by Robin Hobb
The Fool sighed heavily. "It is not a thing I can command, my king. You know that. Like your visions, mine rule me, not the reverse. I cannot pluck a thread from the tapestry, but must look where my eyes are pointed. The future, my king, is like a current in a channel. I cannot tell you where one drop of water goes, but I can tell you where the flow is strongest."
"A woman at Siltbay," I insisted. Part of me pitied my poor fool, but another part insisted. "I would not have seen her so clearly if she were not important. Try. Who was she?"
"She is significant?"
"Yes. I am sure of it. Oh, yes."
The Fool sat cross-legged on the floor. He put his long thin fingers to his temples and pressed as if trying to open a door. "I know not. I don't understand… All is a muddle, all is a crossroads. The tracks are trampled, the scents gone awry…" He looked up at me. Somehow I had stood, but he sat on the floor at my feet, looking up at me. His pale eyes goggled in his eggshell face. He swayed from the strain, smiled foolishly. He considered his rat scepter, went nose to nose with it. "Did you know any such Molly, Ratsy? No? I didn't think you would. Perhaps he should ask someone more in a position to know. The worms, perhaps." A silly giggling seized him. Useless creature. Silly riddling soothsayer. Well, he could not help what he was. I left him and walked slowly back to my bed.
I sat on the edge of it.
I found I was shaking as if with an ague. A seizure, I told myself. I must calm myself or risk a seizure. Did I want the Fool to see me twitching and gasping? I didn't care. Nothing mattered, except finding out if that was my Molly, and if so, had she perished? I had to know. I had to know if she had died, and if she had died, how she had died. Never had the knowing of something been so essential to me.
The Fool crouched on the rug like a pale toad. He wet his lips and smiled at me. Pain sometimes can wring such a smile from a man. "It's a very glad song, the one they sing about Siltbay," he observed. "A triumphant song. The villagers won, you see. Didn't win life for themselves, no, but clean death. Well, death anyway. Death, not Forging. At least that's something. Something to make a song about and hold on to these days. That's how it is in Six Duchies now. We kill our own so the Raiders can't, and then we make victory songs about it. Amazing what folk will take comfort in when there's nothing else to hold on to."
My vision softened. I knew suddenly that I dreamed. "I'm not even here," I said faintly. "This is a dream. I dream that I am King Shrewd."
He held his pale hand up to the firelight, considered the bones limned so plainly in the thin flesh. "If you say so, my liege, it must be so. I, too, then, dream you are King Shrewd. If I pinch you, perhaps, shall I awaken myself?"
I looked down at my hands. They were old and scarred. I closed them, watched veins and tendons bulge beneath the papery surface, felt the sandy resistance of my own swollen knuckles. I'm an old man now, I thought to myself. This is what it really feels like to be old. Not sick, where one might get better. Old. When each day can only be more difficult, each month is another burden to the body. Everything was slipping sideways. I had thought, briefly, that I was fifteen. From somewhere came the scent of scorching flesh and burning hair. No, rich beef stew. No, Jonqui's healing incense. The mingling scents made me nauseous. I had lost track of who I was, of what was important. I scrabbled at the slippery logic, trying to surmount it. It was hopeless. "I don't know," I whispered. "I don't understand any of this."
"Ah," said the Fool. "As I told you. You can only understand a thing when you become it."
"Is this what it means to be King Shrewd, then?" I demanded. It shook me to my core. I had never seen him like this, racked by the pains of age but still relentlessly confronted by the pains of his subjects. "Is this what he must endure, day after day?"
"I fear it is, my liege," the Fool replied gently. "Come. Let me help you back into your bed. Surely, tomorrow you will feel better."
"No. We both know I will not." I did not speak those terrible words. They came from King Shrewd's lips, and I heard them, and knew that this was the debilitating truth King Shrewd bore every day. I was so terribly tired. Every part of me ached. I had not known that flesh could be so heavy, that the mere bending of a finger could demand a painful effort. I wanted to rest. To sleep again. Was it I, or Shrewd? I should let the Fool put me to bed, let my king have his rest. But the Fool kept holding that one key morsel of information just above my snapping jaws. He juggled away the one mote of knowledge I must possess to be whole.
"Did she die there?" I demanded.
He looked at me sadly. He stooped abruptly, picked up his rat scepter again. A tiny pearl of a tear trickled down Ratsy's cheek. He focused on it and his eyes went afar again, wandering across a tundra of pain. He spoke in a whisper. "A woman in Siltbay. A drop of water in the current of all the women of Siltbay. What might have befallen her? Did she die? Yes. No. Badly burned, but alive. Her arm severed at the shoulder. Cornered and raped while they killed her children, but left alive. Sort of." The Fool's eyes became even emptier. It was as if he read aloud from a roster. His voice had no inflection. "Roasted alive with the children when the burning structure fell on them. Took poison as soon as her husband awoke her. Choked to death on smoke. And died of an infection in a sword wound only a few days later. Died of a sword thrust. Strangled on her own blood as she was raped. Cut her own throat after she had