and began to track down his scarred face. All too well, I recalled the request that he had sent his messengers to give me: that I search for the ‘Unexpected Son’. His son? A child he had fathered, despite all I knew of him? In the time since his messenger had reached me and then died, I’d mulled over a dozen possibilities as to who the mother of such a son might be.

‘I found him,’ the Fool continued. ‘And I lost him. When you stabbed me.’

Shame and guilt washed over me in a wave. ‘Fool. I am so sorry. If only I had recognized you, I never would have hurt you.’

He shook his head. One clawlike hand found his napkin. He mopped his face with it. His words came out as hoarse as a crow’s caw. ‘What happened, Fitz? What … provoked you to try to kill me?’

‘I mistook you for someone dangerous. Someone who would hurt a child. I came out of the tavern, looking for my little girl.’

‘Your little girl?’ His words broke through my explanation in an incredulous shout.

‘Yes. My Bee.’ Despite all else, I smiled. ‘Molly and I had a child together, Fool, a tiny girl.’

‘No.’ His denial was absolute. ‘No. Not in any future I saw did you have another child.’ His brow was furrowed. Scarred as his face was, it was not easy to read his emotions, but he looked almost furious. ‘I KNOW I would have seen that. I am the true White Prophet. I would have seen that.’ He slapped his hand on the table, jerked with the pain and cradled it to his chest. ‘I would have seen that,’ he insisted more quietly.

‘But we did,’ I said softly. ‘I know it’s hard to believe. We thought we couldn’t. Molly told me her time for bearing was past. But then she had Bee. Our little girl.’

‘No.’ He said the word stubbornly. He pinched his lips flat together, and then abruptly his chin trembled like a child’s. ‘It can’t be. Fitz, it can’t be so. How can that be true? If I did not see such an immense event in your life, what else did I miss? How wrong can I have been about so many other things? Was I wrong about myself?’ He fell silent for a time. His blind eyes shifted back and forth, trying to find me. ‘Fitz. Do not be angry that I ask this, for I must.’ He hesitated and then asked in a whisper, ‘Are you sure? Can you be positive? Are you certain the child was yours, and not just Molly’s?’

‘She is mine,’ I said flatly. I was astonished at how much insult I took at his words. ‘Definitely mine,’ I added defiantly. ‘She has a Mountain look to her, like my mother.’

‘The mother you scarcely remember.’

‘I remember her enough to say that my child looks like her. And I remember Molly well enough to know that Bee is my daughter. Without question. Fool, this is not worthy of you.’

He lowered his eyes and bowed his head. ‘So few things are, any more,’ he decided. He rose with a lurch that shook the table. ‘I’m going back to the bed. I don’t feel well.’ He shuffled away from me, one knotted hand feeling the air before him while the other curled protectively near his chin.

‘I know you’re not well,’ I replied, suddenly repentant for how harshly I’d rebuked him. ‘You are not yourself, Fool. But you will be again. You will be.’

‘Do you think so?’ he asked. He did not turn toward me but spoke to the empty air in front of him. ‘I am not certain of that myself. I’ve spent over a decade with people who insisted that I was never who I thought I was. Never the White Prophet, only a boy with vivid dreams. And what you have just told me makes me wonder if they did not have the right of it.’

I hated seeing him so defeated. ‘Fool. Remember what you told me so long ago. We move now in a time that you never foresaw. One where we are both alive.’

He made no response to my words. He reached the bed, groped along the edge, then turned and sat down on it. Then he more crumpled than lay down, pulled the covers up over his head and was completely still.

‘I tell you the truth, old friend. I have a daughter, a small girl who depends on me. And I cannot leave her. I must be the one to raise her, to teach her and protect her. It’s a duty I can’t forsake. And one I do not want to abandon.’ I tidied as I spoke, wiping away the food he had spilled, corking the remainder of the wine. I waited and my heart continued to sink as he made no response. Finally I said, ‘What you asked me to do last night. I’d do it for you. You know that. If I could, I would. But now I ask you, as you asked me last night; for my sake, understand that I must say no to you. For now.’

The silence unspooled like a dropped ball of yarn. I’d said the words I must, and the sense of them would soak into him. He was not a selfish man, nor a cruel one. He’d recognize the truth of what I had told him. I couldn’t go anywhere with him, no matter how badly someone needed to be killed. I had a child to raise and protect. Bee had to come first. I went to the bedside and smoothed the bedclothes on my side of the bed. Perhaps he’d fallen asleep. I spoke softly.

‘I can’t be here this evening,’ I told him. ‘Chade has a task for me. It may be very late before I come back. Will you be all right alone here?’

Still no response. I wondered if he truly had fallen asleep that quickly, or if he were sulking. Leave it alone, Fitz, I counselled myself. He was a sick man. Rest would do more for him than anything else.

TWO
Lord Feldspar

What is a secret? It is much more than knowledge shared with only a few, or perhaps only one other. It is power. It is a bond. It may be a sign of deep trust, or the darkest threat possible.

There is power in the keeping of a secret, and power in the revelation of a secret. Sometimes it takes a very wise man to discern which is the path to greater power.

All men desirous of power should become collectors of secrets. There is no secret too small to be valuable. All men value their own secrets far above those of others. A scullery maid may be willing to betray a prince before allowing the name of her secret lover to be told.

Be very chary of telling your hoarded secrets. Many lose all power once they have been divulged. Be even more careful of sharing your own secrets lest you find yourself a puppet dancing on someone else’s strings.

Confidence Mayhen – The Assassin’s Other Tool

I’d not eaten much, but my appetite was gone. I tidied our table. The Fool was either asleep or feigning it perfectly. I resigned myself to silence from him. With some trepidation, I dressed myself in the clothing that Chade had provided for Lord Feldspar. It fitted me well enough, though it was looser around the chest and belly than I had expected it to be. I was surprised at how comfortable it was. I transferred a few of the items from one concealed pocket to another. I sat down to put on the shoes. They had more of a heel than I was accustomed to, and extended far past my foot before terminating in upcurled toes decorated with little tassels. I tried a few steps in them, and then walked the length of the chamber five times until I was certain that I could move with confidence and not trip myself.

Chade had a large looking-glass of excellent quality, as much for his own vanity as for the training of his apprentices. I recalled one long night when he had me stand in front of it for most of a watch, trying to smile first sincerely, then disarmingly, then sarcastically, then humbly … his list had gone on and on, until my face ached. Now I lifted a branch of candles and looked at Lord Feldspar of Spiretop. There was also a hat, rather like a soft bag, edged with gilt embroidery and a row of decorative buttons and incorporating a fine wig of brown ringlets. I set it on my head and wondered if it was supposed to wilt over to one side as much as it did.

Chade kept a tinker’s tray of odd jewellery in the cupboard. I chose two showy rings for myself and hoped they would not turn my fingers green. I warmed water and shaved and inspected myself again. I had just resigned myself to creeping out of the room under the smelly garments in Lady Thyme’s old room when I felt a slight draught. I stood still, listening, and at just the right moment, I asked, ‘Don’t you think it’s time you entrusted me with the trick of triggering that door?’

‘I suppose I will have to, now that you are Lord Feldspar and inhabiting the room below.’ Chade stepped around the corner, halted, and then nodded his approval at my attire. ‘The trigger is not where you’d think it would be. It’s not even on this wall. Look here.’ He walked to the hearth, swung a brick aside, mortar and all, and showed me a black iron lever. ‘It’s a bit stiff. I’ll have the boy grease it later.’ And so saying, he pulled the lever and the draught was abruptly closed off.

‘How do you open the door from my old room?’ I’d lost count of how many hours I’d spent searching for that trigger when I was a boy.

He sighed and then smiled. ‘One after another, my secrets have fallen to you. I’ll confess, I’ve always been amused by your inability to find that one. I thought that surely you would stumble on it by accident if nothing else. It’s in the drapery pull. Close the curtains completely, and then give a final tug. You won’t see or hear a thing, but then you can push the door open. And now you know.’

‘And now I know,’ I agreed. ‘After half a century of wondering.’

‘Surely not half a century.’

‘I’m sixty,’ I reminded him. ‘And you started me in the trade when I was less than ten. So, yes, half a century and more.’

‘Don’t remind me of my years,’ he told me, and then sat down with a sigh. ‘It’s unfair of you to prate of passing time when it seems to touch you not at all. Tip your hat a bit more to the back. That’s it. Before you go, we’ll redden your nose a little and give you higher colour in your cheeks so it will appear you’ve begun your drinking early. And we’ll thicken your brows.’ He tilted his head to consider me critically. ‘And that should be enough to keep anyone from recognizing you. What’s this?’ he demanded, pulling Bee’s parcel toward him.

‘Something that I’d like to dispatch immediately to Withywoods. Things for Bee. I had to leave her quite abruptly, in a very peculiar way. It’s the first Winterfest since her mother died. I’d hoped to be there with her.’

‘It will be on its way within the day,’ he promised me gravely. ‘I sent a small troop of guards there this morning. If I’d known you had a message, I would have sent it with them. They’ll travel swiftly.’

‘It has little gifts for her from the market. For a late Winterfest surprise. Wait, you sent a troop of guards? Why?’

‘Fitz, where are your wits? You’ve left Shun and FitzVigilant there, unprotected. You haven’t even doorguards. Luckily I’ve one or two fellows about the place who know their business. Not much muscle among them, but keen eyes. They’ll warn Lant if they see anything threatening. And weather permitting, my troop will be there in three days or so. They’re a rough band, but I’ve seen that their commander is bringing them around. Captain Stout keeps them on a taut lead, until he lets them loose. And then nothing stops them.’ He sounded very satisfied with his choice. He drummed his fingers on the table edge. ‘Though the daily bird hasn’t arrived, but sometimes that happens when the weather is foul.’

‘Daily bird?’

‘Fitz, I am a thorough man. I watch over my own. That includes you, for all your years there. And now when a messageless bird arrives, I know that all is well for Lant and Shun as well. It’s only sensible.’

I’d known he had at least one watcher in place at Withywoods. I hadn’t realized that a daily report had been sent to him. Well, not a report. A bird with no message meant all was well. ‘Chade, I’m ashamed that I gave no thought to Shun and FitzVigilant when I brought the Fool here. You entrusted them to me. It was a dire situation: I’m afraid it drove all other thoughts out of my head.’

He was nodding as I spoke, his face grave and his mouth without expression. I’d disappointed him. He cleared his throat and very deliberately shifted the topic. ‘So. Do you think you can masquerade as Lord Feldspar for an evening or three? It would be very handy for me if I had a man mingling with the crowd who knew how to listen and how to steer a conversation.’

‘I think I can still do that.’ I felt abashed at failing him. This was the least I could do. ‘What were you hoping to discover?’

‘Oh, the usual. Anything interesting. Who is trying to make deals out of sight of the crown? Who has been offering bribes to get better trading terms; who has been taking bribes? What is the general feeling about placating the dragons? Of course, the most valuable information you can discover would be any little facts that we aren’t expecting.’

‘Do I have any specific targets?’

‘Five. No, six, perhaps.’ He scratched his ear. ‘I trust you to find a trail and follow it. I’ll make some suggestions, but keep your ears open for any interesting propositions.’

And for the next few hours he educated me in the various seesaws of power currently in play in the Six Duchies. He described each of the four men and two women that he wished me to spy upon, right down to their preferences for drink, which ones used smoke and the two that were rumoured to be meeting behind their spouses’ backs. Chade gave me a swift tutoring on copper mining so that I could at least appear knowledgeable, and advised me to maintain a crafty silence should anyone ask me detailed questions about my operations or the new vein of ore we had reportedly discovered.

And for a time, I put my life and time back in the old man’s hands. It would not be fair to say that I forgot my grief at losing Molly or stopped worrying about Bee or resigned myself to the Fool’s declining health. What I did was to step outside of my real life and step back into one in which all I had to do was obey Chade’s directives and report back to him what I had learned. There was deep comfort in that. It was almost healing to discover that despite all I had been through, all my losses and all my daily fears and worries, I was still Fitz and this was something I was still very good at.

When he had finished informing me for my task, he tilted his head toward the Fool’s bed. ‘How is he?’

‘Not himself. In pain and emotionally frail. I upset him and he went back to his bed. And immediately fell asleep.’

‘Not surprising. You’re wise to let him sleep.’ He picked up Bee’s parcel, weighed it in his hand and smiled indulgently. ‘I doubt that any child in Buckkeep Castle will get a heftier sack of holiday loot than this. I’ve an excellent courier. He’ll ride out tonight with this.’

‘Thank you,’ I said humbly.

He wagged a dismissive finger at me and then left, taking the package with him. I descended the hidden staircase to the room that had been mine when I was young and closed the door behind me. I halted there briefly to admire the staging of the room. There was a travelling case, of good quality, but dusty and battered as if it had come a long way. It was open and partially unpacked, with items of clothing draped carelessly over the chair. Several of the new-appearing items featured a plenitude of buttons. I made a cursory examination of the trunk’s contents. In addition to a selection of clothes that would fit me and were not obviously new, there was all that a man would be likely to pack for an extended stay. Anyone who sought to slip the lock on my room and inspect my things would most likely be convinced that I was indeed Lord Feldspar, right down to my monogrammed kerchiefs. I tucked one of those into my pocket and descended to the merrymaking of Winterfest Eve in Buckkeep.

And, oh, how I loved it. There was music and excellent food and drink of all manner flowed freely. Some people were enjoying smoke in tiny braziers at their tables. Young ladies in their best dresses flirted outrageously with young men in bright and impractical garb. More buttons. And I was not the only one in heeled slippers with twirled toes. Indeed my footwear was among the more modest in that regard. It made the lively dances of Winterfest a true contest of agility, and more than one youngster was brought low by an untimely slip.

I had only one bad moment, and that was when I glimpsed Web across the room. I became aware of Buckkeep’s Witmaster in a way that I can’t describe. I think as he quested toward me with his Wit, wondering why I seemed familiar, I somehow became aware of the magic’s touch on me. I turned away and made an excuse to leave that area of the room. I did not see him again that evening.

I located those Chade had bid me find, and insinuated myself into conversations. I appeared to drink a great deal more than I really did, and thoroughly enjoyed playing the role of a mildly inebriated lordling who bragged indiscreetly about the newfound wealth of his holdings. I moved among the merchants and tradesfolk rather than near the dais where the nobility and royalty congregated to socialize with trade delegates from Bingtown, Jamaillia and Kelsingra. I caught only passing glimpses of Lady Kettricken, dressed in a simple gown of pale yellow with trim of Buckkeep blue.

King Dutiful and Queen Elliania passed through the chamber, pacing sedately, accepting and bestowing greetings from the lesser nobles and well-placed merchants. King Dutiful was appropriately solemn and kingly. He had recently begun to cultivate a well-groomed beard which added to his gravitas. The queen smiled, and her hand rode on the back of Dutiful’s forearm. Her crown rode on a short crop of black curls not much longer than mine; I’d heard she had not allowed her hair to grow since she had lost a girl infant. This marked sign of her continued mourning troubled me even as I too well understood it, but I was glad to see her at the gathering.

The wild girl I had once watched leaping her pony over obstacles was a child no longer. She was small and dark and one might have expected tall, blonde Kettricken, the former Queen of the Six Duchies, to dominate the festivities. But she did not. The two had come into an accord years ago, and balanced one another well. Whereas Kettricken urged the kingdom to embrace new ways, new trading partners and new ways of doing things, Elliania was a traditionalist. Her matriarchal upbringing in the OutIslands had imbued her with confidence in her right to rule. Her two sons walked behind her, impeccably attired in Buckkeep blue, yet every silver button on their garments featured their mother’s leaping narwhal. I’d known them as babies and as small boys. Those days were long gone now. They were young men now, and Prince Integrity wore the simple crown of the King-in-Waiting. Prince Prosper favoured his OutIslander mother but had developed the Farseer brow. I smiled as the royal family passed, tears of pride stinging my eyes. Our doing, the Fool’s and mine. Peace between the Six Duchies and the OutIslands at last. I feigned a cough to dab at my watering eyes. I turned aside hastily and pushed my way deeper into the crowd. That sort of behaviour would never suit Lord Feldspar. Control yourself, Fitz.

Lord Feldspar, Chade and I had decided, bore a greedy merchant’s heart beneath his noble title. He would have no tender feelings toward his rulers, only a stony resolve to retain as much of his tax-money as he could. I played my role well. To every minor noble that deigned introduce himself to me, I muttered disconsolately over how much of my taxes had gone to fund these festivities and snarled at the thought of my money used to subsidize meat herds for dragons. Dragons! Those with the bad fortune to live near the dragons’ hunting territories should feed them. Or move. It was not up to me to pay for their poor choices! I insinuated myself into conversations near my targets, and made sure my complaints were audible.

I had expected that one of our noble guests would be the one to propose bypassing the tax collectors of the Six Duchies, but when I was finally targeted it was by a young man from Farrow. He was not a lord or a merchant, but the son of a man who operated freight barges on the river. He smiled and spoke me fair and made a dedicated effort to ply me with stronger drink. He was not one of Chade’s targets, but his sly hints that there was money to be made by a man who knew how to bypass the taxing agents at the river and sea-ports made me think that he was a thread that would bear following. I used the Skill to reach out mentally to Chade and became aware that my old mentor was using Thick’s strength to help him be fully aware not only of King Dutiful but of several of the coterie members. I kept my sending to him private and small as I drew his attention to my drinking partner.

Ah. Well done. That was all he Skilled back to me, but I shared his sense of satisfaction and knew I had given him the bit of information that made sense of some puzzle he had been working to solve.

I separated myself from the young man and mingled and wandered for several hours more. Winterfest was a significant holiday and the dukes and duchesses of all the Six Duchies were in attendance. I saw and was not seen as I recognized many an old friend or acquaintance from my earlier years. Duchess Celerity of Bearns had aged gracefully. Several lifetimes ago she had taken a fancy to FitzChivalry. I hoped she had had a good life. The little lad trotting at her heels was probably a grandson. Perhaps even a great-grandson. There were others, not just nobles but serving folk and tradesmen. Not as many as I would have recognized a score of years ago. Time’s nets had dragged many of them from this life.

The night grew deep, and the room was warm with the press of bodies and the sweat of the dancers. I was not surprised when the young river trader sought me out to introduce me to a very friendly sea captain from Bingtown. He introduced himself as a New Trader, and immediately shared with me that he had little patience for the Bingtown system of tithes and levies on foreign goods. ‘The Old Traders are wedged in their ways. If they will not shake off the past and realize they must open their doors to less restricted trade, well, there are those who will find a window.’ I nodded to him and asked if I might call on him the day after Winterfest. He gave me a small shingle of wood with the name of his ship and his own name lettered onto its smooth surface. He was staying at the Bloody Hounds near the warehouse docks and would look forward to my visit. Another fish for Chade’s net.

For a time, I indulged myself and took a seat at one of the lesser hearths to hear a minstrel recite one of the traditional Winterfest tales. When I went seeking some chilled cider, a young woman who had had too much to drink caught me by the arm and demanded that I dance the next measure with her. She could not have been more than twenty, and to me she suddenly seemed a foolish child in a dangerous place. I wondered where her parents were and how they could leave her drunken and alone in the midst of the festival.

But I danced with her, one of the old partner-dances, and despite my fancy toes and lifted heels managed to keep to the steps and mark the time correctly. It was a merry dance and she was a pretty girl with dark curls and brown eyes and layers upon layers of skirts, all in shades of blue. Yet by the end of the dance I was filled to brimming with loneliness and a deep sadness for all the years that were now behind me. I thanked her and escorted her to a seat near the hearth and then slipped away. My Winterfest Eve, I thought, was over and I suddenly missed a little hand in mine and big blue eyes looking up at me. For the first time in my life, I wished my little girl had the Skill so that I could reach out to her across the snowy distance and assure her that I loved her and missed her.

As I sought my room, I knew that Chade would be as good as his word. Doubtless a messenger was already in the saddle on his way to Withywoods, my parcel and note in his pack. Yet it would be days before she received it and knew that I had thought of her in the midst of the festivities. Why had I never accepted Chade’s offer to give me a Skilled apprentice at Withywoods, one who could, in my absence, relay news and messages from there? It would have still been a poor substitute for holding my child in my arms and whirling her in a dance at midnight, but it would have been something.

Bee, I love you I Skilled out, as if somehow that errant thought could reach her. I felt the soft brush of both Nettle’s and Chade’s shared thought: I’d had as much drink as was good for me. And perhaps I had, for I Skilled to them, I miss her so.

Neither one had a reply to that, so I bade them goodnight.

THREE
The Taking of Bee

Sometimes, it is true, a great leader arises who, by virtue of charisma, persuades others to follow him into a path that leads to greater good. Some would have you believe that to create great and powerful change, one must be that leader.

The truth is that dozens, hundreds, thousands of people have conspired to bring the leader to that moment. The midwife who delivered his grandmother is as essential to that change as is the man who shod his horse so that he might ride forth to rally his followers. The absence of any one of those people can tumble the leader from power as swiftly as an arrow through his chest.

Thus, to effect change does not demand military might nor the ruthlessness of murder. Nor must one be prescient. Gifted with the records of hundreds of prescient Whites, anyone can become a Catalyst. Anyone can precipitate the tiny change that tumbles one man from power and boosts another into his place. This is the change that hundreds of Servants before you have made possible. We are no longer dependent on a single White Prophet to find a better path for the world. It is now within the power of the Servants to smooth the path we all seek to follow.

Servant Imakiahen – Instructions

Snow was falling, white stars cascading down from the black sky. I was on my back, staring up at the night. The cold white flakes melting on my face had wakened me. Not from sleep, I thought. Not from rest, but from a peculiar stillness. I sat up slowly, feeling giddy and sick.

I had been hearing the sounds and smelling the smells for some time. In my dazed state, the roasting meat of Winterfest had been enticing, and the crackling was the sound of the huge logs in the grand hearth in the Great Hall. A minstrel was tuning some sea-pipes, the deepest voiced of traditional wind instruments.

But now I was awake and I stared in horror. This was no celebration of Winterfest Eve. This was the opposite of a gathering to drive darkness from our homes. This was a wallowing in destruction. The stables were burning. The charring meat was dead horses and men. The long low tones that had seemed to be the slow awakening of musical instruments were the confused moaning of the folk of Withywoods.

My folk.

I rubbed my eyes, wondering what had happened. My hands were heavy and floppy with no strength in them. They were stuffed into immense fur mittens. Or were they huge white furry paws? Not mine?

A jolt. Was I me? Was I someone else, thinking my thoughts? I shivered all over. ‘I’m Bee,’ I whispered to myself. ‘I’m Bee Farseer. Who has attacked my home? And how came I to be here?’

I was bundled warmly against the cold, enthroned like a queen in the bed of an open sleigh I did not recognize. It was a marvellous sleigh. Two white horses in red-and-silver harness waited stoically to pull it. To either side of the driver’s seat, cleverly wrought iron hangers held lanterns with glass sides and worked iron scrolls as decorations. They illuminated the cushioned seat for the driver and a passenger, and the gracefully curved edges of the sleigh’s bed. I reached out, thinking to run my hand over the finely polished wood. I could not. I was rolled and wrapped and weighed with blankets and furs that bound my sleepy body as effectively as knotted ropes. The sleigh was drawn up at the edge of the carriageway that served the once grand doors of Withywoods. Those doors were caved in now, broken and useless.

I shook my head, trying to clear my mind of cobwebs. I should be doing something! I needed to do something, but my body felt heavy and soft, like bags of wet laundry. I could not remember how I had been returned to Withywoods, let alone dressed in a heavy fur robe and bundled into a sleigh. As if I were backtracking my day, trying to find a lost glove, I set what I could remember in order. I’d been in the schoolroom with the other children. Steward Revel, dying as he warned us to run. I’d hidden the other children in the secret passage in the walls of Withywoods, only to have the door closed to me. Fleeing with Perseverance. He’d been shot. I’d been captured. And I had been so happy to be captured. I recalled no more than that. But somehow I’d been brought back to Withywoods, buttoned into a heavy fur coat and swaddled into a dozen blankets. And now I was here, in a sleigh, watching my stables burn.

I turned my eyes away from the leaping orange flames of the burning stable and looked toward the manor. People, all the people I had known all my life, were gathered in front of the tall doors of Withywoods. They weren’t dressed for the snow. They wore the clothes they had donned that morning for the day’s work inside the manor. They huddled together, hugging themselves or clinging to one another for warmth. I saw several shorter figures and finally my blurry vision made out that they were the children I had earlier concealed. Against my stern admonition, they had come out and betrayed themselves. My slow thoughts put together the burning stable and the hidden children. Perhaps they had been wise to come out. Perhaps the raiders would next burn the house.

The raiders. I squeezed my eyes shut and opened them again, fighting for clarity of vision and thought.

This attack made no sense to me. We had no enemies that I knew of. We were far inland in the duchy of Buck, and the Six Duchies were not at war with anyone. Yet these foreigners had come and attacked us. They had battered their way into our halls.

Why?

Because they wanted me.

The thought made no sense, and yet it seemed to be true. These attackers had come to steal me. Armed men on horseback had run me down. Run us down. Oh, Perseverance. His own blood leaking between his fingers. Was he dead or hiding? How had I ended here, back at Withywoods? One of the men had seized me and dragged me back. The woman who seemed to be in charge of this raid had rejoiced at finding me, and told me that she was taking me home, to where I belonged. I frowned. I’d felt so happy at those words. So cherished. What had been wrong with me? The fog-man had greeted me and welcomed me as his brother.

Even though I was a girl. I had not told them that. I had been so suffused with happiness to see them that I could scarcely speak. I had opened my arms to the fog-man, and to the plump, motherly woman who had rescued me from the raider who had been choking me. But after that … I remembered a warm whiteness. That was all. The memory made no sense but it still filled me with shame. I’d embraced the woman who had brought these killers to my home.

I turned my head slowly. I felt as if I could not do anything quickly. I could not move quickly or think quickly. I took a bad fall, I remembered slowly. From a running horse. Had I struck my head? Was that what was wrong with me?

My unseeing eyes had been focused on the burning stables. Two men approached it now, carrying something. Withywoods men, dressed in our yellow and green, in their best clothes. For a Winterfest Eve that had become a winter slaughter. I recognized one as Lin, our shepherd. They were carrying something between them. Something that sagged. A body. Around the burning stables, the snow had melted to slush. They trudged on. Closer and closer. Would they walk right into the flames? But as they drew closer, they halted. ‘One, two, three!’ Lin’s voice cracked on the count as they swung the body and then, on three, they let go. It flew into the red mouth of the burning building. They turned. Like puppets traipsing across a stage, they walked away from the flames.

Was that why the stable was burning? To get rid of the bodies? A good hot bonfire was a very effective way to get rid of a body. I’d learned that from my father. ‘Papa?’ I whispered. Where was he? Would he come to save me? Could he save all our people? No. He’d gone to Buckkeep. He’d left me and gone off to Buckkeep Castle, to try to save the blind old beggar. He wasn’t going to save me, or our people. No one was.

‘I am cleverer than this.’ I whispered the words aloud. I had not known I was going to say them. It seemed as if some part of me strove to awaken the dull, deadened creature I had become. I looked around fearfully to see if anyone had heard me speak. They must not hear me speak. Because … if they did … If they did, they would know. Know what?

‘Know they aren’t controlling me any more.’

My whisper was even softer this time. The parts of me were coming back together. I sat very still in my warm nest, gathering my mind and my strength. I mustn’t betray myself until I could do something. The sleigh had been heaped with furs and woollen blankets from the manor. I was wrapped in a heavy robe of white fur, thick and soft, too big for me. It was not from Withywoods. It was no type of fur that I knew and it smelled foreign. A hat of the same fur covered my head. I moved my mittened hands, shifting my arms free of the heavy blankets. I was loaded up like a stolen treasure. I was what they were taking. Me and very little else. If they had come to plunder, I reasoned, the teams and wagons of Withywoods would be standing full of loot and the riches of my home. I saw none of that, not even our riding horses bunched to steal. I was the only thing they were carrying off. They had killed Revel to steal me.

So what would happen to everyone else?

I lifted my eyes. The huddled folk of Withywoods were limned against smaller fires. They stood like penned cattle in the snowy centre. Some were held up by their fellows. Faces were transformed by pain and horror into people I dared not recognize. The fires, built of the fine furniture of Withywoods, were not there to warm them but to light the night so they could not elude their captors. Most of the raiders were mounted on horses. Not our horses, nor our saddles. I’d never seen saddles like those, so high in the back. My numbed mind counted them. Not many, perhaps as few as ten. But they were men of blood and iron. Most of them were fair, with yellow hair and stained pale beards. They were tall and hard and some walked with bared blades in their hands. Those men were the killers, the soldiers that had come to do this task. Those men, with fair hair like mine. I saw the man who had chased me down, the one who had dragged me, half-strangled, back to the house. He stood face to face with the woman who had shouted at him, the plump woman who had made him drop me. And next to them, there, make my eyes see him, yes, there. He was there. The fog-man.

Today was not the first time I had seen him.

He had been in Oaksbywater, at the market. He had been there, fogging the whole town. No one who had seen him had turned to look at him. He’d been in the alley, the one that no one was choosing to walk down. And what had been behind him? The raiders? The soft, kind woman with the voice and words that made me love her as soon as she spoke? I was not sure. I had not seen through his fog, had barely seen the fog-man himself. I could scarcely see him now. He stood by the woman.

He was doing something. Something hard. It was so hard for him that he had had to stop fogging me to do it. Knowing that helped me to peel my mind clear of his. With every passing moment, my thoughts were more my own. My body was more my own. I felt now the bruises of the day, and how my head ached. I ran my tongue around inside my mouth and found the place where I had bitten my cheek ragged. I pushed my tongue against it, tasting blood and waking the pain and suddenly my thoughts were my own and only my own.

Do something. Don’t sit still and warm and let them burn the bodies of your friends while Withywoods folk stand shivering in the snow. They were helpless, I perceived, their minds almost as fogged as mine had been. Perhaps I was only able to find myself because of my years of experience at withstanding the pressure of my father’s mind on mine. There they stood, in distress, as indecisive as sheep in a blizzard and as helpless. They knew something was wrong, and yet there they stood. They moaned, they lowed like penned cattle awaiting slaughter. Save for Lin and his partner. Here they came again, out of the darkness, a body slung between them. They trudged, wooden-faced, men carrying out an assigned task. One they had been told not to think about.

I looked at the fog-man. More of a fog-boy, I decided. His round face had the unfinished, chinless look of a boy. His body was soft, unused. Not so his mind, I suspected. His brow was wrinkled in concentration. The soldiers, I realized suddenly. He was ignoring the Withywoods folk, trusting that the haze he had left them in would not disperse quickly. He held the soldiers still, keeping them listening to the woman with the trustworthy words. His fog wrapped the old man who sat on a black horse.

The old man held his sword in his hand, and the tip that pointed at the ground dripped blackness. The fog was almost a haze I could see. Then I realized that actually I could not quite see through it. It reflected light, so the old man had an aura of red firelight around him. His was a terrifying face, old and fallen, as if he had melted. The bones were hard and his eyes were pale. He radiated bitterness and hatred of everyone who was not as miserable as he was. I groped within my mind and made a tiny hole in my wall so that I could feel what the fog-man told the old soldier. The fog-man was wrapping him in triumph and success, was feeding him satisfaction and satiation. The task was done. He would be well rewarded, rewarded far beyond his expectations. People would know what he had done. They would hear of it and remember who he had been. They’d regret how they had treated him. They’d grovel before him and beg for him to be merciful.

But now? Now it was time to turn away from the pillaging and raping, time for him and his men to take what they had come for and begin the journey home. If they delayed here, it could only cause complications. There would be more conflict, more killing … no. The fog shifted suddenly. Don’t feed him that prospect. Instead the fog became full of the cold and the darkness and how weary he was. The sword was heavy in his hand, his armour bowed his shoulders. They had what they had come for. The sooner they turned back toward Chalced, the sooner he would be in warmer lands with his well-earned prize. The sooner he would look down from his horse on the folk who would regret how they had scorned him.

‘We should burn it all. Kill all of them and burn it all,’ one of his men offered. He was mounted on a brown horse. He smiled, showing good teeth. His pale hair was bound back from his face to fall in two long braids. His brow was square and his chin firm. Such a handsome man. He rode the horse into the huddled people and they parted like butter melting before a hot spoon. In the midst of them, he wheeled his mount and looked at his commander. ‘Commander Ellik! Why should we leave one timber standing here?’

The plump woman spoke clearly into the night. ‘No. No, Hogen, that would be foolishness. Do not be hasty here. Listen to your commander. Ellik knows what is wise. Burn the stable and the bodies. Allow Vindeliar to take care of all the rest. Let us journey home knowing that no one will remember us or pursue us. We have what we came for. Let us go now. With no pursuit to worry about, we can move swiftly back to the warm lands.’

I struggled out of the wallow of blankets and rugs. My boots, they had pulled my boots off my feet and left only my socks. Find my boots or lose my chance to escape? The long robe of heavy white fur reached past my knees. I hiked it up, crawled to the far side of the wagon and dropped over the side. My legs crumpled under me and my face plunged briefly into the snow. I struggled to get up by pulling on the edge of the sleigh. I hurt all over, but it wasn’t just that. I felt as if I’d been disconnected from my muscles. I wasted precious moments working my legs until I felt I could walk without falling.

And then I stood up. I could walk. But what good would that do? At that moment, I hated being small more than I had ever hated my stature in my life. Yet even if I had been a tall and mighty warrior on a powerful horse, what could I do against so many armed men?

I felt sick and helpless as I realized the larger truth. Not even an army could undo what had been done. Nothing and no one could bring back Steward Revel or unspill FitzVigilant’s blood from the snow or unburn the stables. It was all broken. I might still be alive but I was just a salvaged piece of a life that had been shattered. Not one of us was whole. There was no going back, not for any of us.

I could not decide what to do. I was already getting cold. I could get back into the wagon, burrow under the blankets and let happen to me whatever might happen. I could run away into the darkness and try to find Perseverance under the snow and the cloak. I could flee to the captured people, and be once more dragged to the wagon. I wondered if I could steel myself and run into the burning stable deep enough to die there. How badly would it hurt?

Cornered wolves fight. Even the cubs.

That thought seeped into my brain, then was frozen and shattered by a long, shrill scream. It seemed so odd that I could recognize who the scream belonged to. It was Shun. I peeked around the side of the wagon. The man who had defied the plump woman gripped Shun by her hair. ‘We’ll go,’ he agreed affably. ‘But first I enjoy a prize of my own.’ He tugged Shun up on her toes. She squealed, sounding like a piglet. At any other time, it would have been a funny sound. Both her hands were on top of her head as she gripped her own hair, trying to take the pressure off her scalp. Her torn blouse gaped wide. It was as red as blood, that dress, with an overlay of white lace in a snowflake pattern. He shook her, not gently. ‘This one. This little cat tried to stick a knife in me. She’s still got some fight in her. I haven’t had her yet. And in some things, I am not a hasty man.’

Still gripping Shun by the hair, he dismounted. She tried to pull free of him but he just shifted his grip to the back of her head. He was taller than she was and when he held her at arm’s length her swinging fists could not touch him. The men of Withywoods just stood and watched. Their eyes were dull, their mouths slack. No one moved to help her. FitzVigilant would have tried to protect her. But I’d seen him earlier, sprawled in his blood in the snow. Shun struggled against her captor, as helpless against him as I would be. He laughed, and shouted over her shrieks, ‘I’ll take special care of this one, and then I’ll catch up with you. Before morning.’

The other mounted soldiers were stirring, suddenly interested, fighting the fog-man’s calm. Their eyes fixed on the struggling woman like housedogs watching a man tear the last meat from a bone.

The plump woman shot the fog-man, Vindeliar, a desperate look. He pursed his mouth until his lips thrust out like a duck’s beak. Even where I stood, ignored by them, I felt the suffocating drag of what he did. My thoughts softened at the edges like candles too near a flame. I had been about to do something, but it could wait. It would have been too much bother. Too much effort. The day had been long, and I was tired. It was dark here, and cold. It was time to find a quiet, safe place and rest. Rest.

I turned back to the sleigh and reached for the edge of it to climb back over the side. My hands in the immense fur mittens slipped and my forehead jolted hard against the wood.

Wake up! Fight. Or run. But do not fall asleep. Wolf Father shook my awareness as if he shook the life from a hare. I came back to myself with a shudder. Push it back. Push it away. But softly, softly. Don’t make him aware that you fight him.

It was not easy advice to act on. The fog was like cobwebs. It clung and muffled and dimmed my sight. I lifted my head and stared over the sleigh. Vindeliar had the others under his control. It was not that he was forcing them to do anything. It was that he had put their thoughts into a place where rest and sleep sounded more enticing than anything else. It was affecting even the captives. Some were sinking down where they stood, to fall on their sides in the snow.

Shun had ceased her struggles but the fog did not seem to be touching her. She looked up at her captor, her teeth bared. Hogen stared at her, shook her, and then slapped her. She regarded him with hatred, but she refused to fight. She had realized it only amused him. He laughed, a cruel and brittle sound. Then he seized her by the throat and threw her violently backwards. She lay where she landed. The skirts of her dress floated wide, like rose petals on the snow. The fog-man’s efforts rolled past her attacker. The handsome man stepped on Shun’s skirts to pin her down as his hands went to his belt-buckle.

His mounted commander looked at him with no interest. He lifted his voice and spoke to his men. It was an old man’s thin shout but that did not matter. He knew he would be obeyed. ‘Finish here. Put the bodies into the fire when you are done. Then follow. We are leaving now.’ He spared a glance for the handsome man. ‘Do not be long, Hogen.’ Then he turned his horse’s head and lifted his hand. His mounted men followed him without a backward glance. Others came from the shadows, some on horses, some on foot. More than I had counted. The plump woman and Vindeliar looked around. That was when I realized they were not alone. The others had been unnoticeable to me, as the fog-man had intended.

They were dressed in white. Or so I thought. But as they passed the firelight and ranged themselves around the plump woman and Vindeliar, I realized their garments were shades of yellow and ivory. They were all dressed alike, as if their close-tailored coats and quilted trousers were a strange livery. They wore knit hats that covered their ears with flaps at the backs of their necks that could be wrapped around their throats. I had never seen such hats. Their faces were as alike as if they were siblings, all pale of skin and hair, round-chinned and rosy-lipped. I could not tell if they were men or women. They moved as if silenced by exhaustion, their mouths downturned. They walked right past the handsome man struggling with his cold, stiff belt as he stood over Shun. They looked at Shun as they passed, pitying her but with no mercy.

The plump woman spoke as they gathered around her. ‘I am sorry, luriks. I wish as much as you that this had been avoided. But that once begun cannot be undone, as we all know. It was seen that this might happen, but there was no clear vision of the path that would lead both to this not happening and us finding the boy. And so today we chose a path that we knew must be bloody but would end in the necessary place. We have found him. And now we must take him home.’

Their youthful faces were stiff with horror. One spoke. ‘What of these ones? The ones that didn’t die?’

‘Have no fear for them.’ The plump woman comforted her followers. ‘The worst is over for them, and Vindeliar will ease their minds. They will remember little of this night. They will invent reasons for their bruises and forget what befell them. Gather yourselves while he works. Kindrel, go for the horses. Take Soula and Reppin with you. Alaria, you will drive the sleigh. I am weary beyond saying and still must tend to Vindeliar when all is finished here.’

I saw Shepherd Lin and his fellow leave the circle of huddled folk. They carried another body slung between them. Their faces were unconcerned, as if they carried a sack of grain. I saw the handsome man drop to his knees in the snow. He’d opened the front of his trousers and now he pushed Shun’s beautiful red skirts up to bare her legs.

Had she been waiting for that? She launched a tremendous kick at him, aiming for his face. It struck his chest. She gave a deep-throated, wordless cry of refusal and tried to roll to her side and flee, but he seized her by one leg and jerked her back. He laughed out loud, pleased that she would fight because he knew that she would lose. She grabbed one of his dangling braids and jerked it hard. He slapped her, and for an instant she was still, stunned by the force of that blow.

I did not like Shun. But she was mine. Mine as Revel had been, and never would be again. As FitzVigilant had been. They had died for me, trying to stop these strangers from taking me. Even if they hadn’t known it. And I knew, quite clearly, what the handsome man would do after he had hurt and humiliated Shun. He would kill her, and Shepherd Lin and his helper would throw her into the stable-fire.

Just as my father and I had burned the body of the messenger.

I moved. I ran, but I ran as a small person in wet and freezing socks, wearing a long, heavy fur robe. That is, I surged and trudged against a low wall of heavy wet snow. It was like trying to run in a sack. ‘Stop!’ I shouted. ‘Stop!’ And the roaring of the flames and the mutters and groans of the gathered folk of Withywoods and Shun’s desperate wordless cries swallowed my words.

But she heard me, the plump woman. She turned to me, but the fog-man was still looking at the huddled people and doing whatever magic he was doing to them. I was closer to the handsome man than I was to the plump woman and her followers. I ran at him, screaming wordlessly in a strange harmony with Shun’s cries. He was dragging at her clothes. He had ripped her embroidered Winterfest blouse to loose her bared breasts to the cold and falling snow and now he was tugging and tearing at her scarlet skirts, but he was trying to do it with one hand. His other hand was fending off the desperate blows and clawing efforts she was making at his face. I was not moving fast but I did not slow down as I thrust at him with the full force of my braced arms.

He grunted slightly, turned a snarling face toward me and clouted me with an outflung arm. I do not think he even used his full strength, for most of it was devoted to holding Shun on her back. He did not need his full strength. I flew backwards and landed in the deep snow. He had struck the air out of my lungs, but even so, I was more humiliated than hurt. Gasping and choking, I rolled and wallowed in the snow, finally managing to get to my hands and knees. I drew painful breath and shouted words that scarcely made sense to me, the most frightening words I could think of. ‘I will make myself dead if you hurt her!’

The rapist paid no attention to me, but I heard the outraged cries of the plump woman’s followers. She was shouting something in a language I didn’t know, and the pale-faced people suddenly swept in as a mob. Three seized me and set me on my feet, sweeping snow off me so anxiously that I felt like a carpet that was being beaten. I pushed them away from me and tottered toward Shun. I could not see what was happening to her, save that there was fighting there. I fought free of my rescuers, shouting, ‘Shun! Help Shun, not me! Shun!’

The knot of struggling people seemed to trample Shun and then the fight moved away. The pale folk were not faring well, except that there were so many of them and only one rapist. Time after time, I heard the solid smack of fist on flesh, and someone would cry out in pain. Then one of the plump woman’s minions would fall back, holding a bleeding nose or bending over and clutching a stomach. By sheer numbers they overcame him, flinging their bodies over him and holding him down in the snow. One cried out suddenly, ‘He bites! Beware!’ prompting a sudden reshuffling of the bodies on top of him.

All this took place as I wallowed forward, fell, rose and finally burst free of the deep snow onto the trampled ground. I flung myself to my knees beside Shun, sobbing, ‘Be alive! Please, be alive!’

She wasn’t. I felt nothing from her. Then, as I touched her cheek, her staring eyes blinked. She looked up at me without recognition and began to utter short, sharp shrieks as if she were a hen on a threatened nest. ‘Shun! Don’t be scared! You are safe now! I’ll protect you.’ Even as I made those promises, I heard how ridiculous they were. I tugged at her opened top and the torn lace, getting snow from my mittened hands onto her bare chest. She gasped and suddenly gripped the ripped edges of the fabric. She sat up, holding her collar closed. She looked down at the fabric in her hands and then said brokenly, ‘It was the finest quality. It was.’ She bowed her head. Sobs rose from her, terrible shaking sobs without tears.

‘It still is,’ I assured her. ‘You still are.’ I started to pat her comfortingly, then realized the mittens were still laden with snow. I tried to drag my hands free of them, but they were fastened to the sleeves of my fur robe.

Behind us, the plump woman was talking to the man on the ground. ‘You cannot have her. You heard the words of the shaysim. He values her life beyond his own. She must not be harmed lest he do harm to himself.’

I turned my head to look at them. The plump woman was nudging her charges and they were slowly getting off the man. The rapist responded with curses. I did not need to know the language to understand the depth of his anger. The pale folk were tumbling away from him, falling back and stumbling through the deeper snow as he came to his feet. Two were bleeding from their noses. He spat snow, cursed again, and then strode off into the darkness. I heard him address something angrily, the heavy stamping of a startled horse and then the sounds of a horse pushed abruptly into a gallop.

I had given up on the mittens. I crouched beside Shun. I wanted to talk to her but had no idea what to say. I would not lie again, and tell her that she was safe. None of us were safe. She huddled as deep into herself as she could, pulling her knees up to her chest and bowing her head over them.

‘Shaysim.’ The plump woman crouched in front of me. I would not look at her. ‘Shaysim,’ she said again and touched me. ‘She is important to you, this one? Have you seen her? Doing important things? Is she essential?’ She put her hand on Shun’s bent neck as if she were a dog, and Shun cowered away from the touch. ‘Is she one you must keep beside you?’

The words sank into me like FitzVigilant’s blood had sunken into the trampled snow. They made holes in me. The question was significant. It had to be answered and it had to be answered correctly. What did she want me to say? What could I say that would make her keep Shun alive?

I still did not look at her. ‘Shun is essential,’ I said. ‘She does important things.’ I flung an arm wide and shouted angrily, ‘They are all essential. They all do important things!’

‘That’s true.’ She spoke gently, as if I were a little child. It came to me that perhaps she thought I was much younger than I was. Could I use that? My mind tumbled strategies frantically as she continued to speak. ‘Everyone is significant. Everyone does important things. But some people are more significant than others. Some people do things that make changes. Big changes. Or they make tiny changes that can lead to big changes. If someone knows how to use them.’ She hunched even lower and then thrust her face below mine and looked up at me. ‘You know what I’m talking about, don’t you, Shaysim? You’ve seen the paths and the people who are the crossroads. Haven’t you?’

I turned my face away. She reached out and took me by the chin to turn my face back to hers, but I put my gaze on her mouth. She could not force me to meet her eyes. ‘Shaysim.’ She made the name a gentle rebuke. ‘Look at me, now. Is this woman significant? Is she essential?’

I knew what she meant. I’d glimpsed it, when the beggar had touched me in the marketplace. There were people who precipitated changes. All people made changes, but some were a rock in the current, diverting the waters of time into a different channel.

I did not know if I lied or told the truth when I said, ‘She is essential. She is significant to me.’ Or if it was inspiration or deception that prompted me to add, ‘Without her, I die before I am ten.’

The plump woman gave a small gasp of dismay. ‘Take her up!’ she cried to her followers. ‘Treat her gently. She must be healed of every hurt, comforted of every wrong she has felt today. Be cautious, luriks. This one must live, at all costs. We must keep her out of Hogen’s hands, for thwarted as he is now, he will want her more than ever. He will be most determined. So we must be even more determined, and we must search the scrolls to know what we must do to hold him at bay. Kardef and Reppin, it will be your task tonight to confer with the memorizers and see if they can tease out any wisdom for us. For I fear nothing comes to mind.’

‘May I speak, Dwalia?’ A youngster in grey bowed deeply and held that posture.

‘Speak, Kardef.’

Kardef straightened. ‘The shaysim has called her “Shun”. In his language, it is a word that means to avoid or beware of a danger. There are many dream-scrolls that caution us, over and over, to avoid casting significant things into the flames. If translated into his language, could not the dreams have been telling us, not shun the flames, but Shun not into the flames?’

‘Kardef, you are reaching. That way lies corruption of the prophecies. Beware and beware again of twisting the ancient words, especially when you do it so blatantly to make yourself look more learned than your partner Reppin.’

‘Lingstra Dwalia, I …’

‘Do I look as if I have time to stand in the snow and argue with you? We should have been away from here before the night fell. With every moment that we linger the greater the chance that someone may see the flames from a distance and come to see what has happened here. And then must Vindeliar spread his talents even wider, and his control grows more tenuous with each passing moment. Obey me now. Convey the shaysim and the woman to the sleigh. Mount your horses, and two of you assist Vindeliar to the sleigh as well. He is nearly spent. We must away right now.’

Her orders issued, she turned and looked down at me where I crouched by Shun. ‘Well, little shaysim, I think you have what you wished now. Let’s get you onto the sleigh and be on our way.’

‘I don’t want to go.’

‘And yet you will. We all know you will, just as clearly as you do. For, from this point in time, only two possible outcomes have been documented. You go with us. Or you die here.’ She spoke with calm assurance, as if pointing out that rain could not fall on a cloudless day. I heard her absolute belief in her own words.

Once, my foster-brother Hap had amused me for almost an hour by showing me how, long after he had plucked a string, the wood of his harp still vibrated to its song. I felt it then, how the woman’s words woke a harmony inside me. She was right. I knew it was true, and that was why I had threatened them with my death. Tonight, I would either leave my home with them or I would die here. All the circumstances that might lead to another outcome from this moment were too remote, too fantastic to hope for. And I knew that. Perhaps I had known it since I woke up this morning. I blinked and a shiver ran down my back. Was this happening now, or was it the remembrance of a dream?

Strong arms were plucking me out of the snow, and voices exclaimed in dismay at the frost coating my wet socks. The one who carried me spoke comforting words I did not understand. I lifted my head and saw that four of them were carrying Shun. It was not that she was heavy but she struggled in a disconnected way as if her legs and arms were all different creatures.

The woman they called Dwalia had proceeded to the sleigh. She was already in the back, making a fresh nest in the furs and blankets. I was handed up to her, and she set me between her legs and facing away from her with my back warmed by her front and her arms around me. I did not like being so close to her, but I was wedged there. Shun they loaded like freight, and then heaped blankets over her. Once they let go of her she ceased struggling and lay like dead meat under the mounded wraps. Part of her skirt had snagged on the edge of the sleigh. The flap of red was like a mocking tongue.

Someone spoke to the horses and they moved off. I was facing backwards. I listened to the sounds of their hooves dulled by the falling snow, the squeaking of the wide wooden runners and the fading crackle of the flames that ate the stable. The folk of Withywoods, my folk, were slowly re-entering the house. They did not look at us. We left the light of the burning stables behind and entered the long carriageway that led away from Withywoods. The lanterns swung and a bubble of light danced around us as we flowed down the avenue of arched, snow-laden birches.

I did not even realize the fog-man was in the sleigh until he spoke to Dwalia. ‘It’s done,’ he said and heaved a big sigh of satisfaction. Definitely a boy, I realized. He spoke with a boy’s voice as he added, ‘And now we can go home, away from the cold. And the killing. Lingstra Dwalia, I did not realize there would be so much killing.’

I felt her turn her head to look at him where he sat, up front with the driver. She spoke softly, as if I were asleep. I wasn’t. I didn’t dare try to hide in sleep. ‘We did not intend for there to be any killing. But we knew that the chances of avoiding all killing were nearly impossible. We had to use the tools we had, and Ellik is a man full of bitterness and hate. The wealth and comfort he expected in his elder years escaped him. He lost his position, his fortune and all his comforts. He blames the whole world for that. He seeks to rebuild in a few years what it took him a lifetime to acquire. And so he will always be more violent, more greedy, more ruthless than he need be. He is dangerous, Vindeliar. Never forget that. He is especially dangerous to you.’

‘I don’t fear him, Lingstra Dwalia.’

‘You should.’ Her words were both a warning and a rebuke. Her hands moved, pulling more blankets over both of us. I hated the touch of her body against mine but could not find the will to shift. The sleigh lurched forward. I stared at the passing forests of Withywoods. I did not even have the heart to bid it a tearful farewell. I had no hope. My father would not know where I had gone. My own people had given me up, simply standing up and going back into Withywoods Manor. None had shouted that they would not let me go. No one had tried to take me back from my captors. I faced what my strangeness had done to me: I had never really belonged to them. Losing me was a small price to pay for the invaders to leave with no more bloodshed. They were right. I was glad they had not fought to keep me. I wished there had been a way to save Shun without having her carted off with me.

The corner of my eye caught a movement. The swaying lanterns made the trees at the edge of the drive cast iron bars of blackness on the snow. But this was not a movement born of that light. This motion was standing snow, gripped by a hand black with blood and above all, a pale face with staring eyes. I did not turn my head, or cry out, or catch my breath. I let nothing in me betray to anyone that Perseverance stood in my Elderling cloak and watched us pass him by.

FOUR
The Fool’s Tale

When winter’s clutch is cold and dark

And game is scarce and forest stark

This songster to the hearth retreats

To warm his cheeks and icy feet.

But on the hill and in the glen

Are hunters hardier than men.

With lolling tongues and eyes that gleam

They surge through snow with breath like steam.

For in the hunt there is no morrow,

Time does not wait. There is no sorrow

As blood spills black and snarls are rife.

For life is meat, and death brings life.

A song for Nighteyes and his friend – Hap Gladheart

The stairs seemed steeper than I remembered. When I reached my old bedchamber, I entered it as cautiously as befit an erstwhile assassin. I closed and locked my door, put wood on the fire and for a short time considered simply getting into the bed and going to sleep. Then I drew the curtains shut and inspected the area where they were fastened to the rod. Yes. I saw it now, as I had not in all those years. Another tug on the drapery-pull triggered the door panel, but no sound nor crack betrayed that. It was only when I pushed on it that it swung silently open and the narrow black staircase appeared before me.

I climbed the risers, stumbling once when my curly toe hooked on the step. Up in Chade’s old workroom, Ash had come and gone. Our dirty dishes had been tidied away, and a different pot simmered at the edge of the hearth. The Fool had not moved since I left him, and I crossed the room anxiously to lean over him. ‘Fool?’ I said softly, and with a cry he flung his arms wide and sat up to cower behind his raised hands. One flying hand glanced off my cheek. As I stepped back from his bed, he cried, ‘I’m sorry! Don’t hurt me!’

‘It’s only me. Only Fitz.’ I spoke calmly, trying to keep the anguish from my voice. Eda and El, Fool, will you ever recover from what you endured?

‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated breathlessly. ‘So sorry, Fitz.’ He was breathing hard. ‘When they had me … they never woke me gently. Or allowed me to sleep until I woke. I so feared sleep I would bite myself to stay awake. But always, eventually, one sleeps. And then they would wake me, sometimes just a few moments later. With a little barbed blade. Or a hot poker.’ His grimace had barely the semblance of a smile. ‘I hate the smell of fire now.’ He dropped his head back on the pillow. Hatred surged in me and then passed, leaving me empty. I could never undo what they had done to him. After a time, he rolled his head toward me and asked, ‘Is it day now?’

My mouth had gone dry and wordless. I cleared my throat. ‘It’s either very late at night or very early in the morning, depending on how you think of such things. We spoke last in early afternoon. Have you been sleeping all this time?’

‘I don’t exactly know. Sometimes it’s hard for me to tell. Give me a few moments, please.’

‘Very well.’

I retreated to the far end of the room and studiously ignored him as he tottered from the bed. He found his way to the garderobe, was there for some time and when he emerged, he called to ask if there was washwater.

‘In a pitcher next to the bowl on the stand by your bed. But I can warm some for you if you wish, too.’

‘Oh, warm water,’ he said, as if I had offered him gold and jewels.

‘Shortly,’ I replied. I set about my task. He groped his way to the chair by the fireside and sat down. I marvelled at how quickly he had learned the room. When I brought the warmed water and a washing cloth, he reached for it immediately and I realized that his silence had been so he could track my activity by what he could hear. I felt as if I spied on him as he washed his scarred face and then repeatedly scrubbed his eyes to clear the gummy mucous from his lashes. When he had finished, his eyes were clean but reddened at the rims.

I spoke without apology or preamble. ‘What did they do to your eyes?’

He set the cloth back in the bowl and clutched his damaged hands together, gently rubbing the swollen knuckles. He was silent as I cleared the table. Very well, then. Not yet. ‘Are you hungry?’ I asked him.

‘Is it time for a meal?’

‘If you’re hungry, it’s time for your meal. I’ve eaten too much already. And possibly drunk more than I should have as well.’

His response shocked me. ‘Do you truly have another daughter beside Nettle?’

‘I do.’ I sat down in my chair and pulled one of the shoes off. ‘Her name is Bee. And she is nine years old now.’

‘Truly?’

‘Fool, what purpose could I have for lying to you?’ He made no answer to that. I reached down and unfastened the second shoe. I pulled it free and put my foot flat on the floor. My left calf cramped abruptly and I exclaimed in pain and bent to rub it.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked in some alarm.

‘Ridiculous shoes, courtesy of Chade. Tall heels and pointed tips curling up at the toes. You’d laugh if you could see them. Oh, and the jacket has a skirt that goes nearly to my knees. And buttons shaped like little blue flowers. And the hat is like a floppy sack. Not to mention the curly wig.’

A small smile quirked his mouth. Then he said gravely, ‘You’ve no idea how much I’d love to see it all.’

‘Fool. It’s not idle curiosity that makes me ask about your eyes. If I knew what was done to you, it might help me undo it.’

Silence. I removed my hat and set it on the table. Standing, I began to unbutton the jacket. It was just slightly too tight in the shoulders and suddenly I could not endure how it bound me. I gave a sigh of relief, draped it on the chair back and sat down. The Fool had picked up the hat. His hands explored it. Then he set it, wig and all, upon his head. With apparent ease, he twitched the hair into place and then effortlessly arranged the hat into an artful slouch.

‘It looks far better on you than it did on me.’

‘Fashion travels. I had a hat almost like this. Years ago.’

I waited.

He sighed heavily. ‘What have I told you and what haven’t I? Fitz, in my darkness, my mind slips around until I scarcely trust myself at all any more.’

‘You’ve told me very little.’

‘Have I? Perhaps you know very little, but I assure you that night after night, in my cell, I spoke with you at length and in detail.’ A wry twist of his mouth. He lifted the hat and set it on the table where it crouched on its wig like a small animal. ‘Each time you ask me a question, it surprises me. For I feel that you were so often with me.’ He shook his head, then leaned back suddenly in his chair and for a time appeared to stare at the ceiling. He spoke into that darkness. ‘Prilkop and I left Aslevjal. You know that. We journeyed to Buckkeep. What you may never have guessed is that we used the Skill-pillars to do so. Prilkop spoke of having learned it from his Catalyst, and I, I had my silvered fingertips from when I had touched Verity. And so we came to Buckkeep and I could not resist the temptation to see you one last time, to have yet another final farewell.’ He snorted at his own foolishness. ‘Fate cheated us both of that. We lingered for a time but Prilkop was anxious to be on his way. Ten days he allowed me, for as you recall I was still very weak, and he judged it dangerous to use the pillars too frequently. But after ten days he began to chafe to be on our way again. Nightly he urged me to leave, pointing out what I knew: that together you and I had already worked the change that was my mission. Our time together was over, and long past over. Lingering near you would only provoke other changes in the world, changes that might be far less desirable. And so he persuaded me. But not completely. I knew it was dangerous, I knew it was self-indulgent even as I carved it. The three of us together, as we once had been. You, Nighteyes and I. I shaped it from the Skill-stone and I pressed my farewell into it. Then I left my gift for you, knowing well that when you touched it, I would be aware of you.’

I was startled. ‘You were?’

‘I told you. I have never been wise.’

‘But I felt nothing of you. Well, there was the message of course.’ I felt cheated by him. He had known that I was alive and well, but had kept his own situation concealed from me.

‘I’m sorry.’ He sounded sincere. After a moment, he continued. ‘We used the pillars again when we left Buckkeep. It was like a child’s game. We jumped from one standing stone to the next. Always he made us wait between our journeys. It was … disorienting. It still makes me queasy to think of it. He knew the danger of what we did. On one of our leaps … we travelled to an abandoned city.’ He halted and spoke quietly. ‘I hadn’t been there before. But there was a tall tower in the middle of it, and when I climbed those stairs, I found the map. And the broken window and the fingerprints in the soot from the fire.’ He paused. ‘I am sure it was the map-tower you visited once.’

‘Kelsingra. So the Dragon Traders name it now,’ I said, not wanting to divert him from his revelations.

‘At Prilkop’s insistence, we stayed there five days. I remember it … strangely. Even knowing what the stone can be and do, having it speak to one continually is wearing. I felt I could not escape the whispers no matter where I went. Prilkop said it was because of the silver Skill on my fingertips. The city drew me. It whispered stories to me when I slept, and when I was awake it tried to draw me into itself. I gave in once, Fitz. I took off my glove and I touched a wall in what had been a market, I think. When next I knew myself as myself, I was lying on the ground by a fire and Prilkop had all our things packed. He wore Elderling garb and had found some for me as well. Including the cloaks that help one hide, one for each of us. He demanded that we leave immediately, declaring that travel through the pillars was less dangerous to me than spending another day in the city. He said it had taken him a day and a half to find me, and that even after he had dragged me away I had slept for another full day. I felt I have lived a year in Kelsingra.

‘So we left.’ He paused.

‘Are you hungry?’ I asked him.

He considered the question carefully. ‘My body has not been accustomed to regular meals for quite some time. It is almost strange to know that I can ask you for food and you give it to me.’ He coughed, turning aside as he did so and hugging his belly against the strain. The coughing went on for some time. I fetched him water and he sipped from the cup, only to go off into an even worse spate of coughing and wheezing. When he could draw a full breath and speak, tears had tracked down his cheeks from the effort. ‘Wine, if we have it. Or brandy. Or more water. And something to eat. But not a lot, Fitz. I must go slowly.’

‘That’s wise,’ I told him, and found that the pot held a creamy chowder of whitefish and onions and root vegetables. I served him up a shallow bowl of it and was relieved when his groping fingers found the spoon I’d placed within his reach. I set a cup of water next to it. I regretted that his eating would put an end to his tale-telling, for it was rare beyond rare for the Fool to be so forthcoming. I watched him spoon up soup carefully and convey it to his mouth. Another spoonful …

He stopped. ‘You’re watching me so closely that I can feel it,’ he observed unhappily.

‘I am. I apologize.’

I rose and poured a small amount of brandy into a cup. Then I arranged myself in the chair with my feet outstretched toward the fire and took a measured sip of the brandy. When the Fool spoke, it surprised me. I continued to watch the fire, and listened without comment as he spaced his tale out with slow mouthfuls of the chowder.

‘I remember how you warned the prince … well, he’s King Dutiful now, isn’t he? How you warned him about using the Skill-pillars to go to an unfamiliar destination. You are right to worry about that. Prilkop assumed the pillars would be just as they were the last time he used them. We stepped into the pillar in the map-city and suddenly found ourselves face down on the ground with barely room to struggle out from under the stone.’ He paused to eat more chowder.

‘The pillar had been toppled. Deliberately, I suspect, and we were fortunate that whoever had done it had not been more thorough. It had fallen so that the top of it rested on the rim of a fountain’s bowl. Long dry and deserted: that city was not like Kelsingra. It showed the signs of ancient war and more recent pillaging. Deliberate damage. The old city was on the highest hills on an island. As to where exactly that island is, I could not tell you. It was unfamiliar to me. Decades ago, when I first travelled here, I did not pass through that old city. Nor did I on my return journey here.’ He shook his head. ‘When we journey back, I do not think we can rely on that path. What would happen to us if there were no room to emerge from a stone? I’ve no idea. And no wish to discover it.’

More soup, and a bit spilled. I said nothing, and watched only out of the corner of my eye as he groped for the napkin, found it, and wiped at his chin and nightshirt. I sipped more brandy and took care that my cup made a small sound as I set it back on the table.

‘When we had bellied out from under the pillar, it took us half a day to hike through the ruins. The carvings, what little remained of them, reminded me of what I’d seen in Kelsingra and on Aslevjal. Most of the statues had been shattered and many of the buildings had been raided for stone. The city was broken. I’d hear a shout of laughter, and half a sentence whispered by my ear, and then a distant bit of music. The discord rang terribly against me. I tell you, if I had had to remain there any longer than we did, I would have gone mad. Prilkop was heartsick. Once, he said, it had been a place of beauty and peace. He hurried me through it despite how weary I was as if he could not bear to witness what it had become.

‘Are you drinking brandy without me?’ he asked suddenly.

‘Yes. But it’s not very good brandy.’

‘That’s the worst excuse I’ve ever heard for not sharing with a friend.’

‘It is. Will you have some?’

‘Please.’

I fetched another cup and poured him a small measure. While I was up, I added a log to the fire. I suddenly felt very comfortable and weary in a good way. We were warm and dry on a winter night, I’d served my king well this evening, and my old friend was at my side and slowly recuperating. I felt a twinge of conscience as I thought of Bee, so far away and left to her own devices but comforted myself that my gifts and letter would soon be in her hands. She had Revel and I liked her maid. She would know I was thinking of her. And surely after I had spoken to both Shun and Lant so severely, they would not dare to be cruel to her. And she had her riding lessons with the stable lad. It was good to know she had a friend, one she had made on her own. I dared to hope she had other household allies that I knew nothing about. I told myself I was foolish to worry about her. She was actually a very capable child.

The Fool cleared his throat. ‘That night, we camped in the forest at the edge of the broken city, and the next morning we hiked to where we could look down on a port town. Prilkop said it had grown greatly since last he had seen it. Its fishing fleet was in the harbour, and he said there would be other ships coming from the south to buy the salted fish and fish oil and a coveted leather made from very heavy fish-skin.’

‘Fish-leather?’ The question leapt from me.

‘Indeed, that was my reaction. I’d never heard of such a thing. But there is a trade in it, for the rougher pieces are cherished for polishing wood or even stone, and the finer pieces are used on the grips of knives and swords; even soaked in blood, they don’t become slippery.’ He coughed again, wiped his mouth and took more brandy. When he drew breath to go on, it wheezed in his throat. ‘So. Down we went, in our winter clothes to that sunny town. Prilkop seemed sure of a welcome there, so he was surprised when the folk stared at us and then turned away. The city on the hilltop was regarded as being haunted by demons. In that town, we saw abandoned buildings that had been built from the stone salvaged from the city but were now considered haunted by dark spirits. No one welcomed us, even when Prilkop showed them silver coins. A few children followed us, shouting and throwing pebbles until their elders called them back. We went down to the docks, and there Prilkop was able to buy us passage on an ill-kept vessel.

‘The ship was there to buy fish and oil and stank of it. The crew was as mixed a lot as I’ve ever seen; the youngsters aboard looked miserable and the older hands were either tremendously unlucky or had suffered repeated rough treatment. A missing eye here, a peg for a foot on another man, and one with only eight fingers left to his hands. I tried to persuade Prilkop that we should not board, but he was convinced that if we did not depart that town we’d lose our lives that night. I judged the ship just as poor a choice, but he was insistent. And so we went.’

He paused. He ate some more soup, wiped his mouth, sipped his brandy, and carefully wiped his mouth and fingers again. He picked up the spoon, and set it down again. Sipped again from his brandy cup. Then he pointed his blind eyes my way, and for the first time since we had met again, a look of pure mischief passed over his face. ‘Are you listening?’

I laughed aloud, to know he still had that spirit in him. ‘You know I am.’

‘I do. Fitz, I feel you.’ He held up his hand, showing me the fingertips that had once been silvered with Skill and were now sliced away to a smooth scar. ‘I took back my link to you long ago. And they cut the silver from my fingertips, for they guessed how powerful it was. So, in the years of my confinement, I thought I imagined my bond with you.’ He tipped his head. ‘But I think it’s real.’

‘I don’t know,’ I admitted. ‘I’ve felt nothing in all the years we were separated. Sometimes I thought you must be dead and sometimes I believed you had forgotten our friendship entirely.’ I halted. ‘Except for the night your messenger was killed in my home. There were bloody fingerprints on the carving you had left for me, the one of you, Nighteyes and me. I went to brush them away, and I swear that something happened.’

‘Oh.’ He caught his breath. For a time, he stared sightlessly. Then he sighed. ‘So. Now I understand. I did not know what it was, then. I did not know one of my messengers had reached you. They were … I was in great pain, and suddenly you were there, touching my face. I screamed for you to help me, to save me or to kill me. Then you were gone.’ He blinked his blinded eyes. ‘That was the night—’ He gasped for air suddenly and leaned on the table. ‘I broke,’ he admitted. ‘I broke that night. They hadn’t broken me, not with the pain or the lies or the starvation. But that moment, when you were there and then you were not … that was when I broke, Fitz.’

I was silent. How had he broken? He had told me that when the Servants tormented him, they wanted him to tell them where his son was. A son he had no knowledge of. That, to me, had been the most horrific part of his tale. A tortured man who is concealing knowledge retains some small portion of control over his life. A tortured man who has no knowledge to barter has nothing. The Fool had had nothing. No tool, no weapon, no knowledge to trade to make his torment cease or lessen. The Fool had been powerless. How could he have told them something he didn’t know? He spoke on.

‘After a time, a long time, I realized there was no sound from them. No questions. But I was answering them. Telling them what they needed to know. I was screaming your name, over and over. And so they knew.’

‘Knew what, Fool?’

‘They knew your name. I betrayed you.’

His mind was not clear, that was obvious. ‘Fool, you gave them nothing they did not know. Their hunters were already there, in my home. They’d followed your messenger. That was how the blood got onto the carving. How you felt me there with you. They’d already found me.’ As I said those words, my mind went back to that long-ago night. The Servants’ hunters had tracked his messenger to my home and killed her there before she could deliver the Fool’s words to me. That had been years ago. But only weeks ago another of his messengers had reached Withywoods and conveyed his warning and his plea to me: Find his son. Hide him from the hunters. That dying messenger had insisted she was being pursued, that the hunters were hot on her trail. But I’d seen no sign of them. Or had I not recognized the sign they had left? There had been hoofprints in a pasture, the fence rails taken down. At the time, I’d dismissed it as coincidence, for surely if they’d been tracking the messenger, they would have made some attempt to determine her fate.

‘Their hunters had not found you,’ the Fool insisted. ‘They’d trailed their prey there, I think. But they were not looking for you. The Servants who tormented me had no way of knowing where their hunters were at that moment. Not until I screamed your name, over and over, did they know how important you were. They had thought you were only my Catalyst. Only someone I had used. And abandoned … For that would be what they expected. A Catalyst to them is a tool, not a true companion. Not a friend. Not someone who shares the prophet’s heart.’ We both held a silence for a time.

‘Fool, there is something I do not understand. You say you have no knowledge of your son. Yet you seem to believe he must exist, on the word of those at Clerres who tormented you. Why would you believe they knew of such a child when you did not?’

‘Because they have a hundred, or a thousand, or ten thousand predictions that if I succeeded as a White Prophet, then such an heir would follow me. Someone who would wreak even greater changes in this world.’

I spoke carefully. I didn’t want to upset him. ‘But there were thousands of prophecies that said that you would die. And you did not. So can we be sure that these foretellings of a son are real?’

He sat quietly for a time. ‘I cannot allow myself to doubt them. If my heir exists, we must find him and protect him. If I dismiss the possibility of his existence, and he does exist and they find the child, then his life will be a misery and his death will be a tragedy for the world. So I must believe in him, even if I cannot tell clearly how such a child came to be.’ He stared into darkness. ‘Fitz. There in the market. I seem to recall he was there. That I touched him and in that moment, I knew him. My son.’ He drew a ragged breath and spoke in a shaky voice. ‘All was light and clarity around us. I could not only see, I could see all the possibilities threading away from that moment. All that we might change together.’ His voice grew weaker.

‘There was no light, Fool. The winter day was edging toward evening, and the only person near you was … Fool. What’s wrong?’

He had swayed in his chair and then caught his face in his hands. Then he said in a woeful voice. ‘I don’t feel well. And … my back feels wet.’

My heart sank. I moved to stand behind him. ‘Lean forward,’ I suggested quietly. For a wonder, he obeyed me. The back of his nightshirt was wet with something that was not blood. ‘Lift up your shirt,’ I bade him, and he tried. With my help, we bared his back, and again he did not protest. I lifted a candle high. ‘Oh, Fool,’ I said before I could think to control my voice. A large and angry swelling next to his spine had split open and was leaking a thin, foul fluid down his scarred and bony back. ‘Sit still,’ I told him and stepped away to the water warming by the fire. I soaked my napkin in it, wrung it out and then warned him, ‘Brace yourself,’ before applying it to the sore. He hissed loudly, and then lowered his forehead onto his crossed arms on the table.

‘It’s like a boil. It’s opened and draining now. I think that might be good.’

He gave a small shudder but said nothing. It took me a moment to realize he was unconscious. ‘Fool?’ I said, and touched his shoulder. No response. I reached out with the Skill and found Chade. It’s the Fool. He’s taken a turn for the worse. Is there a healer you can send up to your old rooms?

None that would know the way, even if any were awake at this hour. Shall I come?

No. I’ll tend to him.

Are you certain?

I’m sure.

Probably better not to involve anyone else. Probably better it was only he and I, as it had been so often before now. While he was unaware of pain, I lit more candles to give me light, and brought a basin. I cleansed the wound as well as I could. He was limp and still as I trickled water into it and sponged away the liquid that flowed out. It did not bleed. ‘No different from a horse,’ I heard myself say once through my gritted teeth. Cleaned, the split boil gaped on his back as if some vile mouth had opened in his skin. It went deep. I forced myself to look at his abused body. There were other suppurations. They bulged, some shiny and almost white, others red and angry and surrounded by a network of dark streaks.

I was looking at a dying man. There was too much wrong with him. To think that somehow food and rest could bring him closer to healing was folly. It would prolong his dying. The infections that were destroying him were too widespread and too advanced. He might even now be dead.

I set my hand to the side of his neck, placing two of my fingers on the pulse point there. His heart was still beating: I felt it there in the feeble leaping of his blood. I closed my eyes and held my fingers there, taking a peculiar comfort in that reassuring beat. A wave of dizziness passed through me. I had been awake too long, and drunk too much at the feast long before I’d added brandy with the Fool to the mix. I was suddenly old, and tired beyond telling. My body ached with the years I’d heaped on it and the tasks I’d demanded of it. The ancient, familiar ache of the arrow scar in my back, so close to my spine, twitched to wakefulness and grew to an unavoidable deep ache, as if someone’s finger were insistently prodding the old injury.

Except that I no longer had that scar. Or the pain from it. That realization whispered into my awareness, light as the first clinging snowflakes on a window. I did not look at it, but accepted what was happening. I let my breathing slow and remained very still inside my own skin. Inside our skin.

I slipped my awareness from my own body into the Fool’s and heard him make a soft sound, a wounded man disturbed in deepest sleep. Do not worry. I am not after your secrets.

But even the mention of secrets roused him. He struggled, a little, but I remained still and I do not think he could find me. When he subsided, I let my awareness tendril throughout his body. Gently. Go softly, I told myself. I let myself feel the pain of his back injury. The boil that had drained was not as dangerous as the ones that had not. It had emptied itself but the poisons from some of the others were working deeper into his body and he had no strength to fight them.

I turned them back. I pushed them out.

It did not take that much effort. I worked carefully, asking as little of his flesh as I could. In some other place, I set my fingers to the sores and called up the poison. Hot skin strained to the breaking point opened under my touch and the poisons trickled out. I used my Skill-strength in a way that I had not known it could be used, yet it seemed so obvious to me there and in that moment. Of course it worked this way. Of course it could do this.

‘Fitz.’

‘Fitz!’

‘FITZ!’

Someone seized me and jerked me back. I lost my balance and fell. Someone tried to catch me, failed and I struck the floor hard. It knocked the wind out of me. I gasped and wheezed and then opened my eyes. It took a moment for me to make sense of what I saw. The dying firelight illuminated Chade standing over me. His face was seized with horror as he stared down at me. I struggled to speak and could not. I was so weary, so very tired. Sweat was drying on my body, and my clothing clung to me where it was soaked. I lifted my head and became aware that the Fool was slumped forward on the table. The red light of the fire showed me pus oozing from a dozen injuries on his back. I rolled my head and my gaze met Chade’s horrified stare.

‘Fitz, what were you doing?’ he demanded, as if he had caught me in some foul and disgusting act.

I tried to draw breath to respond. He looked away from me and I became aware that someone else had entered the room. Nettle. I knew her as she brushed against my Skill-sense. ‘What happened here?’ she demanded, and then as she stepped close enough to see the Fool’s bared back, she gasped in dismay. ‘Did Fitz do this?’ she demanded of Chade.

‘I don’t know. Build up the fire and bring more candles!’ he ordered in a trembling voice as he sank into the chair I had left empty. He set his shaking hands on his knees and leaned down toward me. ‘Boy! What were you doing?’

I’d remembered how to pull air into my lungs. ‘Trying to stop …’ I pulled in another breath, ‘the poisons.’ It was so hard to roll over. I ached in every fibre of my body. When I set my hands to the floor to try to lever myself up, they were wet. Slippery. I lifted them and brought them up to my eyes. They were dripping with watery blood and fluid. Chade shoved a table napkin into my hands.

Nettle had thrown wood on the fire and it was catching. Now she kindled fresh candles and replaced the ones that had burned to stubs. ‘It stinks,’ she said, looking at the Fool. ‘They’re all open and running.’

‘Heat clean water,’ Chade told her.

‘Shouldn’t we summon the healers?’

‘Too much to explain, and if he dies it were better that it did not have to be explained at all. Fitz. Get up. Talk to us.’

Nettle was like her mother, stronger than one expected a small woman to be. I had managed to sit up and she seized me under my arms and helped me to my feet. I caught my weight on the chair and nearly overset it. ‘I feel terrible,’ I said. ‘So weak. So tired.’

‘So now perhaps you know how Riddle felt after you burned his strength so carelessly,’ she responded tartly.

Chade took command of the conversation. ‘Fitz. Why did you cut the Fool like this? Did you quarrel?’

‘He didn’t cut the Fool.’ Nettle had found the water I’d left warming by the fire. She wet the same cloth I’d used earlier, wrung it out, and wiped it gingerly down the Fool’s back. Her nose wrinkled and her mouth was pinched tight in disgust at the foul liquids she smeared away. She repeated the action and said, ‘He was trying to heal him. All of this has been pushed from the inside out.’ She spared me a disdainful glance. ‘Sit on the hearth before you fall over. Did you give a thought to simply putting a pulling poultice on this instead of recklessly attempting a Skill-healing on your own?’

I took her suggestion and attempted to collapse back to the hearth in a controlled fashion. As neither of them was looking at me, it was a wasted effort. ‘I didn’t,’ I said, beginning an attempt to explain that I had not, at first, intended to heal him. Then I stopped. I wouldn’t waste my time.

Chade had suddenly sat forward with an enlightened expression on his face. ‘Ah! Now I understand. The Fool must have been strapped to a chair with spikes protruding from the back, and the strap slowly tightened to force him gradually onto the spikes. If he struggled, the wounds became larger. As the strap was tightened, the spikes went deeper. These old injuries appear to me as if he held out for quite a long time. But I would suspect there was something on the spikes, excrement or some other foul matter, intended to deliberately trigger a long-term infection.’

‘Chade. Please,’ I said weakly. The image he painted made me queasy. I hoped the Fool had remained unconscious. I did not really want to know how the Servants had caused his wounds. Nor did I want him to remember.

‘And the interesting part of that,’ Chade went on heedless of my plea, ‘is that the torturer was employing a philosophy of torment that I’ve never encountered before. I was taught that for torture to be effective at all, the victim must be allowed an element of hope; hope that the pain would stop, hope that the body could still heal, and so on. If you take that away, what has the subject to gain by surrendering his information? In this case, if he was aware that his wounds were deliberately being poisoned, once the spikes had pierced his flesh, then—’

‘Lord Chade! Please!’ Nettle looked revolted.

The old man stopped. ‘Your pardon, Skillmistress. Sometimes I forget …’ He let his words trail away. Nettle and I both knew what he meant. The type of dissertation he had been delivering was fit only for his apprentice or fellow assassin, not for anyone with normal sensibilities.

Nettle straightened and dropped the wet cloth in the bowl of water. ‘I’ve cleaned his wounds as well as water can. I can send down to the infirmary for a dressing.’

‘No need to involve them. We have herbs and unguents here.’

‘I’m sure you do,’ she responded. She looked down on me. ‘You look terrible. I suggest we ask a page to fetch you breakfast in your room below. He’ll be told that you over-indulged last night.’

‘I’ve just the lad for the job,’ Chade declared abruptly. ‘His name is Ash.’

He flicked a glance at me and I did not betray to Nettle that I’d already met the lad. ‘I’m sure he’ll do fine,’ I agreed quietly, even as I wondered what plan Chade was unfolding.

‘Well, then I’ll leave you two. Lord Feldspar, I’ve been informed by Lady Kettricken that you begged for a brief audience with her tomorrow afternoon. Don’t be late. You should join those waiting outside her private audience chamber.’

I gave her a puzzled glance. ‘I’ll explain,’ Chade assured me. More of his plans unfurling. I held in a sigh and smiled weakly at Nettle as she left. When Chade rose to seek out his healing herbs and unguents, I unfolded myself gingerly. My back was stiff and sore and the elegant shirt was pasted to me with sweat. I used what water was left in the pot to cleanse my hands. Then I tottered over to claim a seat at the table.

‘I’m surprised Nettle knew the way here.’

‘Dutiful’s choice. Not mine,’ Chade replied brusquely. He spoke from across the room. ‘He’s never liked my secrets. Never fully understood how necessary they are.’

He came back from a cupboard with a blue pot with a wooden stopper in it, and several rags. When he opened it, the pungency of the unguent stung my nose and somewhat cleared my head. I rose and before he could touch the Fool, I took the rags and medicine from him. ‘I’ll do it,’ I told him.

‘As you wish.’

It troubled me that the Fool was still unaware of us. I set my hand to his shoulder and quested slightly toward him.

‘Ah-ah!’ Chade warned me. ‘None of that. Let him rest.’

‘You’ve grown very sensitive to Skill-use,’ I commented as I scooped some of the unguent onto the rag and pushed it into one of the smaller wounds on the Fool’s back.

‘Or you’ve grown more careless in how you use it. Think on that, boy. And report to me while you repair what you’ve done.’

‘There’s little to tell that I didn’t Skill to you from the festivities. I think you have a quiet but effective pirate trade on the river that is avoiding all tariffs and taxes. And a sea captain ambitious enough to try to extend it to trade with Bingtown.’

‘And you know full well that is not what I need reported! Don’t quibble with me, Fitz. After you asked me about a healer, I tried to reach you again. And I could not, but I could sense how intensely involved you were elsewhere. I thought I was not strong enough to reach you, so I asked Nettle to try. And when neither of us could break in on you, we both came here. What were you doing?’

‘Just,’ I cleared my tight throat, ‘trying to help him heal. One of the boils on his back had opened by itself. And when I tried to clean it for him, I became aware that … that he’s dying, Chade. Slowly dying. There is too much wrong with him. I do not think he can gain strength fast enough for us to heal him. Good food and rest and medicine will, I believe, only delay what is inevitable. He’s too far gone for me to save him.’

‘Well.’ Chade seemed taken aback by my bluntness. He sank down into my chair and drew a great breath. ‘I thought we had all seen that, down at the infirmary, Fitz. It was one reason why I thought you’d want a quieter place for him. A place of quiet and privacy.’ His voice trailed away.

His words made what I faced more real. ‘Thank you for that,’ I said hoarsely.

‘It’s little enough, and sad to say, I doubt that there is more that I could do for either of you. I hope you know that if I could do more, I would.’ He sat up straight, and the rising flames of the fire caught his features in profile. I suddenly saw the effort the old man was putting into even that small gesture. He would sit upright, and he would come up all those steps in the creaking hours before dawn for my sake, and he would try to make it all look effortless. But it wasn’t. And it was getting harder and harder for him to maintain that façade. Cold spread through me as I faced the truth of that. He was not as near death as the Fool was, but he was drifting slowly away from me on the relentless ebb of aging.

He spoke hesitantly, looking at the fire rather than at me. ‘You pulled him back from the other side of death once. You’ve been stingy with the details on that, and I’ve found nothing in any Skill-scroll that references such a feat. I thought perhaps …’

‘No.’ I pushed another dab of unguent into a wound. Only two more to go. My back ached abominably from bending over at my task, and my head pounded as it had not in years. I pushed aside thoughts of carryme powder and elfbark tea. Deadening the body to pain always took a toll on the mind, and I could not afford that just now. ‘I haven’t been stingy with information, Chade. It was more a thing that happened rather than something I did. The circumstances are not something I can duplicate.’ I suppressed a shudder at the thought.

I finished my task. I became aware that Chade had risen and was standing beside me. He offered me a soft grey cloth. I spread it carefully over the Fool’s treated back and then pulled his nightshirt down over it. I leaned forward and spoke by his ear. ‘Fool?’

‘Don’t wake him,’ Chade suggested firmly. ‘There are good reasons why a man falls into unconsciousness. Let him be. When both his body and his mind are ready for him to waken again, he will.’

‘I know you’re right.’

Lifting him and carrying him back to the bed was a harder task than it should have been. I deposited him there on his belly and covered him warmly.

‘I’ve lost track of time,’ I admitted to Chade. ‘How did you stand it in here, all those years, with scarcely a glimpse of the sky?’

‘I went mad,’ he said genially. ‘In a useful sort of way, I might add. None of the ranting and clawing the walls one might expect. I simply became intensely interested in my trade and all aspects of it. Nor was I confined here as much as you might suspect. I had other identities, and sometimes I ventured forth into castle or town.’

‘Lady Thyme,’ I said, smiling.

‘She was one. There were others.’

If he had wanted me to know, he would have told me. ‘How long until breakfast?’

He made a small sound in his throat. ‘If you were a guardsman, you’d likely be getting up from it by now. But for you, a minor noble from a holding that no one’s ever heard of, on your first visit to Buckkeep Castle, well, you’ll be forgiven for sleeping in a bit after last night’s festivities. I’ll pass the word to Ash and he’ll bring you food after you’ve had a bit of a nap.’

‘Where did you find him?’

‘He’s an orphan. His mother was a whore of the particular sort patronized mostly by wealthy young nobles who have … aberrant tastes. She worked in an establishment about a day’s ride from here in the countryside. A useful distance from Buckkeep Town for the sorts of activities a young noble might wish to keep secret. She died messily in an assignation gone horribly wrong, for both her and Ash. An informant thought I might find it useful to know which noble’s eldest son had such proclivities. Ash was a witness, not to her death but to the man who killed her. I had him brought to me and when I questioned him about what he had seen, I found he had an excellent eye for detail and a sharp mind for recalling it. He described the noble right down to the design of the lace on his cuffs. He’d grown up making himself useful to his mother and others in her trade, and thus he has a well-honed instinct for discretion. And stealth.’

‘And the collecting of secrets.’

‘There is that, too. His mother was not a street whore, Fitz. A young noble could take her to the gaming tables or the finer entertainments in Buckkeep Town, and not be shamed by her company. She knew poetry and could sing it to a small lute she played. He’s a lad who has walked in two worlds. He may not have court manners, yet, and one can hear he’s not court-born when he speaks, but he’s not an ignorant alley rat. He’ll be useful.’

I nodded slowly. ‘And you want him to page for me while I’m here so …?’

‘So you can tell me what you think of him.’

I smiled. ‘Not so he can watch me for you?’

Chade opened his hands deprecatingly. ‘And if he does, what would he see that I don’t already know? Consider it part of his training. Set him some challenges for me. Help me hone him.’

And again, what was I to say? He was doing all for the Fool and me that could be done. Could I do less for him? I had recognized the unguent I’d pushed into the Fool’s wounds. The oil for it came from the livers of a fish seldom seen in our northern waters. It was expensive, but he had not flinched from giving it to me. I would not be chary of giving him whatever I could in return. I nodded. ‘I’m going down to my old room to sleep for a bit.’

Chade returned my nod. ‘You have overtaxed yourself, Fitz. Later, when you’ve rested, I’d like a written report on that healing. When I reached for you … well, I could find you, but it was as if you were not yourself. As if you were so immersed in healing the Fool that you were becoming him. Or that the two of you were merging.’

‘I’ll write it down,’ I promised him, wondering how I could describe for him something I didn’t understand myself. ‘But in return, I’ll ask you to select for me new scrolls on Skill-healing and lending strength. I’ve already read the ones you left for me.’

He nodded, well pleased that I’d asked for such things, and left me, slipping out of sight behind the tapestry. I checked on the Fool and found him deeply asleep still. I hovered my hand over his face, loath to touch him lest I wake him but worried that my efforts might have wakened a higher fever in him. Instead, he seemed cooler and his breathing deeper. I straightened, yawned tremendously and then made the error of stretching.

I muffled my yelp of pain. I stood still for a long moment, then carefully rolled my shoulders. I hadn’t imagined it. I reached behind myself and gingerly tugged my shirt free of where it had adhered to my back. I peeled it free and found Chade’s mirror. What I saw confounded me.

The oozing wounds on my back were far smaller than those on the Fool’s, nor were they puffed and reddened with infection. Instead they gaped, seven small injuries as if someone had repeatedly stabbed me with a dagger. They had not bled much; I judged them shallow. And given my propensity to heal quickly, they might very well be gone by the end of tomorrow.

The conclusion I had to reach was obvious. In Skill-healing the Fool’s wounds, I had taken on these small twins. A sudden memory stirred, and I examined my belly. There, just where I had closed the wounds my knife had made on the Fool’s body was a series of reddened dents. I prodded one and winced. Not painful but tender. My whirling thoughts offered me a dozen explanations. In sharing strength with the Fool, had I actually shared flesh with him? Were his wounds closing because mine were opened? I draped my shirt around me, added wood to the fire, gathered my buttony jacket and scuffed down the dusty steps to my old bedchamber. I hoped I would find some answers in the scrolls that Chade had promised me. Until I did, I would keep this small mishap to myself. I had no desire to participate in the experiments that Chade would doubtless envision if he knew of this.

I shut the door and it became undetectable. A glance out of my shuttered window told me that a winter dawn was not far away. Well, I would take what sleep I could still get and be grateful. I added a log to the dying fire on my hearth, draped my ruined finery on a chair, found Lord Feldspar’s sensible woollen nightshirt and sought my boyhood bed. My drowsy eyes travelled the familiar walls. There was the wandering crack in the wall that had always reminded me of a bear’s snout. I had made that gouge in the ceiling, practising a fancy move with a hand axe that had flown out of my grip. The tapestry of King Wisdom treating with the Elderlings had been replaced with one of two bucks in battle. I preferred it. I drew a deep breath and settled into the bed. Home. Despite all the years, this was home, and I sank into sleep surrounded by the stout walls of Buckkeep Castle.

FIVE
An Exchange of Substance

I am curled warm and snug in the den. Safe. I am tired and if I shift too much, I feel the marks of teeth on my neck and back. But if I am still, then all is well.

In the distance, a wolf is hunting. He hunts alone. It is a terrible sound he makes, desperate and breathless. It is not the full-throated howling of a wolf that calls to his pack. It is the desperate yipping and short breathless howls of a predator who knows his prey is escaping. He would be better to hunt silently, to save his failing strength for running instead of giving tongue.

He is so far away. I curl tighter in the warmth of my den. It is safe here and I am well fed. I feel a fading sympathy for a wolf with no pack. I hear the broken yipping again and I know how the cold air rushes down his dry throat, how he leaps through deep snow, extending his full body, literally flinging himself through the night. I remember it too well, and for an aching moment, I am him.

‘Brother, brother, come, run, hunt,’ he beseeches me. He is too distant for me to know more of his thought than this.

But I am warm, and weary, and well fed. I sink deeper into sleep.

I awoke from that dream a lifetime away from the last time I had hunted with the wolf. I lay still, troubled and feeling the fading threat of it. What had wakened me? What needed to be hunted? And then I became aware of the smell of hot food, bacon and meal-cakes and the reviving fragrance of tea. I twitched fully awake and sat up. The sound that had awakened me had been the closing of my door. Ash had entered, set down a tray, stirred up my fire and fed it, taken my soiled shirt and done it all so silently that I had slept through it. A shudder of dread ran over me. When had I become so complacent and senseless as to sleep through intruders in the room? That was an edge I could ill afford to lose.

I sat up, winced, and then reached behind me to touch my own back. The wounds were closing and had stuck to the mildly itchy wool. I braced myself and plucked the nightshirt free of them, all while berating myself for sleeping too soundly. Ah. Too much to eat, too much to drink, and the exhaustion of a Skill-healing. I decided I could excuse my lack of wariness on those grounds. It did not totally banish the chagrin I felt. I wondered if Ash would report my lapse to Chade, and if he would praise the lad and if perhaps they would laugh about it.

I stood up, stretched cautiously, and told myself to stop being such a child. So Ash had fetched my breakfast and I’d slept through it. It was ridiculous to let it bother me.

I had not expected to be hungry after all I’d eaten the night before, but once I sat down to the food, I found I was. I made short work of it and then decided I would check on the Fool before taking a bit more sleep. The Skill-work I had done last night had taxed me far more than any other endeavour I’d taken on recently. He had been the receiver of that work: had it exhausted him as it had me?

I latched the main door to my room, triggered the secret door and went softly up the stairs, back into a world of candles and hearth-fire twilight. I stood at the top of the steps and listened to the fire burning, something muttering and tapping in a pot on the hearth-hook, and the Fool’s steady breathing. All trace of last night’s activities had been cleared away, but at one end of Chade’s scarred worktable, clean bandaging, various unguents and a few concoctions for the relief of pain had been left out. Four scrolls rested beside the supplies. Chade seemed always to think of everything.

I stood looking down at the Fool for some time. He lay on his belly, his mouth slightly ajar. Lord Golden had been a handsome man. I recalled with the regret of loss the clean planes of his face, his light-gold hair and amber eyes. Scars striated his cheeks and thickened the flesh around his eyes. Most of his hair had succumbed to ill health and filth; what he had left was as short and crisp as straw. Lord Golden was gone, but my friend remained. ‘Fool?’ I said softly.

He made a startled sound somewhere between a moan and a cry, his blind eyes flew open and he lifted a warding hand toward me.

‘It’s just me. How are you feeling?’

He took a breath to answer and coughed instead. When he had finished, he said hoarsely, ‘Better. I think. That is, some hurts have lessened, but the ones that remain are still sharp enough that I don’t know if I’m better or just becoming more adept at ignoring pain.’

‘Are you hungry?’

‘A bit. Fitz. I don’t remember the end of last night. We were talking at the table, and now I’m waking up in the bed.’ His hand groped toward his lower back and cautiously touched the dressings there. ‘What’s this?’

‘An abscess on your back opened. You fainted, and while you could not feel the pain, I cleaned it out and bandaged it. And a few others.’

‘They hurt less. The pressure is gone,’ he admitted. It was painful to watch his progress as he manoeuvred his body to the edge of the bed. He worked to get out of the bed with as few motions as possible. ‘If you would put the food out?’ he asked quietly, and I heard his unvoiced request that I leave him to care for himself.

Under the hopping kettle lid I found a layer of pale dumplings over a thick gravy containing chunks of venison and root vegetables. I recognized one of Kettricken’s favourite dishes and wondered if she were personally selecting the Fool’s menus. It would be like her.

By the time I had set out the Fool’s food, he was making his way to the hearth and his chair. He moved with more certainty, still sliding his feet lest there be an obstacle, still leading with an outstretched hand, tottering and wavering, but not needing nor asking my help. He found the chair and lowered himself into it. He did not allow his back to rest against the chair. As his fingers butterflied over the cutlery, I said quietly, ‘After you’ve eaten, I’d like to change the dressings on your back.’

‘You won’t really “like” to do it, and I won’t enjoy it, but I can no longer have the luxury of refusing such things.’

‘That’s true,’ I said after his words had fallen down a well of silence. ‘Your life still hangs in the balance, Fool.’

He smiled. It did not look pretty: it stretched the scars on his face. ‘If it were only my life, old friend, I would have lain down beside the road and let go of it long ago.’

I waited. He began to eat. ‘Vengeance?’ I asked quietly. ‘It’s a poor motive for doing anything. If you take vengeance it doesn’t undo what they did. Doesn’t restore whatever they destroyed.’ My mind went back through the years. I spoke slowly, not sure if I wanted to share this even with him. ‘One drunken night of ranting, of shouting at people that were not there,’ I swallowed the lump in my throat, ‘and I realized that no one could go back in time and undo what they’d done to me. No one could unhurt me. And I forgave them.’

‘But the difference, Fitz, is that Burrich and Molly never meant to hurt you. What they did, they did for themselves, believing you dead and gone. And for them, life had to go on.’

He took another bite of dumpling and chewed it slowly. He drank a bit of yellow wine and cleared his throat. ‘Once we were a good distance offshore, the crew did what I had known they would. They took whatever we had that they thought was of value. All the little cubes of memory-stone that Prilkop had painstakingly selected and carried so far were lost to him then. The crew had no idea what they were. Most could not hear the poetry and music and history that were stored in them. Those who could were alarmed. The captain ordered all the cubes thrown overboard. Then they worked us like the slaves they intended us to become once they found a place to sell us.’

I sat silent and transfixed. The words came from the usually reticent Fool in a smooth flow. I wondered if he had rehearsed his tale during his hours alone. Did his blindness accentuate his loneliness and propel him toward this openness?

‘I was in despair. Prilkop seemed to harden every day, muscled by the work, but I was too recently healed. I grew sicker and weaker. At night, huddled on the open deck, in the wind and rain, he would look up at the stars and remind me that we were travelling in the correct direction. ‘We no longer look like White Prophets, we two, but when we make shore, it will be in a place where people value us. Endure, and we will get there.’

He drank a bit more wine. I sat quietly and waited while he ate some food. ‘We got there,’ he said at last. ‘And Prilkop was almost correct. When we reached port, he was sold at the slave auction and I …’ His voice trickled away. ‘Oh, Fitz. This telling wearies me. I do not wish to remember it all. It was not a good time for me. But Prilkop found someone who would believe him, and before many days had passed, he came back for me. They bought me, quite cheaply, and his patron helped us complete our journey back to Clerres and our school.’

He sipped his wine. I wondered at the gap in his story. What was too terrible for him to remember?

He spoke to my thought. ‘I must finish this tale quickly. I have no heart for the details. We arrived at Clerres, and when the tide went out, we crossed to the White Island. There our patron delivered us to the gates of the school. The Servants who opened the doors to us were astonished for they immediately recognized what we were. They thanked our patron and rewarded him and quickly took us in. Collator Pierec was the Servant who was in charge, now. They took us to the Room of the Records, and there they leafed through scrolls and scripts and bound pages until they found Prilkop.’ The Fool shook his head slowly, marvelling. ‘They tried to reckon how old he was, and failed. He was old, Fitz, very old indeed, a White Prophet who had lived far past the end of his time of making changes. They were astonished.

‘And more astonished when they discovered who I was.’

His spoon chased food around his bowl. He found and ate a piece of dumpling, and then a piece of venison. I thought he was making me wait for the tale, and taking pleasure in my suspense. I didn’t begrudge him this.

‘I was the White Prophet they had discarded. The boy who had been told he was mistaken, that there was already a White Prophet for this time, and that she had already gone north to bring about the changes that must be.’ He clattered his spoon down suddenly. ‘Fitz, I was far more stupid than the Fool you have always named me. I was an idiot, a fatuous mindless …’ He strangled on his sudden anger, knotting his scarred hands and pounding them on the table. ‘How could I have expected them to greet me with anything except horror? For all the years they had kept me at the school, confined me, drugged me that I might dream more clearly for them … For the hours they spent needling her insidious images into my skin to make me unWhite! For all the days they tried to confuse and confound me, showing me dozens, hundreds of prophecies and dreams that they thought would convince me I was not what I knew myself to be! How could I have gone back there, thinking they would be glad to see me, and quick to acknowledge how wrong they had been? How could I think they would want to know they had made such an immense error?’

He began to weep as he spoke, his blinded eyes streaming tears that were diverted by the scars on his face. Some detached part of me noted that his tears seemed clearer than they had been and wondered if this meant some infection had been conquered. Another, saner part of me was saying softly, ‘Fool. Fool. It’s all right. You are here with me now, and they cannot hurt you any more. You are safe here. Oh, Fool. You are safe. Beloved.’

When I gave him his old name, he gasped. He had half-risen to stand over the table. Now he sank back down into Chade’s old chair, and heedless of his bowl and the sticky table, put his head down on his folded arms and wept like a child. For a moment, his rage flared again and he shouted, ‘I was so stupid!’ Then the sobbing stole his voice again. For a time, I let him weep. There is nothing useful anyone can say to a man when such despair is on him. Shudders ran over him like convulsions of sorrow. His sobs came slower and softer and finally ceased, but he did not lift his head. He spoke to the table in a thick, dead voice.

‘I had always believed they were mistaken. That they truly had not known.’ He gave a final sniff, a sigh and lifted his head. He groped for his napkin and wiped his eyes with it. ‘Fitz, they knew. They had always known I was the one. They knew I was the true White Prophet. The Pale Woman was the one they had made. They made her, Fitz, as if they were trying to breed a pigeon with a light head and tail. Or as if you and Burrich were breeding for a colt with the stamina of the stud and the temperament of the dam. They’d created her, there in the school, and they’d taught her and filled her with the prophecies and dreams that suited their purposes. They’d made her believe and twisted her dreams to make them foretell what they wanted to happen. And they’d sent her out. And held me back.’ His head sank down. He pillowed his brow on his forearms and fell silent.

One of Chade’s exercises when he was training me was to put the pieces of something back together. It began with simple things: he’d drop a plate, and I would have to reassemble it to the best of my ability. The challenges advanced. The plate would fall, and I had to look at the pieces and mentally assemble it. Then I would be presented with a bag of pieces of something, broken crockery or cut harness or something of that ilk, and I had to put it back into a whole. After a time, the bag would hold not just the destroyed item but other random bits of things that looked as if they belonged with it. It was a physical exercise to teach my mind to assemble bits of facts and random gossip into a comprehensible whole.

So now my mind was at work, assembling bits so that I could almost hear the snicking of pieces of a teapot being put back together. The messenger’s tale of bearing children who were taken from her meshed with the Fool’s tale of the Servants creating their own White Prophets. The race of Whites with their gift of prescience had vanished from our world long ago; the Fool had told me that when we were still boys. He claimed the Whites had begun to intermarry with humans, diluting their bloodlines until those who carried that heritage showed no sign of it and often were unaware of it. And he had added that only rarely was a child born who, by chance, reflected that ancient heritage. He had been one such, and was fortunate enough that when he was born his parents knew what he was. And they knew there was a school at Clerres where children who showed the physical traits of Whites were taken and taught to record their dreams and their flashes or visions of the future. Vast libraries of recorded visions were held there and studied by the Servants so that they might learn the events that the future of the world would turn upon. And so, while he was very young, his parents had given him to the Servants to be taught to use his talents for the good of all mankind.

But the Servants had not believed he was the one true White Prophet. I had known a little of that. He had confided that they had held him there long past the time when he felt he needed to be out, changing the world’s events to set us all on a better path. I had known that he had escaped them and set out on his own, to become what he had believed he must be.

And now I knew the darker side of that place. I had helped Burrich to select breeding lines for dogs and horses. I knew how it was done. A white mare and a white stallion might not always yield a white foal, but if they did, chances were that if we bred that white offspring to another white horse, or bred it back to a sibling, we would get a white foal. And so, if King Shrewd desired it, he could have generations of white horses for his guard. Burrich had been too wise a horse-breeder to inbreed our stock too deeply. He would have been shamed to have a crippled or malformed foal born due to his negligence.

I wondered if the Servants shared his morality in that regard. Somehow I doubted it. So if the Servants desired it, they could likewise breed children with the pale skin and colourless eyes of White Prophets. And in some, prescience would manifest. Through those children, the Servants could gain the ability to glimpse the future and the various paths it might take, depending on events large and small. By the Fool’s account, they had been doing it for generations, possibly since before he was born. So now the Servants had a vast reservoir of possible futures to study. The future could be manipulated, not for the benefit of the world at large, but for the comfort and good fortune of the Servants alone. It was brilliant, and it was obscene.

My mind made the next leap. ‘How can you fight people who know your next move before you do?’

‘Ah.’ He sounded almost pleased. ‘You grasp it quickly. I knew you would. Even before I give you the final bits, you see it. And yet, Fitz, they don’t. They didn’t see me returning at all. Why? Why would they resort to something as crude as physical torture to find out what I knew? Because you made me, my Catalyst. You created me, a creature outside of any future ever seen. I left you because I knew how potent we were together. I knew that we could change the future of the world, and I feared that if we remained together, with me blind to the future, we might set terrible things in motion. Unintentionally, of course, but all the more powerful for that. So I left you, knowing it tore your heart as deeply as it tore mine. And blind, even then, to the fact that we had already done exactly that.’

He lifted his head and turned his face toward me. ‘We blinded them, Fitz. I came seeking you, a lost Farseer. In almost every future I could foresee you either never existed or you died. I knew, I knew that if I could see you through and keep you alive, you would be the Catalyst to set the world into a new and better path. And you did. The Six Duchies remained intact. Stone dragons rose into the air, the evil magic of Forging was ended, and true dragons were restored to the world. Because of you. Every time I snatched you back from the brink of death, we changed the world. Yet all those things the Servants had also glimpsed, even if they believed they were unlikely to come to pass. And when they sent out their Pale Woman to be the false White Prophet, and kept me confined to Clerres, they thought they had guaranteed the outcome they wished. You would not exist

‘But we thwarted them. And then you did the unthinkable. Fitz, I died. I knew I would die. In all the prophecies I’d ever read in the Clerres library, in all the dream-visions I’d ever had, I died there. And so I did. But in no future foreseen by anyone, ever, in all their trove of prophecies, was I pulled back alive from the other side.

‘That changed everything. You flung us into a future unseen. They grope now, wondering what will become of all their plans. For the Servants do not plan for decades, but for generations. Knowing the times and means of their own deaths, they have extended their lives. But we have taken much of that power from them. The White children born since my “death” are the only ones who can look into the future from that time. They grope through the futures where once they galloped. And so they must seek that which they most fear now: the true White Prophet for this generation. They know he is out there, somewhere, beyond their knowledge and control. They know they must seize him soon, or all they have built may come tumbling down.’

His words rang with his conviction. And yet I could not keep a smile from my face. ‘So you changed their world. You are the Catalyst now. Not I.’

All expression fled his face. He stared past me, his filmed eyes fixed and distant. ‘Could such a thing be?’ he asked in wonder. ‘Is that what I glimpsed, once, in the dreams where I was not a White Prophet?’

‘I have no answer for that. I may no longer be your Catalyst, but I am certain I am not a prophet either. Come, Fool. The dressings on your back have to be changed.’

For a time he was very silent and still. Then, ‘Very well,’ he acceded.

I led him across the room to Chade’s table. He sat down on the bench there and his hands fluttered, settled and then explored the tabletop, finding the supplies Chade had set out for me. ‘I remember this,’ he said quietly.

‘Little has changed here over the years.’ I moved to the back of his seat and studied his nightshirt. ‘The wounds have oozed. I put a cloth on your back, but they’ve soaked through that as well. Your nightshirt is stuck to your back. I’m going to fetch warm water, soak it loose, and clean them again. I’ll fetch you a clean nightshirt now and set the water to warm.’

By the time I returned with the basin of water and the clean shirt, the Fool had arranged my supplies for me. ‘Lavender oil, by the scent of it,’ he said, touching the first pot. ‘Bear grease with garlic in here.’

‘Good choices,’ I said. ‘Here comes the water.’

He hissed as I sponged it onto his back. I gave the half-formed scabs time to soften and then gave him the choice. ‘Fast or slow?’

‘Slow,’ he said, and so I began with the lowest one on his back, a puncture far too close to his spine. By the time I had painstakingly freed the fabric from the oozing wound, sweat had plastered his hair to his skull. ‘Fitz,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘Just do it.’

His knotty hands found the table’s edge and gripped it. I did not rip the shirt free, but I peeled it away from him, ignoring the sounds he made. At one point he hammered on the stone table with his fist, then yelped at that pain and dropped his fist to his lap and his brow to the table. ‘It’s done,’ I told him as I rolled the lifted shirt across his shoulders and let it drape there.

‘How bad are they?’

I pulled a branch of candles closer and studied his back. So thin. The bones of his spine were a row of hummocks down his back. The wounds gaped bloodlessly at me. ‘They’re clean, but open. We want to keep them open so that they heal from the inside out. Brace yourself again.’ He kept silent as I wiped each injury with the lavender oil. When I added the bear grease with garlic, the scents did not blend well. I held my breath. When each had been tended, I put a clean cloth over his back, trusting the grease to hold it in place. ‘There’s a clean shirt here,’ I said. ‘Try not to displace the dressing as you put it on.’

I walked to the other end of the room. His injuries had spotted his bedding with blood and fluid. I would leave a note asking Ash to bring fresh linens. Then I wondered if the boy could read, and decided it was likely so. Even if his mother had not demanded it of him for her business, Chade would have immediately set him to learning. For now, I turned his pillows and tugged the bedding straight.

‘Fitz?’ he called from the worktable.

‘I’m here. Just straightening your bedding.’

‘You’d have made a fine valet.’

I was silent for a moment, wondering if he mocked me.

‘Thank you,’ he added. And then, ‘Now what?’

‘Well, you’ve eaten and we’ve changed the dressings. Perhaps you’d like to rest some more.’

‘In truth, I am tired of resting. So weary of it, in fact, that I can do nothing except seek my bed again.’

‘It must be very boring.’ I stood still and watched him haltingly totter toward me. I knew he did not want me to offer help.

‘Ah, boredom. Fitz, you have no idea how sweet boredom can be. When I think of endless days spent wondering when next they would return to take me, and what new torment they might devise and if they might see fit to give me food or water before or afterwards … well, boredom becomes more desirable than the most extravagant festival. And on my journey here, oh, how I longed for my days to be predictable. To know if the person who spoke to me was truly kind or cruel, to know if there might be food that day, or if I would find a dry place to sleep. Ah.’ He had almost reached me. He halted where he was, and the emotions that passed over his face tore me. Memories he would not share with me.

‘The bedstead is right there, to your left. There. Your hand is on it.’

He nodded to me, and patted and felt his way back to the side of the bed. I had opened the blankets to the linens for him. He turned and sat down on the bed. A smile crossed his face. ‘So soft. You’ve no idea, Fitz, how much this pleases me.’

He moved his body so carefully. It reminded me of Patience toward the end of her years. It took him time to manoeuvre so that he could lift his legs up onto the bed. The loose trousers bared his meagre calves and the distorted knobs of his ankles. I winced as I looked at his left foot. To call it a foot was a charity. How he had walked on that I did not know.

‘I had a stick to help me.’

‘I didn’t speak that aloud!’

‘I heard that little sound you made. You make it when you see anything hurt. Nosy with a scratch on his face. Or the time I had a sack put over my head and took a beating.’ He lay on his side and his hand scrabbled at the bedcovers. I pulled them up over him with no comment. He was silent for a minute and then said, ‘My back hurts less. Did you do something?’

‘I cleaned out the injuries and put dressings on them.’

‘And?’

And why should I lie? ‘When I touched you to clean the first boil that had broken, I … went into you. And encouraged your body to heal itself.’

‘That’s …’ He groped for a word, ‘interesting.’

I had expected outrage. Not his hesitant fascination. I spoke honestly. ‘It’s a bit frightening, too. Fool, my previous experiences with Skill-healings were that it took a real effort, often the effort of an entire coterie, to find a way into a man’s body and provoke his body to work harder at healing itself. So, to slip into awareness of your body so easily is unsettling. Something is strange there. Strange in the same way that it was too easy to bring you through the Skill-pillars. You took back our Skill-bond, many years ago.’ It was a struggle to keep rebuke from my voice. ‘I look back on the night when we came here and I marvel at my foolhardiness in deciding to make the attempt.’

‘Foolhardiness,’ he said softly, and laughed low. He coughed then and added, ‘I believe my life was in the balance that night.’

‘It was. I thought I had burned Riddle’s strength to bring you through. But the degree of healing you already showed when we arrived here makes me wonder if it weren’t something else.’

‘It was something else,’ he said decisively. ‘I can’t claim to know this and yet I feel certain I am right. Fitz, all those years ago when you brought me back from the dead, you found me and put me into your own flesh while you entered my dead body and forced it back into life as if you were lashing a team to pull a wagon from a swamp. You were ruthless in what you did. Much as you were when you risked all, not just you and me, but Riddle, to bring me here.’

I lowered my head. It was not praise.

‘We passed one another as we each resumed life in our own bodies. Do you remember that?’

‘Somewhat,’ I hedged.

‘Somewhat? As we passed, we merged and blended.’

‘No.’ Now he was the one who was lying. It was time to speak the truth. ‘That is not what I recall. It was not a temporary merging. What I recall is that we were one. We were not wholes blending as we passed. We were parts, finally forming a whole. You, and I, and Nighteyes. One being.’

He could not see me and yet he still averted his face from me, as if I had said a thing that was too intimate for us to witness. He bowed his head, a small affirmation. ‘It happens,’ he said softly. ‘A mingling of beings. You’ve seen the results, though you may not have recognized it. I certainly didn’t. That tapestry of the Elderlings that once hung in your room.’

I shook my head. I’d been a child the first time I’d seen it. It was enough to give anyone nightmares. There was King Wisdom of the Six Duchies, treating with the Elderlings, who were tall, thin beings with unnaturally coloured skin and hair and eyes. ‘I don’t think that has anything to do with what I’m talking about now.’

‘Oh, it does. Elderlings are what humans may become through a long association with dragons. Or more commonly, what their surviving offspring may become.’

I saw no connection. ‘I do recall, long ago, when you tried to convince me that I was part dragon.’

A smile twisted his weary mouth. ‘Your words. Not mine. But not so far from what I was theorizing, even if you’ve phrased it very poorly. There are many aspects of the Skill that put me in mind of what dragons can do. And if some distant ancestor of yours was dragon-touched, so to speak, could it be why that particular magic manifests in you?’

I sighed and surrendered. ‘I’ve no idea. I don’t even know quite what you mean by dragon-touched. So, perhaps. But I don’t see what that has to do with you and me.’

He shifted in the bed. ‘How can I be so tired, and not one bit sleepy?’

‘How can you start so many conversations and then refuse to finish any of them?’

He went off into a coughing fit. I tried to tell myself he was feigning it but went to fetch him water anyway. I helped him sit up and waited while he drank. I took the cup while he lay back down and waited. I said nothing, simply stood by the bed with the cup. After a time I sighed.

‘What?’ he demanded.

‘Do you know things you aren’t telling me?’

‘Absolutely. And that will always be true.’

He sounded so much like his old self and took such obvious pleasure in the words that I felt almost no annoyance. Almost.

‘I mean about this. About what bonds us in such a way that I can take you with me through a Skill-pillar, and almost without effort enter your body to heal it?’

‘Almost?’

‘I was exhausted afterward, but that was from the healing, I think. Not from the joining.’ I would say nothing of what it had done to my back.

I thought he would detect I was holding something back. Instead he spoke slowly. ‘Because perhaps the joining already exists and always does.’

‘Our Skill-bond?’

‘No. You haven’t been listening.’ He sighed. ‘Think again about the Elderlings. A human lives long in the company of dragons, and eventually he begins to take on some of the traits of the dragon. You and I, Fitz, lived in close company for years. And in that healing that was actually a snatching back from death, we shared. We mingled. And perhaps we became, as you claim, one being. And perhaps we did not completely sort ourselves back into our own separate selves as thoroughly as you think. Perhaps there was an exchange of our very substances.’

I thought about this carefully. ‘Substances. Such as flesh? Blood?’

‘I don’t know! Perhaps. Perhaps something more essential even than blood.’

I paused to sort the sense from his words. ‘Can you tell me why it happened? Is it dangerous to us? Something we must try to undo? Fool, I need to know.’

He turned his face toward me, took a breath as if he were going to speak, then paused and let it out. I saw him thinking. Then he spoke simply, as if I were a child. ‘The human that lives too long near the dragon takes on aspects of the dragon. The white rose that is planted for years beside the red rose begins to have white blossoms threaded with red. And perhaps the human Catalyst who is companion to a White Prophet takes on some of his traits. Perhaps, as you threatened, your traits as a Catalyst have infected me as well.’

I studied his face for signs of a jest. Then I waited for him to mock me for my gullibility. Finally I begged him, ‘Can you just explain?’

He blew out a breath. ‘I’m tired, Fitz. And I’ve told you as clearly as I can what I think may be happening. You seem to think we are becoming or were “one thing” as you so gracefully put it. I think that our essences may be seeping across to the other, creating a bridge between us. Or perhaps it’s a vestige of the Skill-bond we once shared.’ He leaned his poor head back on the pillows. ‘I can’t sleep. I’m weary and tired, but not sleepy. What I am is bored. Horribly bored with pain and darkness and waiting.’

‘I thought you just said that being bored—’

‘Is lovely. Horribly lovely.’

Well, at least he was showing signs of his old self. ‘I wish I could help you. Sadly, there isn’t much I can do about your boredom.’

‘You already did something for me. The sores on my back are much better. Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome. And now I fear I must leave you for a time. I’m supposed to meet with Lady Kettricken, as Lord Feldspar of Spiretop. I will need to dress for that role.’

‘And you must go right now?’

‘I should, if I’m to be properly dressed and in line for a private audience with her. I’ll come back afterwards. Try to rest.’

With regret, I turned away. I knew how the time must drag for him. He had always been a lively fellow, a juggler, a tumbler, adept at sleight-of-hand, with a mind as quick and clever as his fingers. He had cavorted through King Shrewd’s court, quick with a witty retort, always a part of the gay whirl that Buckkeep society had been when I was very young. Now sight and clever fingers and agile body had all been taken from him. Darkness and pain were his companions.

‘After Prilkop’s benefactor bought me from my “owner”, at an insultingly low price I might add, we were fairly well treated. His new patron was not a noble but a fairly wealthy landowner. It was only by the greatest of good fortune that the man was well-versed in the lore of the White Prophets.’

He paused. He knew I had halted, intrigued by his words. I tried to calculate how much time had passed. It was difficult to tell in the perpetual twilight of the room. ‘I have to leave soon,’ I reminded him.

‘Do you truly?’ he asked, a mocking lilt in his voice.

‘I do.’

‘Very well.’

I turned.

‘For ten days, we rested and were well fed in his home. He arranged new garments for us, packed provisions, and then he himself drove the horse and cart to Clerres. It was a journey of nearly a month to get there. Sometimes we camped, and at other times we were able to stay at inns. Both Prilkop and I worried greatly at what the man was sacrificing of pocket and time to get us there, but he would always say he was honoured to do it. Our road led us through a mountain pass, nearly as frozen and cold as a Buckkeep winter, and then down, down we went. I began to recognize the scents of the trees and I knew the names of the wayside flowers from my boyhood. Clerres itself had grown a great deal since last I had seen it, and Prilkop was astounded that the place he remembered as the simple village of Clerres had grown to an edifice of walls and towers and gardens and gates.

‘Yet so it was. The school had prospered, and in turn the city had prospered, for there was a trade now in the searching of prophecies to give advice to merchants and would-be brides and builders of sailing ships. From far and near they came, to pay a fee in the hope of getting an audience with the Head Servant, and then to tell their tale to him. And if he judged them worthy, they could buy a licence for a day or three or twenty, and cross the causeway to the White Island. There, one of the acolyte Servants would be put to researching the prophecies to see if any pertained to that particular venture or wedding or voyage.

‘But I am getting ahead of myself.’

I clenched my teeth and then let him win. ‘Actually, you’ve gone backward in your telling, as you well know. Fool, I desperately want to hear this story, but I must not be late to my audience.’

‘As you wish.’

I had taken four steps when he added, ‘I only hope I am not too weary later to tell you the rest.’

‘Fool! Why are you being like this?’

‘Do you really want to know?’ The old lilt of mockery was back in his voice.

‘Yes.’

He spoke more softly and soberly than he had before. ‘Because I know it makes you feel better when I mock you.’

I turned to look back at him, denial on my lips. But some trick of the firelight showed him to me as he was. Not at all like my friend of old. He looked like a badly-carved puppet of himself, something as battered and ragged as a beloved old toy. The light touched the scars on his face, the grey-painted eyes and straw-thatch of hair on his skull. I couldn’t utter a word.

‘Fitz, we both know I teeter on a knife’s edge. It’s not if I will fall, but when. You are keeping me balanced there and alive. But when it happens, as I fear it must, it will not be your fault. Nor mine. Neither of us could have steered this fate.’

‘I’ll stay if you want me to.’ I threw aside all thoughts of courtesy to Kettricken and duty to Chade. Kettricken would understand, and Chade would have to live with it.

‘No. No, thank you. Suddenly I am feeling ready to sleep.’

‘I’ll be back as soon as I can,’ I promised him.

His eyes had closed, and perhaps he already slept. I left quietly.

SIX
The Witted

When Regal the Pretender retreated to the inland duchies, the coastal duchies were left rudderless. Strong as the dukes of Bearns, Shoaks and Rippon were, they were each too engrossed in defending their own coasts to mount any meaningful unified response to the Red Ships. The titular Duke of Buck, a cousin to the Pretender Regal, was little more than a place-holding puppet, who could do nothing to rally the nobles.

It was at this time that Lady Patience, queen of the former King-in-Waiting Chivalry, rose to prominence. What began with the selling of her jewels to keep the warships of Buck manned and active soon consumed almost all of her personal fortune as she worked to keep up the spirits of her farmers and miners as well as rallying the lesser nobility to organize their own forces to repel the invaders.

This was the situation to which Queen Kettricken returned. Pregnant with the Farseer heir, she and her minstrel, Starling Birdsong, were transported from the Elderling lands to the battlements of Buckkeep Castle, flown there by an immense dragon. King Verity escorted her to the safety of the castle before rejoining his dragon mount. With the other Elderling warriors astride their dragon steeds, he took to the air to resume the great battle he had begun against the Red Ships. Few were present to witness the king’s return to Buckkeep, and had his queen not been there to assert to the truth of his presence with the minstrel Starling Birdsong to swear truth to it, her sudden appearance would have seemed almost magical. The sparkling dragons that filled the sky had been a terrifying sight to the defenders of Buck until the queen revealed that they were no danger to the folk of Buck, but instead were at the command of their rightful king, and had come to defend them.

On that day, before nightfall, all the Red Ships were driven from the shores of Buck. The legions of dragons swiftly spread out, securing the entire coastline of the Six Duchies before the moon had waxed twice full again. Many a shoreline defender and doughty sailor can attest to how the dragons would appear as distant sparkling lights in the sky, that grew larger and larger until their power and majesty sent the raiders fleeing.

Against this backdrop, the Mountain princess turned Six Duchies queen returned to accept her crown. Lady Patience remained at her side for the remaining months of the war, advising her and putting the reins of power securely into her hands. With the birth of the heir, the succession was secured.

A Brief History of the Monarchs of the Six Duchies

I descended, shut the door, peeked out through my shuttered window and was horrified. Truly the morning had fled while I was with the Fool. I was still in my nightshirt, unwashed, unshaven, and possibly already late for my audience with Kettricken. To add to my annoyance, Ash had visited my rooms again. The fire was freshly stirred and a new outfit for Lord Feldspar had been draped on the chair. His rescued brown wig had been transferred to a fresh hat and carefully brushed. Well, growing up the son of a courtesan had at least taught Ash some useful valet skills. I knew I had latched my door. I wondered if Chade had given him a key or if he had slipped the lock. It wasn’t an easy lock to jigger. I tried not to let that question distract me as I quickly washed, shaved, staunched the bleeding from my hasty blade, and dressed in the fresh garments.

One of the scabbed wounds on my back had broken open as I took off my nightshirt. I put on Lord Feldspar’s long-sleeved tunic and a gaudy vest over it and hoped the stripes of bright colour were in honour of Winterfest. I dreaded the idea that the imaginary lord dressed this way every day. The leggings were moderately comfortable, and the vest admirably concealed no less than six tiny pockets of various nasty things. Settling the wig and the ridiculously tiny hat pinned to it consumed more minutes than I liked, and yet I knew it was the one piece that must be done perfectly. I pinched and scratched at my nose until it was the appropriate shade of red. Soot from the fire with a few drops of water made my brows heavier. The heeled shoes with the silly toes slipped onto my stockinged feet and the moment I stood up one of my feet cramped abominably. I kicked the shoes off and stamped around the room until it passed. Then, muttering curses on Chade, I put them back on and left my room, locking the door behind me.

My foot cramped again twice before I reached the bottom of the stairs, and it was all I could do to keep my steps steady and betray no sign of how badly I wanted to hop and stamp. Kettricken’s audience chamber had once served Queen Desire as a private parlour for herself and her ladies. This I knew only because I had been told of it; that woman had never tolerated me within her sight, let alone within her private chambers. I dismissed the last clinging shreds of childhood dread as I approached the tall oak doors. They were closed. Outside on several benches perched those hopeful of currying influence with the king by bestowing their attentions and gifts upon his mother. I took my place at the end of a lavishly cushioned bench and waited. Eventually, the door opened, a young noblewoman was ushered out and a rather bored page in white-and-purple livery approached the next aspirant and ushered him in. When the page returned, I made myself known to her and resumed my wait on the bench.

I had rather expected that I would not have to wait in line, but Kettricken was true to her Mountain roots. Each petitioner was invited in turn and allotted time with Lady Kettricken, and then was ushered out. I sat and waited, with my foot spasming inside the evil shoe and a pleasant and hopeful expression on my face. When finally the page beckoned to me, I rose and managed to follow her into the room without limping. As the tall doors closed behind me, I allowed myself a smile. There was a cosy hearth, several comfortable chairs, and a low table with cushions around it. A collection of curious or beautiful objects from every one of the Six Duchies was displayed on various tables about the room. Some might have seen it as a blatant display of wealth, but I divined the truth of it. Kettricken had never had any great use for possessions. These gifts, these tokens of esteem from the lords and ladies of the Six Duchies and from foreign lands and emissaries must not be discarded. And so she kept them here, in a casual and cluttered display that ran counter to her austere Mountain upbringing. I let my eyes wander over them briefly before making my obeisance to Kettricken.

‘Courage, you may go. Let the kitchen know my guests and I are ready for our refreshment. Please let Witmaster Web also know that I am ready to see him at his earliest convenience.’

I remained standing until the little page had left the room, and was grateful when Kettricken wearily gestured me to a seat. She pursed her lips as she regarded me and then asked, ‘Is this mummery yours, Fitz, or another puppet show from Chade?’

‘Lord Chade facilitated it, but I agreed that it was the prudent thing to do. As Lord Feldspar I am able to move about Buckkeep Castle as your guest for Winterfest without exciting comment.’

‘After all these years, I should be resigned to the need for such deceptions. But they only make me long for simple truth. One day, FitzChivalry Farseer, I would like you to stand before the court and be acknowledged as yourself and given credit for your many years of service to the crown. One day you should take your rightful place at Dutiful’s side, and be openly recognized as his mentor and protector.’

‘Oh, please don’t threaten me with that,’ I begged her, and she smiled tolerantly and drew her chair a bit closer to mine.

‘Very well, then. But what of your daughter. What of clever little Bee?’

‘Clever little Bee.’ I repeated her words. They numbed my mouth.

‘So I have heard, in the missives Lant has sent Nettle. She received one just two days ago. She was quite relieved to hear her sister was doing so well at her lessons. Indeed, that in some areas, such as her reading and writing, she scarcely needs his instructions.’

‘I think she is a bright child,’ I conceded. Then, disloyally, I added, ‘But I am sure that all fathers think their daughters are clever.’

‘Well. Some fathers do. I hope you are one of them. Nettle was startled that her sister was developing very differently from how she had feared. When the news reached me, I was very pleased. And intrigued. I had feared the child would not survive, let alone prosper. But my intent is that we will send for her, and then I can see for myself.’ She folded her hands and rested her chin on her fingers. She waited.

‘Perhaps the next time I come to Buckkeep, I will bring her with me,’ I offered. I hoped my desperation did not sound in my voice. Bee was too little, too different to be brought to court. How much did I dare tell Kettricken?

‘Then you do not intend to stay long with us?’

‘Only until the Fool is hearty enough to endure a Skill-healing.’

‘And you think that will be so soon that your little daughter will not miss you?’

Oh, Kettricken. I did not meet her eyes. ‘Probably later rather than sooner,’ I admitted reluctantly.

‘Then we should send for her now.’

‘Travelling conditions are so harsh now …’

‘There is that. But in a comfortable carriage, accompanied by my personal guard, she might do well. Even through the storms. I am sure they will manage to find respectable inns every night.’

‘You’ve given this a lot of thought.’

The look she gave me implied her plan was immutable. ‘I have,’ she said, and with that settled, she changed the topic. ‘How fares Lord Golden?’

I started to shake my head and then shrugged instead. She had made her plans for Bee, but I would let her distract me while I planned my own campaign. ‘Better than he was, in some ways. Warm, clean, fed, and some of his lesser injuries have begun to heal. But he is still closer to death’s door than to the gates of health.’

For a moment, her years showed on her face. ‘I could scarcely believe it was him. If you had not been there to vouch for it, I would never have suspected it. Fitz, what happened to him? Who did this?’

I wondered if the Fool would want his tale shared. ‘I am still drawing the full tale out of him.’

‘When last I saw him, years ago, he said he would return to the place where he was taught.’

‘And he did.’

‘And they turned on him.’

Kettricken could still take me by surprise with her leaps of intuition. ‘So I believe. Lady Kettricken, I am sure you recall how private a man the Fool was.’

‘And is. I know what you will next suggest, that I visit him myself. And I shall. In truth, I have already called on him twice, and each time found him sleeping. But my visits would be much easier for me if you and Lord Chade had not squirreled him away into your old den. I’m a bit old to be stooping and scuttling through narrow hideaways. Surely he would be better off in a chamber that offered him light and air.’

‘He is fearful of pursuit, even within the stout walls of Buckkeep. I think he will sleep best where he is right now. And as for light, well, it means little to him now.’

She shuddered as if my words were arrows that had struck her. She turned her face away, as if to hide from me the tears that filled her eyes. ‘That grieves me beyond words,’ she choked out.

‘And I.’

‘Is there any hope that with the Skill …?’

The very question I still pondered. ‘I do not know. He is very weak still. I do not wish to restore his sight if it takes the last of his strength and he dies of it. We will have to be very cautious. We have made some small progress already, and as he eats and rests and gains strength, we will do more.’

She nodded violently to that. ‘Please. But, oh, Fitz, why? Why would anyone treat him so?’

‘They thought he knew something, and was keeping it from them.’

‘What?’

I hesitated.

She turned back to face me. Weeping seldom makes a lady lovelier. Her nose had reddened and the rims of her eyes had gone pink. She no longer tried to disguise the tears running down her face. Her voice was harsh. ‘I deserve to know, Fitz. Do not play Chade with me. What secret could possibly be worth resisting what they did to him?’

I looked at my feet, ashamed. She did deserve to know. ‘He knew no secret. He had no knowledge to give them. They demanded to know where his son was. To me he has said that he has no knowledge of any such son.’

‘A son.’ A strange look came over her face, as if she could not decide whether to laugh or weep. ‘So. Are you finally giving a definite answer to the question Starling put to him so many years ago? He is, then, a man?’

I took breath, paused, and then replied, ‘Kettricken, he is what he is. A very private person.’

She cocked her head at me. ‘Well, if the Fool had given birth to a son, I think he would remember that. So that leaves him only the male role.’

I started to say that not every child was fathered in the same way. The thought of how King Verity had borrowed my body to lie with her, leaving me for a night in his old man’s skin, swept through my mind like a storm. I folded my lips on my words and looked aside from her.

‘I will visit him,’ she said quietly.

I nodded, relieved. There was a tap at her door. ‘I should go now, so you may meet your next supplicant.’

‘No, you should stay. The next visitor concerns you.’

I was not entirely surprised when a page ushered Web into the room. He halted inside the door while two serving girls entered with trays of refreshments. They arranged everything on a low table while we all looked at one another. Web scowled briefly at my disguise, and I saw him reorder his impression of the man he had glimpsed last night. It was not the first time he had witnessed me assume a different character. As he evaluated me in my new guise, I studied him as well.

Web had changed since last we had spoken. For a number of years following the death of his Wit-bird Risk, he had not re-partnered. That loss had wrought a change in him. When I had lost my wolf, I felt as if half my soul had gone missing, as if there was too much empty space in both my mind and my body. For a time, I had seen that same emptiness in Web when he and Nettle’s brother Swift would visit Molly and me at Withywoods. His eyes had lost their bird-brightness, and he had walked as if he were anchored to the earth. He had seemed to age decades in a matter of months.

Today he walked with his shoulders squared, and his gaze darted quickly around the room, taking in every detail. The difference was a good one, as if he had rediscovered youth. I found myself smiling at him. ‘Who is she?’ I greeted him.

Web’s eyes met mine. ‘He. Not she. A young kestrel named Soar.’

‘A kestrel. A bird of prey. That must be different for you.’

Web smiled and shook his head, his expression as fond as if he spoke of a child when he said, ‘We both have so much to learn of one another. We have been together less than four months. It is a new life for me, Fitz. His eyesight! Oh, and his appetite and his fierce joy in the hunt.’ He laughed aloud and seemed almost breathless. There was more grey in his hair and deeper lines in his face, but his laugh was a boy’s.

I felt a moment of envy. I recalled the headiness of the first days with a new partner. As a child, I had joined myself to Nosy without the least hesitation, and experienced a summer with the full senses of a young hound amplifying my own. He had been taken from me. Then there had been Smithy, the dog I had bonded to in complete defiance of Burrich and common sense. Lost to me when he gave his life defending my friend. They had been companions to my heart. But it had been Nighteyes the wolf who had wrapped his soul around mine. Together we had hunted and together we had killed, both game and men. The Wit bonded us to all life. From him, I had learned to master both the exhilaration of the hunt and the shared pain of the kill. Recalling that bond, my envy faded. No one could replace him. Could another woman ever be to me what Molly had been? Would I ever have a friend who knew me as the Fool did? No. Such bonds in a man’s life are unique. I found my tongue, ‘I’m happy for you, Web. You look a new man.’

‘I am. And I am as sad for you as you are glad for me. I wish you had a Wit-companion to sustain you in your loss.’

What to say to that? There were no words. ‘Thank you,’ I said quietly. ‘It has been hard.’

Kettricken had kept silent during our exchange but she watched me keenly. The Witmaster found a cushion and lowered himself to sit beside the table. He offered Kettricken a wide smile and then regarded the food with interest.

Kettricken smiled in return. ‘Please, let us not wait for formalities. Be at ease, my friends. It has given me great pleasure to watch Web recover his spirits. You should meet Soar, Fitz. I do not say that he might make you reconsider your decision to remain alone, but he has certainly given me reason to doubt my own un-partnered status.’ She gave a small shake of the head. ‘When I saw the pain you felt at Nighteyes’ passing, I thought I wanted none of that, ever. And again, when Web lost Risk, I told myself that I had been wise to refrain from sharing my heart with an animal, knowing eventually I must feel the tearing pain of departure.’ She lifted her eyes from watching Web pour tea for all of us and met my incredulous gaze. ‘But witnessing Web’s joy in Soar, I wonder. I have been alone so long. I grow no younger. Must this be a regret I take to my grave, that I did not understand fully the magic I possessed?’

She let her words trail away. When she turned to meet my gaze, there were echoes of hurt and anger in her eyes. ‘Yes. I am Witted. And you knew, Fitz. Didn’t you? Long before I suspected, you knew. And you knew the Wit that so endangered Dutiful when he was a boy came from me.’

I chose my words carefully. ‘My lady, I think it as likely that it came from his father as from you. And ultimately, it mattered little where it came from. Even now, to possess the Wit can bring—’

‘It mattered to me,’ she said in a low voice. ‘And it matters still. What I felt between Nighteyes and me was not imaginary. If I had known that during our sojourn in the Mountains, I would have let him know what that support meant to me.’

‘He knew,’ I said, recklessly interrupting her. ‘He knew, never fear.’

I saw her take a breath, her breast rising and falling with the emotion she contained. Her Mountain training was all that kept her from berating me. Instead, she said quietly, ‘Sometimes thanking someone is more important to the person giving the thanks than the one who receives it.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Words I was heartily sick of saying. ‘But there was so much else we were struggling with. I had only the barest understanding of the Wit then and even my grasp of what the Skill could be was tenuous. If I had told you that I suspected you were Witted, then what? I certainly could not have taught you how to manage a magic that I did not myself control well.’

‘I understand that,’ she said. ‘But nonetheless I think my life has been less fulfilling than it might have been.’ In a lower voice she added, ‘And much lonelier.’

I had no response. It was true. I had known of the loneliness that devoured her once King Verity was transformed into a stone dragon and taken from her forever. Could an animal companion have helped her to bear that? Probably. Yet it had never occurred to me to tell her that I had sensed a feeble pulsing of the Wit in her. I had always believed it so slight that it did not matter. Unlike myself, where the Wit had demanded from my earliest childhood that I find a soul to share my life. I moved slowly across the room and sat down at the low table. Kettricken came to take her place. She spoke to me in a calmer voice as she picked up her cup. ‘Web tells me that it is not too late. But also not a thing for me to rush into.’

I nodded and sipped from my own cup. Was this discussion why she had summoned me? I could not imagine where it was leading.

Web looked up at Kettricken. ‘The bond must be mutually beneficial,’ he said. He darted a glance at me as he continued, ‘Kettricken’s duties often confine her to the castle. Were she to bond with a large animal, or a wild creature, it would limit their time together. So I have suggested to her that she consider beasts that would be comfortable sharing her lifestyle. Cats. Dogs.’

‘Ferrets. Parrots,’ I pointed out, relieved to move the conversation to a different arena.

‘And that is why I’ve a favour to ask of you, Fitz,’ Web said abruptly.

Startled, I met his gaze.

‘I know you will say “no”, but I am pressed to ask you anyway. There is no one else who can help her.’

I looked at Kettricken in dismay, wondering what she needed.

‘No. Not Lady Kettricken,’ Web assured me.

My heart sank. ‘Then who is she and what does she need?’

‘She’s a crow. If you two come to an understanding, she’ll share her name with you.’

‘Web, I—’

He spoke over my objection. ‘She has been alone for about six months. She was sent to me, seeking my help. She was hatched with a defect. When she fledged out, several of her pinions in each wing were white. At an early age, she was driven out of her murder. Assaulted and badly injured by her own family, she was found by an elderly shepherd. He took her in and helped her heal. For eight years they were companions. Recently, he died. But before he died, he contacted me and then sent her on to me.’

He paused, waiting for the question he knew I would ask.

‘She left her Wit-partner?’ I was incredulous at such faithlessness.

Web shook his head. ‘No. The shepherd was not Witted. He was simply a man with a kind heart. And due in no small part to the efforts of the Farseer crown, he was able to reach out to the Old Blood community to find her a new home. No, don’t speak, let me finish my tale. Crows are social creatures. If she is forced to live a solitary life, she will go mad. Furthermore, with her striped wings, she cannot join other crows. They will turn on her for her differences. And finally, she does not seek a Wit-bond, only a human companion. For company and for her protection.’

Kettricken dropped words into my silence. ‘It seems the perfect fit to both of us.’

I drew breath to respond and then sighed it out silently. I knew why Web could not take her on. Nor could Lady Kettricken be seen with a crow upon her shoulder: battlefield scavenger and bird of ill omen, a crow companion would not do for her. I already knew I would not do it. I would find someone else, but for now, instead of outright refusing, I said, ‘I will think about it.’

‘You should,’ Web approved. ‘Even simple companionship with an animal is not a thing to take lightly. A crow can live a score of years, and it is not unheard of for one to reach thirty. Having met her, I judge you two would be well matched in temperament.’

Knowing what Web thought of my temperament, I was more convinced than ever that I wanted nothing to do with that bird. I would find her an appropriate companion. Perhaps Tallerman would not mind a crow in the stables at Withywoods. So I nodded without speaking.

They both took it as surrender. Kettricken poured more tea for us and the next hour passed with us speaking of old times. Web told, perhaps, too many stories of Soar, but Kettricken and I both understood. And from those stories, it was natural that the talk turned to Old Blood, and Kettricken’s feeble command of the Wit-magic and what it might mean to her. What it had meant to her she shared more fully now; she had reached out to my wolf and he had accepted that faint connection. His friendship had sustained her more than I had realized.

Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, Kettricken asked if Bee had either the Wit or the Skill. I cannot say why it was so unsettling for her to ask that question. Certainly I had few secrets left from either of them. Yet in some odd way, Bee felt like a secret, something private and precious that I did not want to share. I had to fight not to lie. I told them that, as far as I could determine, my little daughter possessed neither of those magics in any strength. At most, she could sense the Skill in Nettle and me, but I received no sense of it from her. Then I added that, as young as she was, it was hard to tell such a thing.

Web quirked an eyebrow. ‘Usually the Wit manifests young in children. She has shown no predilection for bonding with an animal? No intrinsic understanding of their ways?’

I shook my head. ‘But, to be honest, I’ve kept her away from such dangers. I know what it is to bond too young and without guidance.’

Web frowned. ‘So there are no animals in her life?’

I hesitated, trying to decide what answer he would like to hear. I pushed myself toward the truth. ‘She has been learning to ride her horse. At an early age, when we first tried to teach her, she seemed uncomfortable with such an idea. Frightened, even. But of late, she has made good progress. She does not dislike animals. She likes kittens. The shepherd’s dog likes her.’

Web was nodding slowly. He looked at Kettricken when he said, ‘When she arrives, I would like to speak with her. If she has inherited Old Blood from her father, then the sooner we all know, the better for her to master her magic.’

And Kettricken inclined her head gravely, as if the permission were hers to give. I felt a wave of misgiving but decided that, for now, I would say nothing. I made a note to myself that Web had known that Kettricken desired to bring Bee to Buckkeep before I did. With whom else had she discussed this? I needed to find what was behind her resolution. But discreetly. Boldly, I turned the conversation. ‘What of the princes? Has either Prosper or Integrity shown signs of the Wit or the Skill?’

Kettricken’s smooth brow furrowed. She took a breath and considered well her words before she replied, ‘We believe both princes have the Skill, their heritage magic as Farseers. But it does not seem that either one has a strong talent for it.’ She did something with her eyes as she met my gaze. It was not a wink or an eye roll toward Web, but only the slightest flicker of movement that let me know this was not a topic she wished to discuss before the Witmaster. So, my erstwhile queen had learned discretion and secrecy. Perhaps Buckkeep had changed her as much as she had changed it.

She turned the talk to other topics and I let her. Web was garrulous as ever, and astute at getting other people to talk. I tried to stay to safe topics; sheep and orchards and the repairs I’d been making to Withywoods but I am sure I told him far more about myself and my situation than I intended. The food was long gone and the last of the tea standing cold in our cups when Kettricken smiled at both of us and reminded us that others awaited her attention outside the audience chamber.

‘Please tell Lord Golden that I will come to call on him this evening. Late, I fear, for there will be yet more celebration of the dark’s turning and I must attend. But when I may, I will come to him, and hope that he does not mind too much if I wake him. If he prefers not, leave a note for me, to say he does not desire company.’

‘Boredom besieges him in his infirmity. I daresay he will welcome the company.’ I decided it for him. It would be good for him.

Web spoke. ‘And Fitz, when can I expect a visit from you? I’d like to introduce you to the crow. I will not say that her company is a burden to me, but Soar does not regard her with welcome …’

‘I understand. I will come tomorrow morning, if Lord Chade does not give me any other errands. I may have to spend my day in Buckkeep Town.’ I rebuked myself for being reluctant to help him. I would go. I was confident that the crow would find me an unsuitable partner.

Web smiled at me. ‘Excellent. I’ve told her a great deal about you and shared Wit-knowledge of you. Within a day or so, I must be on my way. So she may find you before then. She’s eager to meet you.’

‘And I as eager to meet her,’ I replied politely. And with that I made my bows and left Lady Kettricken’s audience chamber wondering if Riddle had ever considered having a pet bird.

SEVEN
Secrets and a Crow

With the Red Ships at our doors and our noble King Shrewd failing in both body and mind

The young bastard saw his opportunity. He felled him. With magic and might of muscle,

He took from the duchies the king they needed. And from Prince Regal he stole

His father, his mentor, his rock of wisdom. The kindness bestowed on a bastard felled him.

And the Bastard laughed. In his murderous triumph, sword bared and bloody, he soiled with murder

The keep that had sheltered his worthless life. Cared he nothing for the great hearts

That had fostered him, fed him, clothed and protected him. He loved only bloodshed.

No loyalty did the Bastard cede to king or country.

Wounded in heart, sorrowing as a son, burdened with the concerns of a country at war,

The prince, now king, stepped forward to his tasks. His brothers dead or fled, to him fell

The heavy crown. To him fell the mourning, and to him, the protecting. The last son,

The loyal son, the brave prince became the king of the wracked and troubled land.

‘Vengeance first!’ weary King Regal cried. To his shelter flocked his dukes and nobles.

‘To the dungeons with the Bastard!’ they pleaded with one voice. And so King Regal

Did his duty. To cell and chains went the conniving Bastard, the Witted One, the Regicide.

To dark and cold he was sent, as befitted such a dark and cold heart.

‘Discover his magic,’ the king bade his loyal men. And so they tried. With questions and fists,

Clubs and iron, with cold and dark, they broke the traitor. They found no nobility, no cleverness,

Only wolf-greed and dog-selfishness. And so he died, the Traitor, the Witted One, the Bastard.

Of no use to anyone but himself had his life been. His death freed us from his shame.

King Regal’s Burden – a song by Celsu Cleverhands, a Farrow minstrel

I tottered back to my room, silently cursing my painful shoes. I needed to sleep. Then I would check on the Fool, and after that, I thought with a sigh, I would once more assume my role as Lord Feldspar. There would be feasting, dancing, and music again tonight. My mind wandered to Bee, and I felt that sudden gulf of guilt. Revel, I told myself sternly. He would see that Winterfest was well kept at Withywoods. And surely Shun would not allow the holiday to go by without appropriate foods and festivity. I hoped only they would include my child. I wondered again how long I would be away from her. Was Kettricken wiser than I? Would it be best to send for her?

I was chewing my lip at that thought as I reached the top of the stairs. When I looked down the corridor and saw Riddle standing outside my door, my heart lifted as it does when one sees an old friend. Then as I drew closer it sank again, for his face was solemn and his eyes opaque as when a man hides his feelings. ‘Lord Feldspar,’ he greeted me gravely. He bowed, and I took care that the bow I gave him was little more than a nod. Further down the hallway, two servants were replenishing the corridor lamps.

‘What brings you to my door, good man?’ I took care that my words held the right amount of disdain for a messenger.

‘I bring you an invitation, Lord Feldspar. May I step within your chambers and recite it for you?’

‘Of course. A moment.’ I patted about in my garments, found my key and, opening the door, I preceded him into the room.

Riddle shut the door firmly behind us. I removed the wig and hat gratefully, and turned to him, expecting to see my friend. But he still stood at the door as if he were no more than a messenger, his face both grave and still.

I said the words I hated most. ‘I’m so sorry, Riddle. I had no idea what I was doing to you. I thought I was giving the Fool my strength. I never intended to steal from you. Have you recovered? How do you feel?’

‘I’m not here about that.’ He spoke flatly. My heart sank.

‘Then what? Sit, please. Shall I summon someone to bring us food or drink?’ I asked. I tried to keep my words warm, but his manner warned me that his heart was sealed against me right now. I could not blame him.

He worked his mouth, took in a deep breath and then let it out. ‘First,’ he declared, in a voice almost hard despite its shaking, ‘this is not about you. You can be offended. You can offer to kill me, you’re welcome to try to kill me. But it’s not about you or your pride or your place at court, or who Nettle is or my common parentage.’ His words grew more rushed and impassioned as he spoke, and the colour rose higher in his face. Anger and pain sparked in his eyes.

‘Riddle, I—’

‘Just be quiet! Just listen.’ He took another breath. ‘Nettle is pregnant. I will not let her be shamed. I will not let our child be shamed. Say what you will, do what you will, she is my wife and I will not let our joy be dirtied with politics and secrets.’

I was the one who sat down. Luckily, the bed was behind me when I did so. If he had driven the air out of me with a blow to my belly, the impact could not have been stronger. Words rattled in my head. Pregnant. Shamed. Wife. Dirtied. Secrets.

A baby.

I found my voice. ‘I’m going to—’

Riddle crossed his arms on his chest. His nostrils flared and he exclaimed defiantly, ‘I don’t care what you do. Understand that. Do whatever you wish, but it won’t change anything.’

‘—be a grandfather.’ I choked on the word. Incredulity melted his face and he stared. It gave me the moment I needed to organize my thoughts. Words tumbled from my lips. ‘I have money saved. You can have it all. You must leave soon, before travel is too difficult for her. And I think you must flee the Six Duchies entirely. She is the Skillmistress; she is too well known for you to …’

‘We are not leaving!’ Anger tightened his slack face. ‘We refuse. We were lawfully wed—’

Impossible. ‘The king forbade it.’

‘The king can forbid whatever he likes, but if a man and a woman make their vows before the Witness Stones, with at least two witnesses—’

‘Only if one is a minstrel!’ I interrupted him. ‘And the witness must know both parties.’

‘I wager the Queen of the Six Duchies knows us both,’ he said quietly.

‘Kettricken? I thought Kettricken was a party to forbidding the marriage.’

‘Kettricken is not the queen of the Six Duchies. Elliania is. And she comes from a place where a woman can marry whoever she wishes.’

It all fitted together as tightly as the blocks that make up an arch. Almost. ‘But your other witness had to be a minstrel …’ My words trickled away. I knew who their minstrel had been.

‘Hap Gladheart.’ Riddle confirmed it quietly. A smile almost twisted his face. ‘Perhaps you’ve heard of him?’

My fostered son. He’d been delighted to call Nettle ‘sister’. I found I had clamped both hands over my mouth. I tried to think. So. Married. In public and yet in secret. Yes, Elliania would do it, and possibly not realize that in flaunting her husband’s authority she was doing far more than simply asserting her belief that a woman should have complete control over who she wed. Or didn’t wed, and merely slept with.

I let my hands fall away from my mouth. Riddle still stood as if he expected me to leap to my feet and pummel him. I tried to recall if I’d even felt that impulse. I hadn’t. No anger: that was drowned in dread.

‘The king will never accept this. Nor Kettricken, nor Chade. Oh, Riddle. What were the two of you thinking?’ Joy warred with tragedy in my voice. A child, a child that I knew Nettle wanted. A child that would change their lives completely. My grandchild. And Molly’s.

‘Babies happen. For years, we have been cautious. And lucky, I suppose. And then we were neither. And when Nettle realized she was pregnant, she told me she intended to be happy about it. No matter what she must do.’ His voice changed and suddenly my friend spoke to me. ‘Fitz. We are neither of us youngsters. This may be our only chance for a child.’

No matter what she must do. I could almost hear Nettle’s voice saying those words. I took a deep breath and tried to re-order my thoughts. So. This was something done. They were wed, they were going to have a baby. Useless to advise them against having a baby, useless to remonstrate with them over defying the king. Begin now, where they are.

In danger. Foolishly defiant.

‘What does she plan to do? Go to the king, tell him she is both married and pregnant?’

Riddle’s dark eyes met mine and I saw something like pity there. ‘She shared her news with Queen Elliania only. Only we four know that Nettle is with child. And only five people know that we are truly wed. Not even to her brothers has she confided the news. But she told Elliania. And the queen is ecstatic. And full of plans for the child. She did some sort of needle-dangling magic over Nettle’s palm, and she is certain our child will be a girl. Finally, a daughter born to the Farseer’s mothershouse. And hence a future narcheska.’

‘I’m confused,’ I said after a silence.

‘As well you should be. As I was when they first told me. First, you must understand how close Nettle and Queen Elliania have become over the years. They are nearly of an age. Both felt like outsiders when first they came to Buckkeep Castle court: Elliania an OutIslander, and Nettle a simple country girl made a lady. When Elliania realized that Nettle was her husband’s cousin, she claimed her as kin.’

‘Her husband’s second cousin?’

Riddle shook his head. ‘A member of her new mothershouse.’ At my puzzled expression, he added, ‘You have to think of it from Elliania’s perspective. In the OutIslander culture, the mother’s lineage is what matters. It was terribly hard for Elliania to leave her mothershouse and come here to be the Farseer queen. If she had stayed in her own land, she would have become the narcheska of her mothershouse. Equivalent to a queen. She bartered that away to save her mother and her little sister Kossi. And to finally ensure peace between the Six Duchies and the OutIslands. That she and Dutiful came to love one another was simply the kindness of fate.

‘You know how Elliania has grieved that she has borne only two sons. Her grief at her failure to provide a daughter to send back to the OutIslands and reign after her mother as narcheska consumes her.’

‘What of Kossi? Surely her younger sister would be next in line for that title?’

Riddle shook his head. ‘No. We saved Kossi’s life, but her health never recovered. She was nearly two years in the Pale Woman’s captivity. Two years of starvation, cold and mistreatment. She is a brittle woman, frail as dried twigs. And she has shown a marked dislike for the company of men. She will bear no children.’

‘I recall she had a girl cousin …’

‘Disliked by both Elliania and her mother. One of the reasons for her desperate desire to present a girl to her mothershouse.’

‘But Nettle’s child is no kin to Elliania at all!’

‘She is if Elliania says she is. There is a saying there. “Every mother knows her own child.” Thus, when Elliania draws up genealogies, you are Patience’s son.’

I was hopelessly befuddled. ‘What does that have to do with it?’

He smiled. ‘You Farseers are an inbred lot. And yet pitiable by OutIslander standards. Generations without a female child. It left Elliania wondering if there were any true descendants of the original Farseer Mothershouse. In her desperate quest for a female of true lineage, she had the most doddering of the minstrels singing themselves hoarse with genealogies. Do you know who Queen Adamant is?’

‘No.’

‘The first Farseer to stake a claim on the cliffs of Buck was Taker. He himself was an OutIslander, and is seen as something of a rogue there, for he forsook his own mothershouse to establish a new one here. He took a wife from among the people he conquered. Her name was Adamant. We now call her Queen Adamant. The first of the Farseer’s mothershouse.’

‘Very well.’ I didn’t see where any of this was going.

‘Patience and Chivalry were very distant cousins, according to Elliania. Both descended by wandering lineage from Adamant. She of the “copper-gleaming hair and violet eyes”, according to one very old ballad. Hence you are doubly descended from that mothershouse. That makes Nettle the rightful “narcheska” of the Farseer line. The mothershouse that Elliania joined. Her kin. And hence a possible source of an heir for Elliania.

‘The thought that there have been generations with no female offspring to refresh the line troubles her. And at the same time, it has comforted her. She now feels the fault is with the Farseer males, who cannot seem to seed girls in their wives’ wombs. For years, she tormented herself that it was her own failing that she had borne only two males. She has known for years about Nettle’s true parentage and sees her opportunity to raise Nettle’s child as a narcheska as righting a great wrong done to Nettle. After a dearth of females, Nettle was born, finally, a true daughter of the Farseer Mothershouse. But instead of being celebrated, she was hidden in the shadows. Concealed from the royal court. Her parentage denied. And only brought to Buckkeep when she became useful to the Farseers.’

I was silent. I could not deny the truth of his words. It stung badly to hear them uttered by her husband and my friend. I had believed I was protecting her. As I was protecting Bee by keeping her away from Buckkeep? There was an uncomfortable thought. I tried to justify myself.

‘Nettle is the bastard daughter of a bastard son of an abdicated prince, Riddle.’

A flash of anger. ‘Here, perhaps. But in the OutIslands our child might well be seen as a princess of their line.’

‘You and Nettle would do that? Leave Buckkeep and the court and go to the OutIslands?’

‘To save my daughter being seen as a shame and a bastard? Yes. I would.’

I found I was nodding in agreement. ‘And if the child is a boy?’

He heaved a sigh. ‘That will be a different battle, on a different day. Fitz. We were friends before I fell in love with your daughter. I’ve felt guilty that I did not come to you before this. That I did not reveal our marriage to you.’

I didn’t hesitate. I’d had too much time in the last few days to remember all sorts of decisions that had been taken out of my hands. ‘I’m not angry, Riddle.’ I stood and held out my hand. We clasped wrists and then he embraced me. I spoke by his ear. ‘I thought you had come here in fury over what I did to you as we passed through the Skill-pillars.’

He stepped back from me. ‘Oh, I’ll leave that to Nettle. If she hasn’t blasted the skin from your flesh with her words yet, then you’ve that to look forward to. I don’t know what will come of this, Fitz, but I wanted you to know that I’ve done my best to be honourable.’

‘I can see that. As you always have. Riddle. No matter what comes of this, I will take your side and Nettle’s.’

He gave a tight nod, then heaved a heavy sigh and went over to sit on the chair I had offered him earlier. He clasped his hands and looked down on them.

‘There’s more, and it’s bad news,’ I guessed.

‘Bee.’ He said her name, took a deep breath and then sat, wordless.

I sank back down onto the bed. ‘I remember what you said at the tavern, Riddle.’

He looked up at me suddenly. The muscles in his face were tight. ‘And the situation hasn’t changed, Fitz. Nor the outcome. Nettle said she would talk to you, that this wasn’t my burden. But it is. Even if I were not married to your daughter, as your friend it would still be my duty. Fitz, you have to give her up. You have to bring her here, to Buckkeep, where she can be properly supervised and educated. You know that. You do.’

Did I? I clenched my teeth to hold back my angry response. I thought back over the last month. How many times had I resolved to do better with Bee? And failed. How many times had I set her aside to deal with disasters and mayhem? I’d involved my nine-year-old daughter in disposing of a body and concealing a murder – even if she didn’t know I’d killed the messenger. For the first time I thought of the potential danger to my child, if, indeed, there were pursuers still searching for the messenger. Or assassins seeking Shun and FitzVigilant. Chade had put those two with me for safekeeping, secure in his belief that I would protect them. I’d given no thought to that at all when I’d left everyone to bring the Fool to Buckkeep. No consideration that Bee might be in danger from assassins seeking their targets in my home. That last attempt on Shun’s life had been a poisoning. The assassin had killed a kitchen boy instead of Shun. A sloppy job. And what if his next attempt was just as sloppy? Winterfest would open the doors of Withywoods to all sorts of folk. What if the assassin poisoned more than a single dish in his next try for Shun?

Why hadn’t I seen this before?

‘I’ve lost my edge,’ I said quietly. ‘I’m not protecting her.’

Riddle looked puzzled. ‘I’m talking about your being a father, Fitz, not her guardsman. I think you’re more than capable of protecting her life. But someone has to make sure she has that life, for you to protect. Give your daughter an education and the opportunities appropriate to her station. The manners, the dress, the social experiences. She is the daughter of Lady Molly, as well as the child of Holder Badgerlock. It would be very appropriate for her to come to court and spend time with her sister.’

He was right. But, ‘I can’t give her up.’

Riddle stood, squared his shoulders and spoke firmly. ‘Then don’t. Come with her, Fitz. Find a new name and come back to Buckkeep. This is where Bee belongs. And where you belong. And you know that.’

I stared at the floor. He waited some time for me to speak, and when I did not, he said more softly, ‘I’m sorry, Fitz. But you do know that we’re right.’

He left quietly and as he shut the door behind him I wondered how difficult that had been for him. We’d known each other a long time. He had begun as a sort of spy for Chade and a bodyguard for when I needed someone to watch my back. He’d become a comrade and someone I’d trusted as we’d experienced terrible things. And then, somehow, he’d become the man who courted my daughter. Riddle would be the father of my grandchild. Strange. I’d trusted him with my life, more than once. I had no choice now in that he must be trusted with not just my daughter’s heart but the fate of the child they would have. I swallowed. And with Bee? Because I was failing her.

If I gave Bee to Riddle and Nettle, I could undertake the Fool’s vengeance.

That traitorous thought made me want to vomit.

I got up suddenly. I could not think about it at the moment. I tried so hard, but there was just not enough time or enough of me. And trying was not doing. ‘Oh, Molly,’ I said aloud and then clenched my jaws together. There had to be an answer, but I couldn’t see it. Not now.

Time to go check on the Fool. I went to the window and looked out. I felt as if it should be late afternoon bordering on evening. Too much had happened already today. Kettricken was Witted. She was interested in Bee. Web wanted me to adopt a crow. I was to be a grandfather, possibly the grandfather of a narcheska. And Riddle believed I was a failure as a father and wished to take my child from me. As I turned to head toward the stairs, Nettle tugged on my thoughts.

Riddle told me. No point in pretending I did not know. She would feel the current of concern in my thoughts.

I knew he would, though I wish he had left it to me. Something about manly honour. Did you shout at him? Tell him he had shamed me and therefore you?

Of course not! Her prickly sarcasm stung me. Need I remind you that I am a bastard and know what it is to be seen as my father’s shame?

Which is why you have always denied me entirely.

I … what? I never denied you. Had I? Uncertainty flavoured my thoughts. Memories flooded in. I had. Oh, yes, I had. Only to protect you, I amended. Times were harsher then. To be, not just the Bastard’s daughter, but the child of the Witted Bastard, possibly possessing that dirty magic … some folk would have seen fit to kill you.

So you let Burrich claim me.

He kept you safe.

He did. Her words were relentless. And it kept you safe, when you chose to pretend you were dead. It kept the Farseer reputation safe, too. No inconvenient bastards to muddle the line of succession. Safe. As if ‘safe’ were more important than anything else.

I hemmed my thoughts tightly from her. I was not sure what she was trying to tell me, but I was certain of one thing. I didn’t want to hear it.

Well, my child will know who her parents are! And she will know who her grandparents were! I will see to that, I will give her that, and no one will ever be able to take it away from her!

Nettle, I— But she was gone. I didn’t reach after her. There was another daughter I had failed. I’d let her grow up believing she was the daughter of another man. I’d let her mother and Burrich believe I was dead. I’d told myself, all those years, that I was keeping her safe. But she had felt denied. And abandoned.

I thought of my own father as I seldom did. I’d never even looked in his eyes. What had I felt, that he had abandoned me in Buckkeep to the care of his stablemaster? I stared at nothing. Why had I done the same to my elder daughter?

Bee. It wasn’t too late for me to be a good father to her. I knew where I should be right now, and if I used the Skill-pillar, I could be there before nightfall. It was a little dangerous, but hadn’t I risked more than that bringing the Fool through? It would be days before I dared risk any more healing on him. I should go home, gather Bee, and bring her back to Buckkeep with me. Not to give her up to Nettle, not for us to stay here, but to have her by me while I had to be here to tend the Fool. It made sense. It was what I should do.

The upper chamber was dark save for the reddish light from the fire. The Fool sat in the chair in front of it. I bit my tongue before I could ask him why he was sitting in the dark. He turned his face toward me as I approached. ‘There’s a message for you. On the table.’

‘Thank you.’

‘A young man brought it. I’m afraid that when he walked in, I was half-asleep. I screamed. I don’t know which of us was more terrified.’ His voice reached for a note of mockery, and failed.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, trying to rein in my wayward thoughts. There was no sense in sharing my anguish with him. There was nothing he could do to help me, except feel ashamed that he had pulled me away from my child.

I made myself focus on his string of anxious words.

‘And now I’m afraid to go back to sleep. I didn’t think of other people coming and going from here. I don’t know how it could have escaped me. I know they must. But I can’t stop thinking about them. What if they talk to others? People will know I’m hiding here. It won’t be safe.’

‘I’m going to light some candles,’ I told him. I did not say that I needed to see his face because I could not tell how serious he was. As I kindled the first one, I asked him, ‘How are you feeling? Better than yesterday?’

‘I can’t tell, Fitz. I can’t tell yesterday from early this morning. I can’t tell early this morning from midnight. It’s all the same for me, here in the dark. You come and you go. I have food, I shit, I sleep. And I’m frightened. I suppose that means that I’m better. I remember when all I could think about was how badly every part of my body hurt. And now the pain has subsided to where I can think about how scared I am.’

I lit a second candle from the first one and set them in the holders on the table.

‘You don’t know what to say,’ he observed.

‘I don’t,’ I admitted. I tried to set my own fears aside to deal with his. ‘I know you are safe here. But I also know that no matter how often I say that, it won’t change how you feel. Fool, what can I do? What would make you feel better?’

He turned his face away from me. After a long moment, he said, ‘You should read your message. The boy blurted out it was important before he ran away.’

I picked up the small scroll on the table. Chade’s spy-seal was on it. I broke the wax free and unrolled it.

‘Fitz. Do I look that frightful? When I sat up in my chair and screamed, the boy screamed, too. As if he’d seen a corpse rise from the grave and shriek at him.’

I set the scroll aside. ‘You look like a very ill man who was deliberately starved and tortured. And your colour is … odd. Not tawny, as you were in the days of Lord Golden, nor white as you were when you were King Shrewd’s jester. You are grey. It’s not a colour one would expect a living man to be.’

He was silent for so long that I turned my eyes back to the scroll. There was to be another festive gathering tonight, the final one of the Winterfest before our nobility once more dispersed to their own duchies. Queen Elliania urged everyone to attend and asked everyone to wear their best to celebrate turning toward the growing light. Chade suggested that perhaps Lord Feldspar should make a trip to town and purchase some finery for the occasion. He suggested a tailor’s shop, and by that I knew that the garments would have been ordered and rushed to be prepared for me.

‘You’re an honest man, Fitz.’ The Fool’s voice was dull.

I sighed. Had I been too honest? ‘What good would it serve for me to lie to you? Fool, you look terrible. It breaks my heart to see you this way. The only thing I can offer myself or you is that as you eat and rest and grow stronger, your health will improve. When you are stronger, I hope to use the Skill to urge your body to repair itself. That is the only comfort that either of us have. But it will take time. And demand our patience. Haste will not serve either of us.’

‘I don’t have time, Fitz. Rather, I do. I have time to get better or time to die. But somewhere, I am sure, there is a son who needs to be rescued before the Servants of the Whites find him. With every day, with every hour, I fear they have already secured him. And with every day and every hour, I am mindful of the continued captivity of a hundred souls in a faraway place. It may seem it has little to do with us and Buckkeep and the Six Duchies, but it does. The Servants use them with no more thought than we give to penning up a chicken, or wringing a rabbit’s neck. They breed them for their insights into the future, and they use those insights to make themselves omniscient. It bothers them not at all when a baby is born who will never walk or can barely see. As long as they are pale and have prescient dreams, that is all they care about. The power of the Servants reaches even to here, twisting and turning events, bending time and the world to their will. They have to be stopped, Fitz. We have to go back to Clerres and kill them. It must be done.’

I said what I knew was true. ‘One thing at a time, my friend. We can only attempt one thing at a time.’

He stared sightlessly at me as if I had said the cruellest thing in the world to him. Then his lower jaw trembled, he dropped his face into his broken hands and began to sob.

I felt sharp annoyance and then deep guilt that I’d felt it. He was in agony. I knew it. How could I feel annoyed at him when I knew exactly what he was experiencing? Hadn’t I felt that way myself? Had I forgotten the times when my experiences in Regal’s dungeons had washed over me like a wave, obliterating whatever was good and safe in my life and carrying me right back into that chaos and pain?

No. I tried to forget that, and in the last decade of years, for the most part I had. And my annoyance with the Fool was not annoyance but extreme uneasiness. ‘Please. Don’t make me remember that.’

I realized I’d said the betraying words out loud. His only response was to cry louder, in the hopeless way of a child who has no hope of comforting himself. This was misery that could not yield, for he sorrowed for a time he could not return to, and a self he would never again be.

‘Tears can’t undo it,’ I said and wondered why I uttered the useless words. I both wanted to hold him and feared to. Feared that it would alarm him to be touched and feared even more that it would draw me tighter into his misery and wake my own. But at last I took the three steps that carried me around the table. ‘Fool. You are safe here. I know you can’t believe it just yet, but it’s over. And you are safe.’ I stroked the broken hair on his head, rough as the coat of a sick dog, and then pulled him closer to cradle his head against my sternum. His clawlike hands came up and clutched my wrist and held himself tighter against me. I let him have his tears. They were the only things I could give him then. I thought of what I had wanted to tell him, that I had to leave him for a few days to get Bee.

I couldn’t. Not right now.

He was slow to quiet and even when his sobs ceased, the breath shuddered in and out of him. After a time, he patted my wrist tentatively and said, ‘I think I’m all right now.’

‘You aren’t. But you will be.’

‘Oh, Fitz,’ he said. He pulled away from me and sat up as straight as he could. He coughed, and cleared his throat. ‘What of your message? The lad said it was important.’

‘Oh, it is and it isn’t. The queen wishes us to be dressed in our finest for the last night of Winterfest revelry, and that means I must make a trip down to Buckkeep Town to secure some clothing.’ I scowled to myself as I reflected I would have to go as Lord Feldspar in his awful garb. But not in those shoes. Oh, no. I wasn’t walking on icy cobbles in those shoes.

‘Well. You’d best be on your way, then.’

‘I should,’ I agreed reluctantly. I didn’t want to leave him alone in his darkness. Yet I didn’t want to stay where his despondency could infect me. I had come up the stairs thinking that I could safely confide Nettle’s news to him. For a moment, I had seen him as my friend and counsellor of our youth. Now the news was ash on my tongue. Here was another Farseer he had not foreseen. His talk of deformed babies had chilled me; how could I tell him my first grandchild was expected? It might plunge him into yet another dark spiral. Worse would be to tell him I had to be gone for six to eight days. I could not leave him to fetch Bee. But I could agree to having her brought here. I would talk to Kettricken about it tomorrow. Together we would arrange it.

You do your duty to your friends. How often had Nighteyes sat beside me when I had sought to lose myself in futile Skilling attempts? How often had Hap staggered me back to the cabin and deliberately given me less than the amount of stunning drugs I commanded him to fetch for me? I did not even want to think of the weeks, and then months, Burrich had spent trying to help me make the transition back from wolf to human. My friends had not abandoned me, and I would not abandon the Fool.

But he could still abandon me. And he did. He levered himself up from the table. ‘You should go and do your errand, Fitz,’ he said. He turned and almost as if he were sighted walked back to the bed.

As he clambered into it and drew up the blankets I asked him, ‘Are you certain you want to be alone now?’

He did not reply. And after a time I realized he wasn’t going to. I felt unreasonably hurt at this. A dozen scathing comments went unsaid by me. He had no idea of what I had given up for him. Then the moment of anger passed and I was grateful I had not spoken. I never wanted him to know what I had sacrificed for him.

And there was nothing left for me to do but my duty. I went back down the stairs, freshened my appearance as Feldspar and defiantly put my own boots back on.

Winterfest might celebrate the lengthening of the days but it did not mean that we were on the road to spring. Yesterday’s clouds had snowed themselves to nothing. The sky overhead was as deep and pure a blue as a Buck lady’s skirts but more clouds clustered on the horizon. Frost coated the festive garlands that festooned the shopfronts. The packed snow on the street squeaked under my boots. The cold had subdued the holiday spirit, but scattered vendors of winter sweets and toys still shouted their wares to hasty passers-by. I passed a miserable donkey with icy whiskers, and a hot-chestnut vendor who could barely keep his brazier lit. He warmed his hands over his wares, and I bought a dozen just to carry them in my chilled fingers. Overhead, the gulls wheeled and screamed as they always did. Crows were noisily mobbing a tardy owl they had found. By the time I reached the street of the tailors, my drunkard’s nose was as red from the cold as Chade could ever have wished it. My cheeks were stiff and my lashes clung together briefly each time I blinked. I gathered my cloak more closely around myself and hoped that the new clothing that awaited me was not as foolish as what I was wearing.

I had just located the correct shop when I heard a voice call, ‘Tom! Tom! Tom!’

I remembered in time that I was Lord Feldspar. So I did not turn, but a boy on the street shouted to his friends, ‘Look, it’s a talking crow! He said “Tom”.’

That gave me the excuse to turn and look where the lad was pointing. Perched on a signboard across the street was a bedraggled crow. It looked at me and screamed shrilly, ‘Tom, Tom!’

Before I could react, another crow dived on it, pecking and flapping and cawing. In response to that attack, a dozen other birds appeared as if from nowhere to join in the mobbing. As the beleaguered bird took flight, I caught a glimpse of white pinions among her black ones. To my horror, one of the other crows struck her in mid-air. She tumbled in her flight and then in her desperation took refuge under the eaves of a nearby shop. Two of her attackers made passes, but could not reach her. The others settled down on nearby rooftops to wait. With the instincts of all bullies, they knew that eventually she would have to emerge.

Then, in the way of their kind, they would peck her to death for being different.

Oh, Web, what have you got me into? I could not, could not, take in another orphan. She would have to fend for herself. That was all. I would have to hope that she would make her way back to him. I wished he had not sent her in search of me. I hardened my heart and went into the tailor’s shop.

My new accoutrements were a very short blue cape with a trim of snowflake lace in layers on it. I wondered if the tailor had jumbled Chade’s order with one for a lady, but the tailor and her husband gathered around me to try it on and make some adjustments to the ties. They then brought out the matching cuffs for my wrists and ankles. The tailor made a mouth at the sight of my distinctly unfashionable boots but agreed that they were probably more suitable for the snow. I promised her that the lace cuffs would be worn with my most fashionable bell-toed shoes, and she appeared mollified. The lad that had delivered the order had paid them in advance, so all I had to do was accept the package and be on my way.

As I came out of the shop, the light of the short winter afternoon was starting to leak away. Cold was settling on the town, and the traffic in the streets had thinned. I did not look toward the crow hunched under the eaves nor at her gathered tormentors. I turned my steps toward Buckkeep. ‘Tom! Tom!’ she cried after me, but I kept walking.

Then, ‘Fitz! Fitz!’ she cawed shrilly. Despite myself, my steps faltered. I kept my eyes on the path before me as I saw others turning to stare at the crow. I heard the frantic beating of wings and then heard her shriek, ‘Fitz—Chivalry! Fitz—Chivalry!’

Beside me, a thin woman clasped her knotted hands to her breast. ‘He’s come back!’ she cried. ‘As a crow!’ To that, I had to turn, lest others mark how I ignored this sensation.

‘Ar, it’s just some fellow’s tamed crow,’ a man declared disdainfully. We all turned our eyes skyward. The hapless bird was flying up as high as she could, with the mob in pursuit.

‘I heard you split a crow’s tongue, you can teach it to talk,’ the chestnut vendor volunteered.

‘Fitz—Chivalry!’ she shrieked again as a larger crow struck her. She lost her momentum and tumbled in the air, caught herself, and flapped bravely, but she had fallen to a level below the murder of crows and now they all mobbed her. In twos and threes they dived on her, striking her, tearing out feathers that floated in the still air. She fought the air to try to stay aloft, helpless to protect herself from the birds that were mobbing her.

‘It’s an omen!’ someone shouted.

‘It’s FitzChivalry in beast form!’ a woman cried out. ‘The Witted Bastard has returned!’

And in that instant, terror swept through me. Had I thought I recalled earlier what the Fool was enduring? No. I had forgotten the icy flood of certainty that every hand was against me, that the good people of Buck dressed in their holiday finery would tear me apart with their bare hands, just as the flock of crows was tearing that lone bird apart. I felt sick with fear, in my legs and in my belly. I began to walk away and at every step I thought they must see how my legs quivered, how white my face had gone. I gripped my package with both hands and tried to walk on as if I were the only one uninterested in the aerial battle overhead.

‘He’s falling!’ someone shouted, and I had to halt and look up.

But she wasn’t falling. She’d tucked her wings as if she were a hawk and was diving. Diving straight at me.

An instant to see that, and then she had hit me. ‘I’ll help you, sir!’ the chestnut vendor shouted and started toward me, his tongs raised to strike the flapping bird tangled in my cloak. I hunched my shoulders and turned to take the blow for her as I wrapped her in the fabric.

Be still. You’re dead! It was the Wit I used to speak to her, with no idea if she would hear my thoughts. She had become still as soon as I covered her and I thought it likely she actually was dead. What would Web say to me? Then I saw my foolish hat and flopping wig lying in the street before me. I snatched it up and under the guise of catching my parcel to my chest I held the crow firm as well. I whirled on the well-meaning chestnut vendor. ‘What do you mean by assaulting me?’ I shouted at him as I jammed hat and wig back onto my head. ‘How dare you humiliate me like this!’

‘Sir, I meant no ill!’ the vendor cried, falling back from me. ‘That crow—!’

‘Really? Then why did you charge at me and nearly knock me to the ground, if not to expose me to ridicule?’ I tugged vainly at my lopsided wig, settling it oddly on my head. I heard a boy laugh, and a mother rebuke him with barely-contained merriment. I glared in their direction and then one-handedly made my wig and hat worse. There were several guffaws from behind me. I whirled, letting my hat and wig nearly leave my head again. ‘Imbeciles! Ruffians! I shall see the Buckkeep town guards know about the dangers on this street! Assaulting visitors! Mocking a guest of the KING! I want you to know, I am cousin to the Duke of Farrow, and he will be hearing about this from me!’ I puffed out my cheeks and let my lower lip tremble in feigned rage. My shaking voice I did not have to manufacture. I felt half-sick with fear that someone would recognize me. The echo of my name seemed to hang in the air. I turned on my heel and did my best to flounce with indignation as I strode hastily away. I heard a little girl’s voice ask, ‘But where did that bird go?’

I did not loiter to see if anyone would answer her. My apparent discomfiture at losing my hat and wig seemed to have provided them with some amusement, as I had hoped. Several times before I was out of sight I made seemingly vain attempts to adjust both. When I judged I was far enough away, I stepped into an alley and drew up the hood of my cloak over my hat and wig. The crow was so still within the fold of my cloak that I feared she was truly dead. She had struck me quite hard, hard enough to break a bird’s neck I surmised. But my Wit told me that while she might be stunned and stilled, life still beat in her. I traversed the alley and walked down the winding way of Tinker Street until I found another, narrower alley. There I finally unfolded the wrap of cloak that cradled her still black body.

Her eyes were closed. Her wings were clapped neatly to her body. I have always been impressed with how birds could fold two limbs so smoothly that, had you never seen a bird before, you would believe it only had legs. I touched her gleaming black beak.

She opened a shining eye. I put a hand on her back, trapping her wings to her side. Not yet. Stay still until we are somewhere safe.

I felt no return of the Wit from her, but her obedience made me believe she had understood me. I arranged crow and parcel under my cloak and hurried on toward Buckkeep Castle. The road was better maintained and more travelled than it had once been, but it was still steep and icy in some places. The light was fading and the wind rising. The wind picked up snow crystals as scathing as sand and blasted them at me. Carts and wagons bearing provisions for this final evening of merry-making passed me. I was going to be late.

Inside my cloak, the crow had become restive. She shifted and clung to my shirtfront with beak and claws. I reached in to touch her and offer her support. She fluttered violently and the hand I drew back had fingertips of blood. I reached her with the Wit. Are you hurt?

My thought bounced back to me as if I had thrown a pebble at a wall. Despite that, her pain washed against me and prickled up my spine. I spoke aloud in a quiet voice. ‘Stay under my cloak. Climb up to my shoulder. I’ll keep still while you do that.’

For a time, she did not move. Then she gripped my shirt with her beak and climbed up me, reaching to claim a fresh beak-hold with every few steps. She became a lump on my shoulder under my cloak and then moved around to make me a hunchback. When she seemed settled, I straightened up slowly.

‘I think we’ll be fine,’ I told my passenger.

The winds had shepherded the clouds in and now they released a fresh fall of snow. It came down in thick clumps of flakes that whirled and danced in the wind. I bent my head and trudged up the steep hill toward the keep.

I was admitted back into the castle grounds without question. I could hear the music and the murmur of voices from the Great Hall. Already so late! The crow-mobbing had delayed me more than I had realized. I hastened past servants bearing trays, and well-dressed folk who were less late than I was and up the stairs. I kept my hood up, my gaze down and greeted no one. The moment I was inside my room, I lifted my snowy cloak away. The crow gripped the back of my collar and my wig was tangled in her feet. As soon as she was uncovered, she lifted from the nape of my neck and attempted to fly. With my wig and hat weighing her down, she plummeted to the floor.

‘Keep still. I’ll free you,’ I told her.

After several minutes of struggling, she lay on her side, one wing half-open and the hair of the wig snarled around her feet. The white pinions interspersed with the black ones were clearly visible now, the feathers that meant every other crow in the world would attempt to kill her. I sighed. ‘Now keep still and I’ll free you,’ I repeated. Her beak was open and she was gasping. One bright black eye stared up at me. I moved slowly. It seemed impossible that she had tangled her feet so thoroughly in such a short time. Drops of her blood were scattered on the floor. I spoke to her as I tried to untangle her. ‘Are you hurt badly? Did they stab you?’ With my Wit I tried to radiate calm and reassurance to her. Are you hurt? I offered the question, trying not to press against her boundaries. Her pain washed against me. She fluttered wildly, undoing much of my untangling effort, and then fell still again. ‘Are you hurt badly?’ I asked her again.

She closed her beak, looked at me and then croaked, ‘Plucked! Plucked my feathers!’

‘I see.’ Wonder at how many human words she knew mingled with relief that she could give me information. But a bird was not a wolf. Trying to interpret what I felt from her was difficult. There was pain and fear and a great deal of anger. If she had been my wolf, I would have known exactly where she was injured and how badly. This was like trying to communicate with someone who spoke a different language. ‘Let me try to get you free. I need to take you to a table and better light. May I pick you up?’

She blinked. ‘Water. Water. Water.’

‘And I will get you water, too.’ I tried not to think of how time was fleeting. As if in response to my worry, I felt a questioning twinge from Chade. Where was I? The queen had asked Dutiful to be sure I was present, a most unusual request from her.

I’ll be there soon, I promised, fervently hoping I would be. I triggered the secret door and then scooped the crow from the floor, holding her safely but loosely in my hands as I carried her up the dark stairway.

‘Fitz?’ the Fool asked anxiously before I had reached the last step. I could just make out his silhouette in the chair before the fire. The candles had burned out hours ago. My heart sank at the worry in his voice.

‘Yes, it’s me. I’ve an injured crow with me, and she’s tangled in my wig. I’ll explain in a moment, but for now I just need to set her down and get some light and give her water.’

‘You have a crow tangled in your wig?’ he asked, and for a wonder, there was a trace of both amusement and mockery in his voice. ‘Ah, Fitz. I can always trust you to have some sort of bizarre problem that breaks my ennui.’

‘Web sent her to me.’ In the darkness, I set her down on the table. She tried to stand, but the strands of hair wrapped her too well. She collapsed onto her side. ‘Be still, bird. I need to get some candles for light. Then I hope I’ll be able to untangle you.’

She remained quiescent, but day birds often go still in the dark. I groped through the dimly-lit chamber to find additional candles. By the time I had lit them, put them in holders and returned to the worktable, the Fool was already there. To my surprise, his knotted fingers were at work on the locks of hair that were wrapped so securely about the bird’s toes and legs. I set my candles down at the far end of the table and watched. The bird was still, her eyes occasionally blinking. The Fool’s fingers, once long, elegant and clever, were now like knotted dead twigs. He was speaking to her softly as he worked. The hand with the deadened fingertips gently bade her feet be still as the fingers of his other hand lifted and pulled at strands of hair. He spoke in a murmur like water over stones. ‘And this one must go under first. And now we can lift that toe from the loop. There. That’s one foot almost clear. Oh, that’s tight. Let me push this thread of hair under … there. There’s one foot cleared.’

The crow kicked the free leg abruptly, and then subsided as the Fool set his hand to her back. ‘You will be free in a moment. Be still, or the ropes will just get tighter. Struggling against ropes never works.’

Ropes. I held my silence. It took longer than a moment for him to untangle her second foot. I nearly offered him scissors, but he was so intent on his task, so removed from his own misery that I banished my concerns about the passing time and let them be. ‘There you are. There,’ he said at last. He set the hat and battered wig to one side. For a breath, she lay still. Then, with a twitch and a flap, she was on her feet. He didn’t try to touch her.

‘He will want water, Fitz. Fear makes one so thirsty.’

‘She,’ I corrected him. I went to the water bucket and filled a cup and brought it back to the table. I set it down, dipped my fingers in it and held them up so the bird could see water drip back into the cup and stepped away. The Fool had taken up the hat and the wig that was fastened to it still. Wind, rain, and the crow-struggle had taken a toll on the wig. Parts were tangled into a frizz while other locks hung lank and wet.

‘I don’t think this can be easily mended,’ he said. He set it back on the table. I took it up and ran my fingers through the hair, trying to bring it back to some semblance of order. ‘Tell me about the bird,’ he requested.

‘Web asked me if I could take her in. She had, well, not an owner. A friend. Not a Wit-bond, but a human who helped her. She was hatched with some white feathers in her wings—’

‘White! White! White!’ the bird suddenly croaked. She hopped over to the water, a typical crow’s two-footed hop and stuck her beak deep into the cup. As she drank thirstily, the Fool exclaimed, ‘She can talk!’

‘Only as birds do. She repeats words she has been taught. I think.’

‘But she talks to you, through your Wit?’

‘Not really. I can sense her feelings, distress, pain. But we are not bonded, Fool. I do not share her thoughts nor she mine.’ I gave the hat and wig a shake, trying to mend them. The crow squawked in surprise and hopped sideways, nearly oversetting the water. ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you,’ I said. I looked woefully at the wig and hat. There was no mending them. ‘A moment, Fool. I must speak to Chade.’ I reached out to Chade through the Skill. My wig has been damaged. I do not think I can appear as Lord Feldspar tonight.

Then come however you may, but make it soon. Something is brewing, Fitz. Queen Elliania bubbles with something. At first I thought she was angry, for when she greeted me, her eyes were cold and bright. But she seems oddly warm, almost jubilant, leading the dancing with an enthusiasm I’ve never seen before.

Did you ask Dutiful if he had any idea what is brewing?

Dutiful does not know. I felt him throw his Skilling wide, including Dutiful in our mental conversation.

Perhaps Dutiful does not think there is anything wrong with his queen so obviously enjoying herself this evening. The king suggested sarcastically.

There is something in the wind. I feel it! Chade replied.

Perhaps I might know my wife’s moods better than you do? Dutiful retorted.

I wanted no more of their fractiousness. I will be down as soon as I can, but not as Lord Feldspar. The wig is ruined, I fear.

At the least, dress fashionably, Chade ordered me irritably. If you come down in a tunic and trousers, you will turn every head. Nor can you wear what was ordered for Lord Feldspar. There must be items in Lord Feldspar’s wardrobe that he has not yet worn. Choose from among them, and quickly.

I shall.

‘You have to go.’ The Fool spoke into the silence after my Skilling.

‘I do. How did you know?’

‘I learned to read your exasperated little sighs long ago, Fitz.’

‘The wig is ruined. And with it, my identity as Lord Feldspar. I must go to my room, sort through clothing, dress and go down as someone entirely different. I can do it. But I do not delight in it as Chade does.’

‘And as I once did.’ It was his turn to sigh. ‘How I would love to have your task tonight! To choose clothing and go down well-dressed, with rings and earrings and scent, and mingle with a hundred different folk, and eat well-prepared food. Drink and dance and make jests.’ He sighed again. ‘I wish I could be alive again before I have to die.’

‘Ah, Fool.’ I began to reach for his hand, and then stopped. He would startle back in terror if I touched him, and when he did that, it woke hurt in both of us.

‘You should go right now. I’ll keep the bird company.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, and meant it. I hoped she would not panic suddenly and dash herself against the chamber walls. As long as it was mostly darkened, I thought she would be fine. I had nearly reached the top of the stairs when his query reached me.

‘What does she look like?’

‘She’s a crow, Fool. A grown crow. Black beak, black feet, black eyes. The only thing that sets her apart from a thousand other crows is that she was hatched with some white upon her feathers.’

‘Where is she white?’

‘Some of her pinions are white. When she opens her wings, they are almost striped. And there were a few tufts of white on her back or head, I think. The others ripped out some of her feathers.’

‘Ripped,’ the Fool said.

‘White! White! White!’ the bird cried out in the darkness. Then, in a soft little mutter, so that I was barely sure I heard it, she muttered, ‘Ah, Fool.’

‘She knows my name!’ he exclaimed in delight.

‘And mine. More’s the pity. It was how she forced me to stop for her. She was shouting, “FitzChivalry! FitzChivalry!” in the middle of the Tailors Street.’

‘Clever girl,’ the Fool murmured approvingly.

I snorted my disagreement and hurried down the stairs.

EIGHT
Farseers

And back to back those brothers stood

And bade farewell their lives

For round them pressed the Red Ship wolves

A wall of swords and knives.

They heard a roar and striding came

The bastard Buckkeep son.

Like rubies flung, the drops of blood

That from his axe-head spun.

A path he clove, like hewing trees

As bloody axe he wielded.

Blood to his chest, the bastard came,

And to his blade they yielded.

’Twas Chivalry’s son,

His eyes like flame,

Who shared his blood

If not his name.

A Farseer son,

But ne’er an heir

Whose bloodied locks

No crown would bear.

Antler Island Anthem

– Starling Birdsong

I was pulling off my clothes before I was halfway down the stairs. I emerged into my room, shut the door, and hopped from one foot to the other as I pulled off my boots. None of what I wore today could I wear down to the gathering in the Great Hall. All it would take would be one style-obsessed idiot to recognize that I wore a garment he had earlier seen on Lord Feldspar.

I began to drag garments from his wardrobe, then forced myself to stop. I closed my eyes and visualized last night’s gathering. What had they had in common, all those peacocks parading their finery? The long-skirted jackets. A plenitude of buttons, most of them decorative rather than functional. Fussy lace at throat and wrist and shoulder. And the clash of bright colours. I opened my eyes.

Scarlet trousers, with rows of blue buttons down the outsides of the legs. A white shirt with a collar so high it near choked me. This long blue vest with tufts of red lace at the shoulders and red buttons like a row of sow’s nipples down the chest. A massy silver ring for my thumb. No. None of that. My own trousers from Withywoods, laundered and returned, thanks to Ash. The plainest of the fussy shirts in a foresty green. A brown vest, long, with buttons, but ones of horn. And that was all I had time for. I looked in the glass and ran my hands through my rain-damp hair. It lay down, for now. I chose the plainest of the small hats: to go bareheaded would attract more stares than any hat. It would have to do. I hoped to look poor enough that no one would seek to be introduced to me. I chose the least uncomfortable of the shoes and pulled them on. Then, with the reawakened expertise of my youth, I rapidly loaded my concealed pockets, transferring my small weapons and envelopes of poison and lock-picks from the jacket I had worn earlier today, trying not to wonder as I did so if I would use them if Chade ordered me to. If it came to that, I’d decide then, I promised myself, and turned away from that stomach-churning question.

On my way! My Skilling to Chade was tight and private.

Who are you? His question reminded me of our old game. Create an identity in the space of a heartbeat.

I’m Raven Kelder. Third son of a minor lord in rural Tilth. I’ve never been to court before, I’ve only arrived at Buckkeep tonight, and I’m dazzled by all I see. I’m dressed plainly and rather unfashionably. I’ll be full of foolish questions. My father died late, my brother only recently inherited, and he’s pushed me off the holding and told me to seek my own way in life. And I’m more than happy to be having an adventure and spend my share of my small inheritance.

Good enough! Come, then.

And so Raven Kelder hurried down the wide stairs and immersed himself in the crowd thronging the Great Hall. Tonight was Last Night for Winterfest. We’d celebrated the turning from dark to light, and tonight was our final feast before we settled down to outlast the storms and cold of winter. One more night of fellowship, song, feasting and dancing, and tomorrow the nobility of the Six Duchies would begin to drain out of Buckkeep Castle and trickle back to their own holdings. Usually it was the most subdued of the Winterfest nights, for it was a time of bidding farewell to friends for the winter as harsh weather cut down on travel. When I was a lad, the nights that followed Last Night were for indoor pursuits: the fashioning of arrows, weaving, carving and sewing. The younger scribes would bring their copy work to the Great Hearth and listen to the minstrels as they worked.

I had expected slow ballads from the minstrels, mulled drinks and quiet conversations. Instead I walked into a hall where folk were once more dressed in their best garments and jewellery, and minstrels played lively tunes that set toes to tapping and brought dancers out onto the floor. And as I entered, the middle of the dance floor was dominated by the King and Queen of the Six Duchies. The plague of buttons that had attacked my wardrobe had not spared the royal couple. Hundreds of buttons, in silver and ivory and mother of pearl, decorated the queen’s dress. They ticked and rattled against one another as she trod the lively steps. Dutiful’s garments were burdened with multiple buttons of horn, ivory, bone, and silver in a more sedate but no less rattling display. I stood several layers of folk back in the crowd and watched them. Dutiful’s eyes had not left Elliania’s face: he seemed as entranced with her as he had when they were courting. The queen’s cheeks were flushed and her lips parted as she breathlessly kept the pace of the lively dance. As the music skirled to a close, he lifted her and whirled her around as she braced her hands on his shoulders. The applause of the crowd was unrestrained and unfeigned. His grin was white in his dark beard and Elliania’s cheeks were red. Both of them were flushed and laughing as they left the dance floor and retreated to their elevated thrones at the end of the room.

I drifted in the crowd like a bit of seaweed caught on a tide change. Chade, I decided, was correct. There was an undercurrent of excitement tonight, a spice of curiosity in the air. The queen’s request that all attend in their best finery had been heeded. Clearly something special was to occur, perhaps a bestowal of honours, and the room simmered with expectations.

I had time to visit a wine cask and secure a glass for myself before the musicians began to fuss with their instruments prior to choosing the next tune. I manoeuvred myself into a position where I had a clear view of the high dais and yet remained at the edges of the crowd. Dutiful said something to the queen; she smiled and shook her head. Then she stood, and with a gesture, silenced the minstrels. The quiet rippled out until the entire gathering had stilled and all attention had focused on her. Dutiful, still seated on his throne, looked askance at her. She smiled at him and patted his shoulder reassuringly. She took a breath and turned to address her nobility.

‘Lords and ladies of the Six Duchies, I have excellent news to share with you. And I fondly believe you will celebrate it with me as jubilantly as I shall!’ After her years in the Six Duchies, her OutIslander accent had faded to a charming lilt. Dutiful was watching her with one raised eyebrow. At a nearby table, Lord Chade was looking somewhat concerned, while Kettricken’s face was full of speculation. The Skillmistress sat at Lord Chade’s left hand. Nettle’s face was grave and thoughtful. I wondered if she even heard Elliania’s speech or if her mind was full of her own dilemma. The queen took a few moments to survey her listeners. No one spoke; the servants stood still. She let the silence build. Then the queen cleared her throat.

‘I have long agonized that there have been no females born to the Farseer line during my reign as queen. Heirs I have given my king. I am proud and glad of our sons, and believe they will reign here well after their father. But for my own land a princess is required. And such I have been unable to bear.’ Her voice faltered and broke on the last words. King Dutiful was looking at her with concern now. I saw the Duchess of Farrow lift a hand to her mouth. Tears started down her cheeks. Evidently our queen was not the only one who struggled to bear a living child. Was that what she would announce tonight? That she was with child again? Surely Dutiful would have been told, and the announcement delayed until the pregnancy was assured.

Queen Elliania lifted her head. She glanced at Dutiful as if to reassure him and then said, ‘But of course, there is a Farseer princess. She has long dwelt among us, tacitly known to many and yet unacknowledged by her dukes and duchesses. Two days ago, she gave me portentous news. She will soon bear a child. I myself swung a needle on a thread over her palm, and my heart leapt with joy when its swinging foretold a girl child in her womb. Ladies and gentlemen of Buckkeep Castle, my dukes and duchesses of the Six Duchies, you will soon be blessed with a new Farseer princess!’

What had begun as gasps of astonishment was now a rising mutter of voices. I felt faint. White-faced, Nettle stared straight ahead. Chade had a stiff smile of feigned puzzlement on his face. Dutiful, mouth ajar, stared in horror at his queen and then betrayed Nettle by swinging his gaze to her.

Elliania seemed completely immune to the catastrophe she was wreaking. She looked out over her audience with a wide smile and then laughed aloud. ‘And so, my friends, my people, let us acknowledge what many of us have long known. Skillmistress Nettle, Nettle Farseer, daughter of FitzChivalry Farseer, cousin to my own dear husband, and a princess of the Farseer line, stand forth, please.’

I had folded my arms across my chest. At the mention of my daughter’s rightful name, and my own, I had to fight to keep breathing. Whispering in the hall rose to the level of chirring summer insects. I scanned the faces. Two young ladies exchanged delighted glances. One grey-haired lord looked scandalized while his lady held her hands before her mouth in horror at the disgrace. Most of Elliania’s audience was simply dumbstruck, waiting for whatever might happen next. Nettle’s eyes were wide, her mouth ajar. Chade’s face was ashen. Kettricken’s slender fingers covered her mouth but could not conceal the joy in her eyes. My gaze flickered to King Dutiful. For a long moment, he was frozen. Then he rose, to stand beside his queen. He extended a hand to Nettle. His voice shook but his smile was genuine as he said, ‘Cousin, please.’

Fitz. Fitz, please. What … The desperate Skilling that reached me from Chade was nearly incoherent.

Be calm. Let them handle it. What other choice did we really have? If it had been someone else’s life, someone else’s secret, I might have found the tableau charming. The queen, her cheeks flushed and eyes bright with delight at honouring Nettle, Dutiful, his hand outstretched to welcome his cousin to the most dangerous moment of her life, and Nettle, her teeth showing in something not quite a smile, her gaze fixed, unmoving at the table.

I saw Riddle, too. He had always had a talent for moving unobserved in crowded situations. Now he carved through the melee like a shark through water. I saw the determined look on his face. If they turned on Nettle, he would die fighting to protect her. By the set of one shoulder, I knew he already had his hand on the haft of his knife. Chade, too, marked his passage. I saw him make a small motion. Wait, his hand said, but Riddle moved closer.

Lady Kettricken moved gracefully to stand behind Nettle’s chair, bent down and whispered something to her. I saw Nettle take a breath. She rose, her chair scraping back on the floor. The erstwhile queen paced at her side as she escorted Nettle to the throne dais. There, as was proper, they both curtseyed deeply. Kettricken remained at the bottom of the steps while Nettle managed to ascend all three. Dutiful took her hands in his. For a moment, their bowed heads were close together. I am sure he whispered something to her. Then they straightened, and Queen Elliania embraced her.

Nettle had locked her thoughts down so firmly that I could not even reach out to her with reassurance. Whatever she felt on the inside, she betrayed only pleasure as she thanked the king and queen for congratulating her on her child. She said nothing of the revelation of her parentage. Truly, Elliania had the right of it when she said it was a secret already known to many. The stamp of the Farseer line was on Nettle’s face and many of the older folk had known of the scandalous gossip about FitzChivalry and Lady Patience’s maid. Patience’s transfer of Withywoods to Lady Molly, supposedly in honour of Burrich’s selfless sacrifice to the Farseer family, would have only confirmed that Molly’s daughter was mine. A larger omission was mention of Nettle’s marriage or the father of her child. Those ripe bits of gossip would be well chewed tomorrow. I watched my daughter as she began to turn and return to her seat, but Kettricken stopped her and held her there, her hands on her shoulders. I saw Riddle look up at her, white-faced, a mere man among many as the woman he loved was proclaimed a princess. My heart went out to him.

Kettricken spoke now, her voice cutting through the rising murmur. ‘For years many have persisted in believing that FitzChivalry Farseer was a traitor. Despite what I have recounted of that fateful night when I fled Buckkeep, the taint on his name has lingered. So I would ask if any minstrel here knows of a song, sung but once in this hall? Tagson, son of Tag, son of Reaver, sang it. It was the true tale of the doings of FitzChivalry Farseer, when he came to the aid of his king in the Mountains. Do any minstrels here know it?’

My mouth went dry. I’d never heard the song, but I’d been told of it. In my lifetime, I’d been the subject of two songs. One, ‘Antler Island Tower’ was a rousing ballad that recounted how I had fought against the Red-Ship Raiders when by treachery they had managed to gain a foothold on Antler Island. It had been composed during the Red-Ship Wars by an ambitious young minstrel named Starling Birdsong. The melody was pleasing and the refrain was memorable. When first it had been sung, the folk of Buckkeep Castle had been willing to believe that enough Farseer blood ran through my bastard veins that I might be a hero, of sorts. But that had been before my fall from grace, before Prince Regal had convinced all of my treachery. It had been before I’d been thrown into his dungeon on the accusation of killing King Shrewd. Before I had supposedly died there, and vanished from Buckkeep history and public knowledge forever.

Yet there had been a second song, one that celebrated not only my Farseer blood and Witted magic, but asserted that I had risen from my grave to follow King Verity on his wild quest to wake the Elderlings and bring their aid to the Six Duchies. Like the Antler Island song, strands of truth had been braided with poetry and exaggeration. To my knowledge, only one minstrel had ever sung it in Buckkeep, and he had done so to assert that those with the Old Blood Wit-magic could be as loyal and noble as anyone else. Many of the listeners of that day had not welcomed such an opinion.

Kettricken’s eyes roved over the gallery where the minstrels were gathered. I watched with relief as they exchanged puzzled glances and shrugs. One fellow folded his arms on his chest and shook his head in disgust, evidently displeased that anyone would wish to sing the praises of the Witted Bastard. One harper leaned over the railing to consult a greybeard below. The fellow nodded and even though I could not hear him, I suspected he admitted to having heard the song once, but the eloquent lift of his shoulders denied any real knowledge of the words, tune or authorship. Just as my heart began to slow and the look of disappointment to settle on Lady Kettricken’s face, a matronly woman dressed in an extravagant gown of blue and green stepped from the crowd. As she made her way forward into the open space before the royal dais, I heard a scattering of applause and then someone cried out, ‘Starling Birdsong! Of course!’

I wondered if I would have recognized my old lover without that call. Her body had changed with the years, her waist thickening and her curves growing. In the be-buttoned layers of lush fabrics that made up her gown, I did not recognize the tough and pragmatic wandering minstrel who had also followed Verity into the Mountain Kingdom to wake the Elderlings. She had let her hair grow long, and the streaks in it were silver, not grey. She wore jewels on her ears and wrists and fingers, but as she advanced, she was stripping the rings from her fingers.

The look of disappointment on Kettricken’s face had been replaced with one of delight. ‘Well, here is a minstrel of yore who has let many years pass since we last heard her lift her voice. Our own Starling Birdsong, now Lord Fisher’s lady wife! Do you remember the song of which I spoke?’

Despite her years, Starling flourished a curtsey and then rose gracefully. Age had lowered the timbre of her voice but the music had not left it. ‘Lady Kettricken, King Dutiful and Queen Elliania, if it please you, I have heard the song sung but once. And do not think me a jealous minstrel when I say, while the threads of truth ran strong through it, the words rattled against one another as painfully as gravel in a boot, and the tune was one stolen from an ancient ballad.’ She shook her head, lips folded, and then said, ‘Even if I recalled every word and note, I would not think it a kindness to you if I sang it.’

She paused, head lowered respectfully. Despite all my misgivings, I almost smiled. Starling. So well she knew how to whet the appetite of an audience! She waited until precisely the moment when Kettricken drew breath to speak; then she raised her head and offered, ‘But I can sing you a better song, if you would, my lady and once my queen. If you with a nod allow me; if my king and my queen grant permission, my tongue can be freed from its long-imposed silence, and sing to you I shall, of all I know of the Witted Bastard. Of FitzChivalry Farseer, son to Chivalry, loyal to King Verity and, to the last breath of his days, a true-hearted Farseer, despite his ignoble birth!’

The music rose and fell in her words: she was tuning and preparing her voice. I saw her husband now, Lord Fisher, standing at the edge of the crowd, a proud smile on his face. His shoulders were as broad as ever; he wore his greying hair in a warrior’s tail. Ever he had gloried in the popularity of his wild minstrel wife. The look of enjoyment on his face was not feigned; he basked in her reflected glory. She had not come to the festival tonight as Starling the minstrel but as Lady Fisher. And yet this was the moment she had dreamed of, for all those years. She would not let it pass her by and he would rejoice in it with her. She looked around at her audience as if to ask them, ‘Shall I sing?’

She could and she must. The lords and ladies of the Six Duchies already hung on her every word. How could King Dutiful forbid it, when his own queen had revealed the bastard daughter of the bastard Farseer, sheltered and then exalted as Skillmistress at Buckkeep Castle? Lady Kettricken exchanged a look with her son and his wife. And then she nodded, and the king spread his hands in permission.

‘Does my harp come?’ Starling turned to her husband, and he in turn gestured wide. The doors to the Great Hall opened and two healthy lads appeared, a grand harp supported between them. I had to smile. For it to appear so quickly, she must have ordered it the moment Kettricken asked if any recalled that song. And such a harp! This was no wandering minstrel’s harp! Sweat stood out on the boys’ faces and I wondered how far and fast they had lugged the beast. She had timed her delaying perfectly for its arrival. They brought it forward and set it down: it stood as high as Starling’s shoulder. She glanced toward the minstrel gallery, but someone had already stepped forward, bearing his own stool. He placed it before the harp, and then I saw the only awkward moment in her performance. Her gown had never been cut for her to be seated behind a harp with the instrument leaned back on her shoulder. With a fine disregard for modesty, she lifted her skirts and bundled them out of the way, displaying legs still shapely and stockinged in bright green, and dainty blue slippers with silver buttons. She woke the harp, running her fingers lightly up and down the strings, letting them barely speak, as if they whispered to her that they were in tune and waiting for her.

Then she plucked three strings, one after another, as if she were dropping gold coins on a path and bidding us follow. The notes became a chord, and her other hand began to pluck a lilting melody. Then she lifted her voice.

This, I knew, was the song she had waited a lifetime to sing. Always, always, she had wanted to leave a song that would linger in Six Duchies’ memory and be sung over and over. When first I had met her, she had spoken with hungry ambition of how she would follow me and record my deeds and fate so that she might be witness to a turning point in Six Duchies’ history. And witness she had, but her lips had been stilled and her song unsung, by royal decree that what had happened in the Mountains must ever after be kept secret. I was dead and must remain so until the Farseer throne was returned to stability.

Now I stood and I listened to my own tale. How long had she honed those words, how many times had she practised the music that flowed effortlessly and faultlessly from her fingers? This was her highest achievement. I knew that before she was two verses into the song. I had heard her sing other minstrels’ work, and I had heard her sing songs and play music of her own composing. Starling was good. No one could ever deny that.

But this was better than good. Even the minstrel who had earlier scowled seemed bespelled by her words and notes. This was the music she had saved, and these were the words she had turned and shaped as if she were a woodcarver. I knew the story of my own life, and most of the court would know at least some of it. But she sang me from an abandoned bastard child to a hero, to a shameful death in a dungeon and a crawl out of a forgotten grave, until I stood before a stone dragon, one that had drunk the life from King Verity, and looked up at her as she and Queen Kettricken departed.

For a time she plucked strings and wove chords, letting that part of the tale sink in. It was not how it had been sung before, and many a face was puzzled. Then, with a sudden sweep of her fingers, she struck up a martial air and finished the tale. I myself had told her what happened after they had departed astride a single dragon with the heart of a king bearing them back to Buckkeep. Verity-as-Dragon had set out to pit himself against the whole of the OutIslander fleet, to save his queen, his unborn child and his entire beloved kingdom from the ravages of the Red Ships. Tears rolled down Kettricken’s cheeks as she listened, and King Dutiful was rapt, his mouth slightly ajar.

And so it was I, and my Wit-companion – my wolf Nighteyes – who had wakened the other sleeping dragons. We had battled Regal’s corrupt Skill-coterie and their hapless apprentices, and in shedding blood we had wakened the stone dragons to a semblance of life and sent them winging after Verity, a veritable army at his back. She gave three verses to how the dragons had followed the king, describing half a dozen of their varied shapes, and then recounted how swiftly the Red Ships had been driven from our shores. Verity-as-Dragon had led and the other dragons had followed, taking the battle to their islands. Queen Elliania, of OutIslander blood, listened with her face grave and nodded as if to confirm all that Starling told of those bloody days.

Again, an interlude of only music. Gradually, the tempo slowed and the chords deepened. She sang then of how the Bastard and his wolf, knowing they were dead to all, knowing that the name of FitzChivalry Farseer would ever be tarnished with shame and accusations of treachery and cowardice, walked away into the depths of the Mountain forests. Never again, she sang, would they hunt the green hills of Buck. Never could they come home. Never would their deeds be known. Never. Never. The tale and the song slowed, and became a trickle of wistful notes. They dwindled. Silence.

I do not know how long the song lasted. I came back to the Great Hall and the gathered nobles of the Six Duchies as if I had been on a long journey. Starling sat before her tall harp, her head bent forward and her brow resting on its dark wood. Her face glowed with perspiration. She breathed as if she had run over nine hills. I stared at her. She had been a stranger, a lover, a nemesis, and a betrayer to me. And now she was my historian.

When the applause came, it began as a whisper and rose to a roar. Starling lifted her head slowly and I followed her gaze as she looked around at her audience. Tears tracked down the faces of many, and anger sat on some. I saw a stony-faced woman who sneered at the emotion of the lady next to her. Another noble shook his head and leaned close to whisper to his companion. Two young women were embracing one another, overcome with the romance of the story. The Duchess of Bearns hugged herself tight, her clasped hands under her chin, her head bent over her hands. The Duke of Rippon appeared to be telling the people around him that, ‘I knew it. I always knew it,’ as his big hands beat against one another.

And I? How to describe that vindication? I stood among them, unknown and unseen, but feeling as if we had finally come home, my wolf and I. I felt a sharp pang that the Fool had not been here to hear this, and realized I was trembling, as if I had come in from somewhere very cold and was shaking as the warmth finally came back into my body. I was not weeping, and yet the water ran from my eyes until I could scarcely see.

Dutiful’s gaze scanned the crowd, and I knew he was looking for me, but he was searching for me in the guise of Lord Feldspar. Lord Chade stood and moved slowly from his place at the high table. I thought he was going to Kettricken, but then his steps wavered and he began to wend his way through the crowd. I watched him, puzzled, and then with horror realized that he had seen me and was coming straight toward me.

NO, I Skilled to him, but he was sealed tight – not to keep me out but to keep whatever he was feeling in. When he reached me, he took a firm hold of my arm. ‘Chade, please, no,’ I begged him. Had the old man’s mind turned?

He looked at me. His cheeks were wet with tears. ‘It’s time, Fitz. Time and past time. Come. Come with me.’

The people standing closest to me were watching and listening. I saw one man’s eyes widen and his face went from puzzlement to shock. We were in the midst of the crowd. If they turned on me now, they could tear me apart. There was no retreat here. And so, as Chade tugged at my arm, I let myself be led. My knees felt loose: I felt as if I walked like a puppet, jouncing with every step.

No one had expected this. Queen Elliania smiled joyously, but all colour had drained from Nettle’s face. Kettricken’s chin trembled and then her face crumpled and she wept as if I were King Verity himself walking toward her. As we passed Starling, she lifted her head. When she saw me her hands flew to her mouth. Her eyes went wide and greedy, and some part of me thought, already she plans what song she will make of this.

The empty space between the crowd and the king and queen’s dais was an endless desert we crossed. King Dutiful’s face was white and stark. What are you doing? What are you doing? He demanded of us, but Chade did not hear him and I had no answer to give. A tumultuous roar of confusion, whispers, speculations and then shouts rose behind us. Nettle’s eyes were black in a face carved of ice. Her fear soaked me. When we stood before my king, I went to my knees more out of sudden weakness than from any sense of propriety. My ears were ringing.

Dutiful saved us all.

He shook his head slowly as I stared up at him. ‘Never is over,’ he proclaimed to the crowd. He looked down at my upturned face. I stared up at him. I saw King Shrewd, and King Verity there. My kings, looking down at me with earnest sympathy. ‘FitzChivalry Farseer, too long have you sojourned among the Elderlings, your memory spurned by the very people you saved. Too long have you been in a place where the months pass as if days. Too long have you walked among us in false guise, deprived of your name and your honour. Rise. Turn and face the folk of the Six Duchies, your folk, and be welcomed home at last.’ He bent and took my arm.

‘You’re shaking like a leaf,’ he whispered by my ear. ‘Can you stand up?’

‘I think so,’ I muttered. But it was his strength that pulled me to my feet. I stood. I turned. I faced them all.

The roar of acclaim broke over me like a wave.

NINE
The Crown

As I have risked my life for this knowledge, I expect that for my next piece of information, I will be paid more handsomely! When you first approached me for these ‘small tasks’ as you called them, there at Buckkeep Castle, I had no idea what sorts of missions you would be assigning me. As I have said in the past, I will continue to convey interesting information to you, but nothing that I feel undermines or exploits my friendships.

Kelsingra is indeed a city of wonders past imagining. Information is stored in almost every stone there. I have heard that there is even more to be found in the Elderling archives recently discovered in the city, but I am not invited to enter there, and I won’t risk my friends’ trust by attempting to go there. A great deal of information about Elderlings is available in the walls of the old market space and one can’t help but be aware of it, even just strolling by on an evening. If you wish to advance me some coin and ask specific questions, I will answer the ones that I can. Had I not lost a hand to a windlass, I would not be in need of your funds. Nonetheless, I will remind you that I have my pride. A simple sailor you may think me, but I have my own code of honour.

But to your most pressing question. I have seen no ‘silvery river or stream’. And as I travelled there on the Rain Wild River and then up one of its tributaries, I assure you that I saw a great many rivers and streams feeding into that vast waterway. They were grey with silt. I suppose they might appear silvery in some lights.

However, I think I have had tidings of what it is that you seek. It is not a river, but a well. Silvery stuff rises within it, and the dragons seem to find it almost intoxicating. The location of this well and its very existence is supposed to be a great secret, but for one who can hear dragons, their clamour when the stuff rises close enough to the surface for them to drink betrays it. At other times, I imagine it must be drawn up in a bucket for them. I was obliged to keep my questions on this topic oblique. Two of the young keepers have very little tolerance for brandy, and we had a lovely wandering conversation until their commander arrived and berated them and threatened me. This Rapskal seems a very unsettled sort of person, capable of carrying out his various threats against me if he found me encouraging his men to drunkenness. He demanded that I leave Kelsingra, and the next morning I was escorted from my accommodations to the next departing ship. He did not ban me from the city as I have heard other travellers and entrepreneurs have been banned, but I think I shall let some time pass before I attempt another visit.

I will anticipate your next letter of credit and your queries. I am still quartered at the Splintered Fid, and messages sent to that inn will reach me.

Jek

It was dawn when I fell face down on my bed. I was exhausted. I had climbed the stairs, eager as a boy to tell the Fool all that had transpired, only to find him soundly asleep. For a time, I had sat by his bed, wishing he could have been there with me. When I dozed off in the chair, I’d surrendered and tottered down the stairs to my bed. I closed my eyes and slept. I sank into sweet oblivion, and then jerked awake as if someone had stuck a pin in me. I could not free myself from the sensation that something was wrong: terribly, terribly wrong.

I could not sleep. Danger, danger, danger thrummed through my nerves. I seldom felt such unease without a reason. Years ago, my wolf had always been at my back, using his keener sense to warn me of lurking intruders or unseen watchers. He was long gone these many years, but in this he remained. When something prickled against my senses, I had learned to pay attention.

I remained perfectly still on my bed. I heard only what I expected to hear, the winter wind outside my window, the soft sounds of the fire, my own breathing. I smelled nothing beyond my own smells. I opened my eyes to slits, feigning sleep still, and studied what I could of the room. Nothing. There was nothing to be alarmed about. Wit and Skill, I sensed all around me. There was nothing to alarm me. And yet I could not shake my anxiety. I closed my eyes. Sleep. Sleep.

I slept, but I did not rest. My heart was a wolf, hunting over snow hills, not for prey but for his lost pack. Hunting and hunting and hunting. Howling out my pain to the night, I ran and ran and ran. I awoke sweaty and still in my clothes. I had a moment of stillness and then heard the tiny scratch at my door. My senses were still wolf-sharpened from my dream. I crossed the room and opened the door while Ash was still poking at my lock.

Without a trace of embarrassment, he removed the pick from the lock, stooped, picked up the breakfast tray and carried it into my room. Moving efficiently, he set out my breakfast for me. Then he moved a small table that had been by my bed. He unslung a pouch from his shoulder, removed papers from it and set them out in orderly rows.

‘What are those? Are they from Chade?’

He pointed to each category. ‘Letters of congratulation. Invitations. Petitions for you to use your influence. I did not read them all, only the ones that looked useful. I expect you will have a host of them every day now.’

My unwanted correspondence arranged, he looked around my chamber for his next task. I was still grasping that reading my private correspondence was part of what he considered his duty. I saw only a shadow of disapproval in his eyes as he took in my rumpled clothes before he offered, ‘Have you any washing, my lord? I should be happy to take it to the laundry folk.’

‘Yes, I suppose I do. But I don’t think guests use the washerfolk that way. And I am not your “lord”.’

‘Sir, I do believe that all of that changed last night. Prince FitzChivalry, I should be greatly honoured to convey your dirty smallclothes to the washerfolk.’ A grin twitched and then disappeared.

‘Are you being cheeky with me?’ I was incredulous.

He lowered his eyes and observed quietly, ‘Not cheeky, sir. But one bastard may rejoice at another lowborn’s good fortune, and dream of better days for himself.’ He cocked his head at me. ‘Chade has had me hard at learning the history of the Six Duchies. Did you know that one queen-in-waiting actually gave birth to a bastard, and that he rose to be King of the Six Duchies?’

‘Not quite. You are thinking of the Piebald Prince. And that did not end well for him at all.’ His cousin had killed him for being Witted and had taken the throne.

‘Perhaps not.’ He glanced at my breakfast tray and tugged the napkin straight. ‘But he had a moment, didn’t he? Some day, I’d like a moment. Does it seem fair to you that how we are born determines how we are seen for the rest of our lives? Must I always be the son of a whore, a bawdyhouse errand boy? A few promises and a ring, and you might have been the king. Did you never think of that?’

‘No,’ I lied. ‘It was one of the first lessons I had from Chade. Think of what is and don’t let what might have been distract you.’

He nodded to that. ‘Well, being Lady Rosemary’s apprentice is definitely a step up in my life. And if the opportunity presents itself, I will imagine a better status for myself. I respect Lord Chade, but if one only remains what one is today, well …’ He tipped his head at me with a speculative look.

That stung, a bit. ‘Well. No offence taken, Ash, and if you continue with your lessons and your present master then, yes, I think you can rightly dream of better days.’

‘Thank you, sir. Your clothes, then?’

‘A moment.’ As I began to strip off my sweaty shirt and crumpled trousers, Ash went to Lord Feldspar’s travelling trunk and began to pull out garments. ‘This won’t do,’ I heard him mutter. ‘Nor this. Not now. What’s this? Perhaps.’

But when I turned back to him to accept the clothing he was offering me, his eyes were very wide. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Sir, what happened to your back? Were you attacked? Should I request a private guard for you? One on your door?’

I reached around to touch the sore spots on my back. I was startled that they were not completely healed. One was still oozing and two others were sore to the touch. And I could not think of a ready lie to explain what must look like a number of small puncture wounds on my back. ‘A bizarre accident, not an attack. My shirt, please.’ I tried to sound as if I were accustomed to having some young man as my valet. Wordlessly, he shook it out and held it open for me. I turned, and met his eyes. He glanced away. He knew I was lying about my back. But was I? It had been, after all, a bizarre accident. I said nothing as I accepted clean smallclothes, trousers and stockings. I was pleased that he had chosen clothes that were far more sensible than those Lord Feldspar had been flaunting. There were still a multitude of buttons, but fewer that poked me. My boots, newly cleaned, were ready for me. I felt a measure of relief as I sat down to put them on. ‘Thank you. You’re good at this.’

‘I served my mother and the other women of the house for years.’

I felt a little sinking of my heart. Did I want to know more about this apprentice of Chade’s? But that sort of an invitation could not be heartlessly ignored. ‘So I heard.’

‘Lord Chade was never my mother’s patron, so you need not fear he is my father. But he was always kinder to me than most. I began running errands for him when I was about ten. So, when my mother was … killed, and I was forced to flee, he sent someone to find me. And he saved me.’

Tumbling facts falling into place. Chade was a patron of the house where his mother worked, just not his mother’s patron. Some kindness, and probably the boy had begun spying for him without even knowing he was doing it. Some coins to run an errand, and a few casual questions, and Chade would learn things about the other patrons. Enough to put the boy’s life in danger when his mother died? A story there. Too many stories. Which noble son had taken his deviation too far? I didn’t want to know. The more I knew, the more involved I would become. Last night, I’d been netted as neatly as a fish. I already knew that the more I thrashed, the tighter the web would become. ‘I’m tired,’ I said, and then amended it to a weary smile and, ‘I’m already tired and the day has only just begun. I’d best check on my friend. Ash, count me among the friends you could run to, did you ever need that again.’

He nodded gravely. Another noose of spiderweb wrapped around me. ‘I’ll take these to the washerfolk for you, and bring them back this afternoon. Do you require anything else of me?’

‘Thank you. That will be all for now.’

I heard a distant echo of Verity in my voice. Verity dismissing his man who always attended him. Charim. That had been his name. So long ago. I half-expected Ash to be offended at my dismissal, but he bobbed a bow and went out of the door with my laundry over his arm. I sat down to the tray of food that he had brought and made a start on it. Was the food better today? Was FitzChivalry Farseer supplied a better breakfast than Lord Feldspar? And if he was, what did that say for the expectations folk would have, both low and high? Would nobles try to curry favour with me? Underlings seek employment with me? I sampled some of the missives Ash had left. Favour begged, fawning invitations and overly kind congratulations on my return. I closed my eyes tight and opened them again. The stack of correspondence was still there. Eventually, I’d have to deal with it. Or perhaps that was one of Ash’s duties. He’d said he’d read most of it, without apology.

Where would I fit into Dutiful’s court now? And how could I leave it? What of my Bee? I still had not had a chance to tell Kettricken to send for her, but it seemed that I must, for it came to me suddenly that those who connected me with Tom Badgerlock would know there was a second, secret, Farseer daughter. Did I control any aspect of my life any longer? The life I had led for the past forty years was suddenly shattered to fragments. Lies and deceptions had been swept aside. Well, some lies and deceptions. I needed to talk to Chade: a tale must be concocted about what I had been doing all those years. Would we admit my part in the freeing of IceFyre, the black dragon? Reveal that I had snatched Dutiful back from a misadventure with the Witted and preserved him for the throne? How did Tom Badgerlock intersect with FitzChivalry Farseer? It suddenly seemed to me that truth-telling was just as hazardous as lying. One little bit of truth might lead to requiring another revelation. Where would it end?

I concentrated on the eating, not letting myself dwell on all the questions crowding into my brain. I had no intention of leaving my room today until someone Skilled to me or sent me a message.

So when I heard the light tap at my door, I set down my cup and stood immediately. The tap came again. And not from the chamber door, but from the concealed door that led to Chade’s old lair. ‘Fool?’ I queried softly, but no one replied. I triggered the door.

But it was not the Fool who waited there, but the crow. She looked up at me, turning her head to regard me with one bright eye. Then, as if she were the queen herself, she hopped gravely down the remaining steps and into the centre of the room.

It is common for folk who are not Witted to think that those of us with Old Blood can talk to any animal. We can’t. The Wit is a mutual exchange, a sharing of thoughts. Some creatures are more open than others; some cats will not only talk to anyone, but will natter on or nag or pester with absolutely no restraint. Even the person with only the tiniest shred of the Wit will find themselves standing to open the door before the cat has scratched at it, or calling the cat from across the room to share the best morsel of fish. Having been bonded to a wolf for so many years set my thoughts in a pattern that, I believed, made all creatures of that family more open to me. Dogs, wolves and even foxes have communicated with me from time to time. One hawk I have spoken with, at the bidding of her mistress. One small ferret, ever a hero in my heart. But no Witted one can simply arrow thoughts at a creature and expect to be understood. I considered trying, but the Wit swiftly becomes an intimate sharing. And I had little desire to develop such a bond with this bird. So I did not use the Wit, but only words as I said to her, ‘Well, you look much better than the last time I saw you. Would you like me to open the window for you?’

‘Dark,’ she said, and I was astonished at the clarity of the word, and how appropriate it was. I had heard birds trained to speak, but usually the human words they uttered were simple repetitions bereft of sense or context. The crow walked rather than hopped across the room and studied the window before fluttering to the top of my clothing chest. I did not stare at her. Few wild creatures are comfortable with that. Instead, I stepped carefully past her and opened the window.

Wind and chill came in: the storms of the past few days had paused but clouds promised more snow tonight. For a moment I stood and stared out over the castle walls. It had been years since I had studied this view. The forest had retreated. I could see farm cottages where once there had been only the sheep pastures, and pastures where there had been forest, and stumplands beyond that. My heart sank; once we had hunted there, my wolf and I, where now sheep pastured. The world had to change and for some reason the prosperity of men always results in them taking ever more from wild creatures and places. Foolish, perhaps, to feel that pang of regret for what was gone, and perhaps it was only felt by those who straddled the worlds of humans and beasts.

The crow fluttered to the windowsill. I stepped back carefully to give her room. ‘Fare well,’ I wished her and waited for her to go.

She cocked her head and looked at me. In that quick way birds have, she twisted her head again and looked out over the world. Then she opened her wings and with a flutter crossed the room and landed with a rattle of crockery on my breakfast tray. Wings spread wide, as if to remind me, she said, ‘White! White!’ Then without hesitation she snatched up and swallowed a shred of bacon. She stabbed at a bit of leftover bread and with a shake scattered it over the floor. She eyed it for a moment, and then disregarded it as she clattered her bill in a dish that had held apple compote.

While she dismembered my breakfast, I went to Lord Feldspar’s trunk. Yes, Chade had supplied him well. I found the bottle of ink. And a quill pen. I thought for a bit, then cleared the correspondence from the table. I reversed the quill and dipped the feathered end into the ink bottle and studied it. It would do. ‘Crow. Come here. I’ll paint you black.’

She dropped the piece of bacon she’d been trying to shred. ‘White! White!’

‘No white,’ I told her. I focused my Wit. No white.

She cocked her head and pointed one bright eye at me. I waited. With a clatter that sent my spoon to the floor, she lifted from my tray and hopped to the table.

‘Open your wings.’ She stared. I slowly lifted my arms wide. ‘Open. Show me the white.’

To understand what someone wants is not the same as trusting. She tried. She opened her wings. I tried to dab black on, but she fluttered her wings and spattered ink all over us. I tried again. I talked to her as I worked. ‘I’ve no idea if this will stand up to rain. Or wind. Or if your feathers will stick together. Open them. No, leave them open. So the ink dries. That’s it!’

By the time I began work on the second wing, she was more cooperative. My arms and my correspondence were freckled with ink. I finished her second wing and went over the first one again. Then I had to make her understand that I had to paint the undersides of her wings as well. ‘Now dry!’ I warned her, and she stood, wings outstretched. She rattled her pinions to put them in order and I was glad to see little spatter of ink. And when she folded them, she looked to me like an ordinary black crow.

‘No white!’ I told her. She turned her head and preened her feathers to smoothness. She seemed satisfied with my work, for she hopped abruptly back into the middle of my plate.

‘I’ll leave the window open for you,’ I told her, and left her there, making a mess of my unfinished breakfast.

I pulled the door shut behind me, for what Chade had told me once was true. That open window and this opened door together created a terrific draught in the apartments about.

I climbed the steep steps wondering how I could convey to the Fool all that had happened in one night. A foolish grin took command of my face. For the first time, I allowed myself to admit that part of me rejoiced. So long, so long, I had stood at the edge of the forest, looking at the lit windows in the distance. Buckkeep Castle was my home, had always been my home. Despite all my misgivings and fears, I allowed myself to imagine, for one delicious moment, that I could stand to my king’s left side during his judgments or be seated at the high table during a banquet. I imagined my small daughter dancing with me in the Great Hall. I would tell the Fool and he would understand my torn feelings. Then, with a rush of regret, I wished again that the Fool had been there last night, to see and hear Starling singing of my courage and brave and selfless deeds.

But he would have seen nothing of it. And like a hunted stag run off a cliff over a frozen lake, my mood plummeted into dark and cold. My exultation vanished and I almost dreaded telling him. Yesterday I had not mentioned Nettle’s pregnancy. Today I feared to tell him of King Dutiful’s public recognition of me.

My steps had slowed and by the time I reached the top of the stairs, I was plodding. So I was not prepared to see the Fool seated at Chade’s table, six candles burning bright in a tight circle before him. I was even less prepared for the lopsided smile with which he greeted me. ‘Fitz!’ he exclaimed, almost merrily, the scars on his face contorting his smile to a puppet’s grin. ‘I’ve news to share!’

‘And I,’ I rejoined, my spirits daring to lift a bit.

‘It’s good news,’ he told me, as if I could not have guessed that. I wondered if he was going to tell me my own tidings, and immediately resolved that if he wished to do so and take pleasure in it, then I would let him.

‘So I see,’ I told him, taking a seat at the table opposite him.

‘No, you don’t!’ he rejoined, his laughter bubbling up at a jest I didn’t share yet. ‘But I do!’

I sat for a long moment in silence, waiting for him to add words to that. Then, as often had happened in our youths, I suddenly grasped the meaning he intended. ‘Fool! You can see?’

‘I just told you that,’ he responded, and burst into hearty laughter.

‘Look at me!’ I commanded him, and he lifted his eyes but they did not meet my gaze. To my deep disappointment, they were still clouded and grey.

The smile on his face faded a little. ‘I can see light,’ he admitted. ‘I can tell light from darkness. Well, that’s not it exactly. Being blind isn’t darkness as you know darkness. Oh, it doesn’t matter, so I won’t try to explain it except to say, I know there are candles burning on the table before me. And when I turn my face away, I know there are not candles over there. Fitz, I think my eyesight is coming back. When you used the Skill on me that night … I knew that the sores on my back began to heal. But this is so much more than that.’

‘I did nothing to your eyes that night. It may simply be that a natural healing process has begun.’ I bit back the warning that nearly burst from me. Don’t hope too much. I knew how tenuous his health was. And yet, he could now perceive light. That had to mean he was starting to rally. ‘I’m glad for you. And we must keep you on the path. Have you eaten today?’

‘Oh, yes. I’ve eaten. Chade’s boy brought food, and seemed less fearful of me. Or perhaps more fascinated by the bird. And then Chade himself came by, with a parcel of things for you. Fitz! He told me all. And I am … befuddled. And happy for you. And frightened. How can such a time be, such a world where things happen that I never foresaw! And he told me that Starling played your story and sang it beautifully! Is it truly so? Did I dream it?’

A lurch of disappointment. I had not known how much I wished to tell him myself until I found he already knew. But his smile at my good fortune was everything I could have wished for.

‘No. It was all true. It was wonderful.’ And with him, I shared the moments that few others would have understood. I told him how Celerity, the Duchess of Bearns, heir to her sister Lady Hope, had set her hands on my shoulders. I had stared into her clear eyes. There were lines at the corners of her eyes and framing her mouth, but still a determined girl met my gaze. ‘I never doubted you. You should not have doubted me,’ she had said, and kissed my mouth softly before turning and walking quickly away, her husband shooting me a puzzled glare before he hastened after her. I recounted how Queen Elliania had cut a silver narwhal button from her cuff and given it to me, bidding me wear it always. He smiled to that, and then his face grew thoughtful when I told him that people that I scarcely recalled had taken my hand and pressed it, or slapped my shoulder. Some had smiled incredulously, a few had wept. Very disconcerting were those who tipped me a wink or leaned in to whisper, ‘Remember well that I kept your secret,’ and messages of that ilk. Worst of all was a young guardsman who strode boldly past the waiting nobility. Sparks of anger had danced in his eyes as he said, ‘My grandfather died thinking he had sent you to your death. To the end of his days, Blade believed he had betrayed you. He, I think, you might have trusted.’ Then he had turned on his heel and was engulfed by the crowd before I could speak a word to him.

I found myself speaking softly as if I were telling an old tale to a young child. And giving it a happy ending, when all know that tales never end, and the happy ending is but a moment to catch one’s breath before the next disaster. But I didn’t want to think about that. I didn’t want to wonder what would happen next.

‘Did Chade say why he had done it?’ he asked me.

I gave a shrug he could not see. ‘He said it was time. That both Shrewd and Verity would have wanted it to happen. Having emerged from the shadows himself, he said he could not leave me there.’ I rummaged on one of Chade’s shelves and then another before I found what I sought. Spirits of wine. I lit my own candle at the fire and found a rag. I damped the rag and began to remove my ink freckles. They were hard to get off. Good for the crow, annoying for me. I moved to Chade’s mirror, scrubbing at the spots on my face.

‘What is that smell? What are you doing?’

‘Getting ink off my face. I was painting the crow’s white feathers black so she could go out without being pecked and chased.’

‘Painting a crow. Prince FitzChivalry amuses himself painting crows the day after his acknowledgment by the throne.’ He laughed. A very good sound.

‘Chade left a package for me?’

‘At the end of the table,’ he said. He had fixed his gaze once more on the candles, revelling in whatever trace of their brilliance he could perceive. And so I did not take any of them, but moved the parcel to their vicinity and began to unfasten it. It smelled of earth. It was wrapped in leather, and tied with leather straps. The knots were green with disuse and the white-edged stains on the leather were from damp. The ties had not been undone in a very long time, and I suspected that at some point it had been stored outside, perhaps for a winter. Possibly buried somewhere. As I worked on the knots, the Fool observed, ‘He left you a note as well. What does it say?’

‘I haven’t read it yet.’

‘Shouldn’t you read it before you open the parcel?’

‘Did he say I should?’

‘He seemed to take a very long time to think about it, and then he wrote only a few words. I heard the scratching of his pen, and many sighs.’

I stopped working on the straps. I tried to decide which made me more curious, the letter or the parcel. I lifted one candle and saw the single sheet of paper on the table. I’d missed it in the dimness. I reached, trapped it and slid it toward me. Like most of Chade’s missives there was no date, no greeting and no signature. Only a few lines of writing.

‘What does it say?’ the Fool demanded.

‘“I did as he bade me. The conditions were never met. I trust you to understand. I think you should have it now.”’

‘Oh. Better and better,’ the Fool exclaimed. And added, ‘I think you should just cut the straps. You’ll never get those old knots out.’

‘You already tried, didn’t you?’

He shrugged and tipped a grin at me. ‘It would have saved you the trouble of struggling with them.’

I tormented both of us by working at the stubborn knots for some little time. Leather that has been knotted, wet, and then left to dry can seem as hard as iron. In the end, I drew my belt-knife and sawed through the straps. I tugged them off the parcel and then struggled to unfold the leather that surrounded whatever it was. It was not soft leather, but heavy, the sort one would use for a saddle. It creaked as I pried it open and brought out something wrapped in a still-greasy cloth. I set it with a thunk on the table.

‘What is it?’ the Fool demanded, and reached to send his fingers dancing over the concealed item.

‘Let’s find out.’ The greasy cloth proved to be a heavy canvas sack. I found the opening, reached in and pulled out …

‘It’s a crown,’ the Fool exclaimed, his fingers touching it almost as soon as my eyes saw it.

‘Not exactly.’ Crowns are not usually made of steel. And Hod had not been a maker of crowns but a maker of swords. She had been an excellent weaponsmaster. I turned the plain circlet of steel in my hands, knowing this was her work though I could not have explained to anyone how I recognized it. And there, there was her maker’s mark, unobtrusive but proud inside the circlet.

‘There’s something else here.’ The Fool’s hands had gone questing like ferrets into the opened leather parcel and now he held out a wooden tube to me. I took it silently. We both knew it would contain a scroll. The ends of the tube were plugged with red wax. I studied it in the candlelight.

‘Verity’s seal,’ I told him softly. I hated to mar the imprint, but nonetheless I dug the wax out with my belt-knife, and then tipped the tube and shook it. The scroll was stubborn. It had been in there a long time. When it finally emerged I just looked at it. Water had not touched it.

‘Read it,’ the Fool’s whisper urged me.

I unrolled the vellum carefully. This was Verity’s hand, the careful lettering of a man who loved to draw, to make maps and chart terrain, to sketch fortifications and draw battle-plans. He had written large, dark and plain. My king’s hand. My throat tightened. It was a moment before I could speak. My voice was higher as I spoke past tightness.

‘Be it known by my seal on this document and by the testimony of the trusted bearer, Chade Fallstar, that this scroll is the true desire of King-in-Waiting Verity Farseer. In plain words let me say, I leave today on a quest from which I may not return. I leave my queen, Kettricken of the Mountains, with child. If in my absence my father, King Shrewd, should die, I commend my lady to the protection of my nephew, FitzChivalry Farseer. If word of my death be returned, then I desire that he be recognized formally as protector of my heir. If my queen perish and my heir survive, then I stipulate that FitzChivalry Farseer is to reign as regent until such time as my heir is able to assume the throne. And if none survive me, neither father, nor queen nor heir, then it is my will that FitzChivalry Farseer be recognized as my heir. It is not my wish that my younger brother Regal Farseer inherit my crown. I do most ardently urge that my dukes recognize and affirm my will in this matter.’ I paused to catch my breath. ‘And his signature is below it.’

‘And this would have been your crown.’ The Fool’s scarred fingertips traced the rim of the simple circlet. ‘Not a jewel to be touched. And sword-steel, by the feel of it. Wait, wait! Not so plain, perhaps. Here. What is this?’

I took the crown from him and tilted it to the candlelight. It was engraved into the plain circlet. ‘A charging buck.’

‘He gave you that emblem.’

‘Verity did,’ I said quietly. My voice tightened up a notch as I observed, ‘It’s just the charging buck. There is no slash across it to mark me a bastard.’

There was a very long silence. The candles burned and at the other end of the room a log slumped on the hearth. ‘Do you wish it had come to pass?’ the Fool asked me.

‘No! Of course not!’ That would have been like wishing death on Shrewd and Kettricken and her unborn child. ‘But … I do wish I had known. There were times when it would have meant a great deal to me.’ A tear tracked down my cheek. I let it fall.

‘And not now?’

‘Oh, and still now. To know he thought me worthy, to guard his queen and his child. And to step up and claim the throne after him.’

‘Then you never wished to be king?’

‘No.’ Liar. But the lie was so old and so oft repeated that most of the time I believed it.

He gave a small sigh. When I realized it was of relief, not sadness for the smallness of my ambitions, I wondered why. He answered before I asked.

‘When Chade told me you had been formally acknowledged, and that most of the folk there were inclined to lionize you and welcome you home, I worried. And when my fingers touched your crown, I feared.’

‘Feared what?’

‘That you would want to stay here at Buckkeep Castle. That you would enjoy being seen as what you have always been, not the King-in-Waiting but the King-in-the-Shadows.’

Such a title to give me. ‘And that made you fear … what?’

‘That you would be reluctant to leave the acclaim you had finally earned. That you would go without heart to my errand.’

His errand. A return to my old role as assassin. To deflect him from any thoughts of the murders he’d assigned me, I hastily mentioned his other errand. ‘Fool. I will do all I can to find the son you suspect you have left somewhere. Doubtless it would make my task much easier if you could recall for me the women you have lain with who might have borne such a child, and when it might have happened.’

He gave a snort of displeasure. ‘Fitz! Have you listened not at all to what I told you? There is no such woman, nor a child conceived in that way. I told you that.’

My mind reeled. ‘No. No, you didn’t. I am sure that if you had told me such a thing, I would have remembered it. And that I would have immediately asked, as I do now, then how have you made a son?’

‘You don’t listen,’ he said sadly. ‘I explain things, quite clearly, but if it’s not what you expect to hear, you set it aside. Fitz. This crown. Would it fit?’

‘It’s not a crown, not really.’ He had changed the subject again. I knew that he would not explain until he decided to do it. I tried to conceal my relief that he’d let me get away with my deflection as I turned the cold steel in my hands. The last time I’d worn a crown, it had been wooden and decorated with roosters. No. Don’t summon that memory now. I lifted the circlet and set it on my head. ‘It fits, I suppose. I’m not sure how it’s supposed to fit.’

‘Let me touch it.’ He rose and groped his way around the end of the table to where I sat. His hands felt for me, found a shoulder, the side of my face and then fluttered up to my head and the crown there. He lifted it slightly, and then, with no self-consciousness at all, measured the length of my hair. He walked his fingers down my face, touching the break in my nose, the old scar, the scruff of beard on my chin. If anyone else had done it, it would have felt invasive. Insulting. But I knew he was comparing what I looked like now to what he recalled.

He cleared his throat then lifted the circlet in his hands. He spoke more gravely than I had ever heard him as he uttered the words, ‘FitzChivalry Farseer. I crown you King-in-the-Shadows of the Six Duchies.’ He set the circlet on my head, settling it carefully. The steel was cold and heavy. It settled there as if it would never move again. He cleared his throat once more and after a pause he added, ‘You’re a handsome man still, Fitz. Not as pretty as before Regal broke your face. But you’ve aged well, I judge.’

‘That old Skill-healing,’ I shrugged. ‘My body just keeps repairing itself, whether I wish it or not.’

I took off the steel crown and set it on top of the oily canvas that had sheltered it. Light ran along the edge of it like blood on a swordblade.

‘I wish that were my situation,’ the Fool returned. His gaze went back to the candles. For a long time, we were both silent. Then he said softly, ‘Fitz. My eyes. Being blind … they used that. To make me fearful and cowering. I need to see. I dread the thought of setting out on our quest still blinded. I will if I must. But … Could you …’

So much for my deflection. He was still planning murders. I had told him I could not go on his quest, but he persisted in ignoring what I’d said. Let it go. ‘Tell me what they did to your eyes,’ I said as quietly.

He held up a helpless hand. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps they did not even intend to do it, but once it was done, they made full use of it. They … oh, Fitz. There was a beating. And another one. My eyes were swollen shut. And another beating. And—’

I stopped him. ‘And when the swelling went down, you could no longer see.’

He drew in a deep breath. I saw how he fought to tell me a tale of things he wanted only to forget. ‘At first, I kept thinking it was night. Or that I was in a dark cell. They did that some times. If you are in the dark always, you can’t tell how much time has passed. I think, I think that sometimes they brought me water and food at very long intervals, and sometimes they brought me food quickly. To confuse me about time passing. It was a long time before I realized I couldn’t see. And a longer time before I knew it wasn’t going away.’

‘That’s enough. I just needed to know a bit, to help me.’

Another silence. Then he whispered, ‘Will you try now?’

I was silent. To do so would risk my own vision. Could I tell him that now, while such hope burned in his face? He looked more like my old Fool than he had since Aslevjal. His vision was so important to him. Restoring it was key to his locating his son, and his ridiculous quest to assassinate all the Servants was the only purpose that he had left to him. Last night I’d had the triumph of a dream I’d never allowed myself to dream. Could I destroy his hopes today?

I’d be careful. So careful. Surely I’d be able to tell if I were endangering myself?

Was I more like Chade than I wished to be? Did I always want to find out how far I could push the magic, what I could do if no one restrained me? I pushed aside the itching question.

‘Now? Why not?’ I said. I pushed my chair back and walked around the table to him. ‘Face me,’ I told him quietly. Obediently, he turned away from the candles. I pulled one of them closer and studied his face in its flickering light. He had scarring on the tops of his cheeks, right below the deep hollows under his eyes. It was the sort of puckering seen on the faces of men who have been in many fist-fights. The skin splits easily where flesh is a thin layer over bone. I moved my chair, placing it so that I faced him. I sat down. ‘I’m going to touch you,’ I warned him and took his chin in my hand. I turned his face slowly from side to side, studying the scars that meticulous torture and crude battering had left there. I remembered suddenly how Burrich had studied my face after Galen had beaten me. I set two fingers to his face and pressed gently as I traced a circle around his left eye. He winced more than once. Then the right. It was the same. I guessed at bone that had fractured and healed unevenly. In one place, there was a definite dent in his facial bones near his temple. Touching that made me feel queasy. But could that have been what blinded him? I didn’t know. I took a deep breath. I would be careful this time. I vowed I would not risk either of us. I set my hands to both sides of his face. I closed my eyes. ‘Fool,’ I said softly. And just that easily, I found him.

And the Fool was there. The last time, he had been deeply unconscious, unaware of how I moved through him with his blood. Now I felt his hands come to rest on mine. That would help. I knew how his face had looked but he would recall how his face had felt. I started with my fingertips under his eyes. I called to mind the drawings in Chade’s old scrolls from the Flayer, and the human skull that probably still reposed in the cabinet in the corner. I whispered as our hands moved together. ‘When adjacent bone breaks, sometimes it fuses incorrectly. Here. Feel that? We need to undo that.’

And so we worked, not quickly. We moved bone, bit by tiny bit. Where his face had broken, it had healed with ridges and seams. Some reminded me of the cracks one makes when one taps a hard-boiled egg before shelling it. It was not something to be hurried, the painstaking exploration of the bones of his face. As we worked, touch and Skill combined, and we followed one fine crack down from the lower rim of his left eye to his upper jaw. The tops of his cheekbones were a maze of tiny cracks. At the outer corner of his right eye, a hard blow had crushed bone, leaving an indentation that pressed on the tissue beneath it. We worked for some time, moving tiny bits of bone to both ease pressure and fill the hollow.

To describe it makes it seem a simple thing. It wasn’t. The tiny movements of minuscule motes of bone were still a breaking away and a reforming. I clenched my jaws against the Fool’s pain until my own head pounded with it. We did no more than the lower expanses below both his eyes. My strength was flagging and my determination failing me when the Fool lifted his hands from the backs of mine.

‘Stop. Stop, Fitz. I am so tired now. It hurts. And the pain wakens all the memories.’

‘Very well,’ I agreed hoarsely, but it took some time for me to separate my awareness from his body. I felt as if I returned to my own flesh from a long and vivid nightmare. The last step of that withdrawal was my lifting of my hands from his face. When I opened my eyes to regard him, the room swam before me. I felt a moment of terror. I’d gone too far and damaged my sight! But it was only weariness. As I stared, the dim room yielded to my vision. I shuddered with relief. The candles had burned down to half their length. I did not know how much time had passed, but my shirt was sweated to my back and my mouth as dry as if I had run to Buckkeep Town and back. As soon as I released the Fool from my touch, he dropped his face into his hands and cradled it, his elbows on the table.

‘Fool. Sit up. Open your eyes. Tell me if we accomplished anything.’

He obeyed me but he shook his head as he did so. ‘I did not close my eyes. I kept them open. Hoping. But nothing changed.’

‘I’m sorry.’ And I was. I was sorry he was blind and fiercely glad I had not lost my own sight trying to heal his. I had to ask myself how hard I had truly tried. Had I been holding back? I didn’t want to think I had, but I could not find an honest answer. I thought of telling the Fool my fear. What would he ask of me? That I help him regain sight in one eye by giving up one of mine? Would he demand that much of me? Would I agree or deny him? I measured myself and found I was less courageous than I’d believed. And more selfish. I leaned back in my own chair and closed my eyes for a time.

I jolted awake when the Fool touched my arm.

‘So you were asleep. You suddenly became very quiet. Fitz. Will you be all right?’ There was apology in his voice.

‘I will. I’m just very tired. Last night’s … revelation exhausted me. And I didn’t sleep well.’ I reached up to rub my eyes, and flinched at my own touch. My face was swollen and warm to the touch, as if I’d been in a fight.

Oh.

I gingerly prodded the tops of my cheekbones and the outer sockets of my eyes. Even if I had not given him his vision back, I would pay a toll for what I had done for him.

Why?

None of the other Skill-healings I’d assisted with had affected me this way. Thick had done a prodigious amount of healing on Aslevjal Island and shown no ill-effects at all. The only difference that came to my mind was my connection to the Fool. It was far more than a Skill-connection: when I had called him back from the other side of death we had had a moment of profound joining. Perhaps we had never truly parted.

I blinked and measured my vision again. I noticed no difference, no hazing. I was almost certain that while we had repaired bone we hadn’t done anything that would benefit his eyesight. I wondered if I would have the courage to attempt any further healing of him. I thought of all I had glimpsed that was broken inside him, all the lingering infections and badly healed damage. How much of that must I take on if I continued my attempts to heal him? Could anyone fault me for refusing to make such a sacrifice? I cleared my throat.

‘Are you certain there is no difference in your vision?’

‘I can’t really tell. Perhaps I perceive more light. My face is sore, but in a different way. The soreness of healing, perhaps. Did you find anything when you were … inside my body? Could you tell what stole my sight?’

‘It’s not like that, Fool. I could tell that there were breaks in your facial bones that hadn’t healed properly. And I put them on the path to healing, and tried to undo some of the places where the bones were not aligned as they should be.’

He lifted questioning hands to his face. ‘Bones? I thought the skull was one bone, mostly.’

‘It’s not. If you wish, later I can show you a human skull.’

‘No. Thank you. I’ll take your word for it. Fitz, I can tell by your voice that you found something else. Is more wrong with me than you wish to tell me?’

I chose my words carefully. No lies this time. ‘Fool, we may have to go more slowly with your healing. The process is demanding for me. We must employ good food and rest as much as we can, and save magical efforts for the more difficult injuries.’ I knew those words were true. I tried not to follow that thought to its logical conclusion.

‘But—’ he began and then halted. I watched the brief struggle in his expression. He so desperately needed to be well and on his quest and yet, as a true friend, he would not ask me to exert myself past my strengths. He’d seen me exhausted from Skill-efforts, and knew what the physical demands could be. I did not need to tell him that the healings might do actual injuries to me. He did not need to bear the guilt for what I’d already done to myself. That was my own doing. He turned his clouded gaze back to the candles. ‘Where did Motley go?’

‘Motley?’

‘The crow.’ He seemed embarrassed to reply. ‘Before she went down to you, we were talking, well, not really, though she knows quite a few words and almost seems to make sense some times. I was asking her, “What’s your name?” Because, well, because it was so quiet up here. At first she said random things in reply. “Stop that!” and “It’s dark” and “Where’s my food?” And finally she said back to me, “What’s your name?” It rattled me for a moment, until I realized she was just mimicking me.’ A tentative smile dawned on his face.

‘So you named her Motley?’

‘I just started calling her Motley. And shared my food with her. You said she came down to you and you painted her. Where is she now?’

I hated to tell him. ‘She came down the stairs and tapped at the secret door. I let her into my room, where she ate half my breakfast. I left the window open for her; I suspect she’s gone by now.’

‘Oh.’ The depth of disappointment in his tone surprised me.

‘I’m sorry.’ He said nothing. ‘She’s a wild creature, Fool. It’s for the best.’

He sighed. ‘I am not certain you are correct about that. Eventually the ink will fade and then what? Her own kind attacks her, Fitz. And crows are flock birds, unaccustomed to being solitary. What will become of her?’

I knew he was right. ‘I don’t know,’ I said quietly. ‘But I also don’t know what else I can do for her.’

‘Keep her,’ he suggested. ‘Give her a place to be and food. Shelter from storms and her enemies.’ He cleared his throat. ‘The same things that King Shrewd offered to a misfit creature.’

‘Fool, I scarcely think that’s a valid comparison. She’s a crow, not a youngster alone in the world.’

‘A youngster. In appearance. Young in terms of my kind, yes. Naïve and unlearned in the wider world in which I found myself. But almost as different from King Shrewd as a crow is from a man. Fitz, you know me. You’ve been me. You know that you and I are as much unlike as we are alike. As like and unlike as you and Nighteyes were. Motley, I think, is as like me as Nighteyes was like you.’

I pinched my lips shut for a moment and then relented. ‘I’ll go and see if I can find her for you. And if I can find her, and if she will come, I’ll bring her up here to you. And set out water and food for her.’

‘Would you?’ His scarred smile was beatific.

‘I will.’ And I rose in that moment, and went down the steps and opened the door to my room. Where I found Motley waiting.

‘Dark,’ she informed me gravely. She hopped up a step, then the next one, and on the third one she turned to look back at me. ‘What’s your name?’ she demanded of me.

‘Tom,’ I said reflexively.

‘Fitz—Chivalry!’ she squawked derisively, and continued her hopping ascent.

‘FitzChivalry,’ I agreed, and found myself smiling. I followed her to make her comfortable.

TEN
Tidings

Report for my master

Befriending the scarred man has not been as difficult as we thought it might be. I have realized that part of my reluctance for this assignment was that I feared his appearance. My greatest hurdle, I now perceive, was that I needed to overcome my fear of him before I could lull his fear of me.

It has not been easy to observe him while remaining unobserved as you requested. His blindness seems to have enhanced his other senses. Sometimes, if I arrive before he awakens, I can spend some little time before he is aware of me, but thrice now he has turned his face unerringly toward me and asked ‘Who is there?’ And his fearfulness is such a sad thing to behold that I have not had the will to pretend I am absent. Once, when I crept into the chamber, I found him fallen by the bed and unable to rise. In his distress and pain, he was unaware of me and struggled for some time. I judged that, although he still possesses some strength, he is in such pain that he is unable to raise his body from certain positions. I tried to be an observer only, but when I could stand it no longer, I scuffed my feet as if I had just entered and immediately called out to him that I would be happy to help. It was still difficult for me to put my hands on him and harder still for me to allow him to grip onto me to help him rise. But I overcame my dislike of his touch, and I think it gained me a great deal of regard and trust from him that I did so.

He has not been as reticent to speak to me as you said he might, but instead has shared many tales of his boyhood as King Shrewd’s jester, and stories of himself and Prince FitzChivalry when they were boys. He has also told me tales of his journey to the Mountain Kingdom with Queen Kettricken and his days there when all believed that King Verity was dead and the true Farseer lineage come to an end. And I have heard of the days he spent in the Mountains helping to seek the king, and of his times with Prince FitzChivalry there. Truly, they are tales of heroism and courage beyond any I could have imagined. And I have undertaken to write them down in a separate document, for I think there may be events there that even you have not heard about previously.

For now, I judge I have completed this assignment. I have gained his trust and his confidence. I know that was the sole aim of this exercise, but I will tell you also that I feel I have gained a friend. And for that, my good master, I thank you as much as I thank you for my other instruction.

As you bade me, I have kept my secret and neither seems to have perceived it. The test will be, of course, when they meet me in my true guise. Will either recognize me? I will wager the blind will perceive more than the sighted one.

The Apprentice

After I’d left the Fool with Motley, I had returned to my room, intending to think. But instead, exhausted by the Skill-healing, I had slept. And when at last I awoke, I had no idea what time of day it was.

I rubbed the sleep from my face, wincing at the tenderness around my eyes, then went to the looking-glass and discovered that indeed I looked as bad as I felt. I had feared to find darkness and bruising. Instead my face was puffy and swollen, with a few spatters of ink still. Well, I supposed that was better than looking as if I’d had both eyes blacked in a tavern brawl. I went to the window, opened the shutters and looked out on the setting sun. I felt rested, hungry and reclusive. The idea of leaving my room and venturing out into Buckkeep Castle to find food daunted me.

What was my role to be, now that I was FitzChivalry once more? Even now that I was rested, my efforts to put what had happened into political, social and familial context had failed. In truth, I’d been expecting that someone would summon me. I’d expected a missive from Kettricken, or a Skill-nudge from Chade or Nettle or Dutiful, but there had been nothing. Slowly it came to me that perhaps my relatives were waiting to hear from me.

I damped a towel in my ewer and put the cool bandage over my swollen face. Then I sat down on the edge of my bed, composed myself, stiffened my resolve and reached out to Nettle.

How are you? A question that might have been banal at any other time was now freighted with significance.

How are you? she echoed me. You’ve been so quiet!

I’m stunned, still.

Are you happy it happened?

I had to think about that for a long moment. I think I am. But I’m probably as frightened as I am happy. And you?

It changes so many things in such profound ways. We shared a time of quiet awareness of each other. Her thoughts touched me hesitantly. Yesterday. I am so sorry for the things I said. Today, when I think of how I struck at you, I’m appalled. Mother, when she was carrying, would have bursts like that. Lightning strikes of wild emotions. Burrich would send me out with the older boys and he would stay and face her and weather her storm. It always ended with her weeping in his arms. I felt so annoyed with her, for being so emotional and weak. Wryly she added, Why does understanding come so late to us?

Poor Burrich.

I felt her amusement. And poor Riddle, I suppose?

He can withstand it. As Burrich did. And so can I, Nettle. Your mother and I had a few moments like that when she was carrying Bee. It almost comforts me to imagine that they weren’t entirely my fault!

Actually, I’m certain they were. She was gently mocking me, I realized with surprise. And enjoyment.

You’re probably right, I admitted. I pulled my thoughts away from Molly before my sorrow could rise. Then I thought again of Bee. Now was not the time to insist to Nettle that I could be a good father and that I was determined to keep Bee at my side, because all of that would be balanced on the issue of what happened next to the resurrected FitzChivalry Farseer. Back to the matter at hand. At some point, we must gather to speak of what has happened. The quiet had begun to seem ominous to me.

We did. We wondered why you did not join us, and Lord Chade said that it was probably a very large shock for you. He urged us to give you time to reach your own decisions.

No one summoned me.

A moment of startled silence. No one summoned me, either. Not Chade, nor Dutiful. We simply gathered in Verity’s Tower early this morning and tried to make sense of what must come next.

Oh. I pondered that for a moment. Not including myself was not the same as being excluded. Of course they would meet there and at that hour. I pulled my thoughts back on course. Who was there?

Who you might expect. The king and queen, Lord Chade, Lady Kettricken, myself. Lady Rosemary. Riddle of course.

Of course? That last name had not seemed obvious to me at all. And what was decided?

About you? Nothing. We had much else to discuss. Your situation is worth an entire meeting on its own.

So, what was discussed?

I wish you had been there. Summarizing is not going to convey all the currents and tides that moved there. Lord Chade came thinking he might rebuke the queen for her headlong action and thinking that perhaps I had influenced her. Queen Elliania rapidly cleared those thoughts from his mind and I am pleased to say that both her husband and Lady Kettricken sided with her. Lady Kettricken then spoke of Riddle’s long service to Chade, to you, to the crown in general, and said that as it was completely within her power to do so, he is now Lord Riddle of Spruce Keep.

I’ve never heard of Spruce Keep.

Evidently it exists on the older maps of the Mountain Kingdom, with a different name in the Mountain tongue. It’s deserted now, and probably has been for several generations. The fortification there may not be standing at all, any more. But as the Mountain Queen pointed out, it matters little what is there. He now has title to it. Evidently it was one of her brother’s holdings and has sat empty since before his death. And she says that ‘lord’ is not an appropriate translation of the Mountain concept of what that title would be, but that also matters little. Riddle has the appropriate attitude of being willing to sacrifice himself for the sake of others.

I sat and silently pondered that. Bitter mixed with the sweet. Kettricken was right. In the Mountains, the rulers were not named king or queen, but Sacrifice. And they were expected to be willing to do anything, even to accepting death, in the service of those they ruled. Had not Riddle done that, and more than once? And yet he had been judged too common to marry a Farseer daughter, even one that was a bastard. Denied for years. And in a night, solved. Why had it taken so long? Anger rumbled through me like thunder in the distance. Useless anger. Let it go.

Will you wed officially now?

It will be recognized that we are wed.

She was safe. My daughter and her unborn child were safe. The level of relief that washed through me must have reached Nettle.

You were that concerned for me?

It has long bothered me that you were not allowed to wed as you wished. And when Riddle told me there would be a child, well. I have been a bastard Farseer in Buckkeep Castle, Nettle. I would not wish it on anyone.

Have you eaten today?

Some breakfast. A crow took the rest.

What?

A long tale. One that involves Web.

Are you hungry? Come eat with us.

Where?

The high table. In the Great Hall. Suppressed amusement.

I may. I pulled my thoughts back into my own mind and stared at the wall. How could I do this? Just leave my room, walk down the stairs, enter the Great Hall and seat myself at the high table. Would a place be waiting for me? Would people stare at me and whisper behind their hands?

Impulsively, I Skilled to Chade. Was it hard to come out of the labyrinth and into the light?

Whatever are you talking about? Fitz, are you well?

Nettle invited me to join you for dinner. At the high table.

My heart beat twelve times before he responded. It is what will be expected, yes. Your absence today has been rather dramatic and suspenseful for some. A few nobles who had planned to depart early today, now that Winterfest is over, have delayed their departures. I think they hope for a second glimpse of the mysteriously young and alive FitzChivalry Farseer. Given all that happened last night, it will cause far more speculation if you do not appear at dinner. And your question makes sense to me now. For me, the only difficulty was to ease back into society rather than exploding into it. I was a rat lurking behind the walls for many years. Longing for society, for light and moving air. My transition was less abrupt and strange than yours will be. But as I told you last night, Fitz, it is time and past time. I will expect to see you at dinner.

I veiled my thoughts from him. Anxiety twisted my guts.

Dress appropriately, he suggested.

What? I felt a rush of dismay.

I could almost hear his sigh. Fitz. Straighten your thoughts. Tonight you will be FitzChivalry Farseer, the Witted Bastard, abruptly revealed as the hidden hero of the Red-Ship War. It’s your new role here at Buckkeep Castle, just as Lord Chade is mine. And Dutiful is the king. We all parade our roles, Fitz. Sometimes, in the comforts of our own chambers, we are who we are with old friends. Or at least who our old friends expect us to be. So, think well on it, and live up to the expectations of the folk of Buckkeep Castle, both noble and humble. It is not a time for you to be unremarkable. Prepare.

I found your note. And the crown.

Do not wear that!

I laughed out loud. It had not even crossed my thoughts to do so! I just wanted to thank you. And to let you know I understand.

He sent me no words, only a shared emotion that I had no name for. Snapping my teeth after meat I could not kill, Nighteyes might have named it. The poignant regret of nearly claiming something. I wondered what Chade had dreamed of claiming.

He departed from my mind. I sat, blinking. Slowly it came to me that Chade was completely right. So, my role was the mysterious returning Witted Bastard, wronged all those years ago. What part of that was untrue? So why was I so acutely uncomfortable at being that? I put my elbows on my knees and lowered my face into my hands, and then jerked upright when my fingers touched my swollen eyes. I got up and fetched my looking-glass and studied my reflection again. Could I have chosen a worse time to look peculiar?

I looked down at the clothing that Ash had chosen for me that morning. Then I scooped an armful of extra clothing from the travelling trunk, triggered the door and went back up to the lair. I did not have much time. I took the stairs two at a time and was speaking before I entered the room. ‘Fool, I need your help!’

Then I felt foolish. For both Ash and the Fool turned toward me. They had been seated at the table, feeding things to the crow. She had made a remarkable mess of bread bits and scattered grain and was now holding down a chicken bone as she stripped meat from it.

‘Sir?’ Ash responded as the Fool turned to me and said, ‘Fitz?’

I did not have time for subtleties. ‘I’m not sure my clothing is right. I’m to join the king and queen at the high table, with Lord Chade and Lady Nettle. There will be others there, looking on. And I must present myself as FitzChivalry Farseer, the Witted Bastard, returned from his sojourn among the Elderlings. Last night was one thing. They were taken by surprise. But tonight, Chade has said I must give them—’

‘The hero,’ the Fool said quietly. ‘Not the prince. The hero.’ He turned to Ash and spoke as if I were incompetent to answer. ‘What is he wearing?’

Ash bristled, just a trifle. ‘The clothing I chose for him earlier in the day.’

‘I’m blind,’ the Fool reminded him tartly.

‘Oh. I beg pardon, sir. He has on a brown vest decorated with buttons of horn, over a white shirt, the sleeves cut full, with a dozen or so buttons on long cuffs. The collar is open at the throat. He is wearing no jewellery. His trousers are a darker brown, with a line of buttons, also horn, down the outer seams. He’s wearing heeled shoes with a plain but lifted toe.’ He cleared his throat. ‘And his face is splotched with mud.’

‘It’s ink!’ I objected.

‘As if that matters,’ the boy muttered.

The Fool interrupted. ‘The buttons. How recent a fashion are they here?’

‘A few folk were wearing them last summer, but now everyone—’

‘Fitz, come here. Stand before me.’

I did as he told me, amazed to see that he almost looked animated. I wondered when anyone had last demanded his help. When he felt me standing before him, he lifted his hands and ran them over my garments as if I were a horse he was considering buying. He felt the fabrics, touched the rows of buttons, tugged at my collar and then touched my chin.

‘Don’t shave,’ he instructed me abruptly, as if I had been poised with razor in hand. ‘Ash. Can you cut the buttons from the trousers and leave no trace they were ever there?’

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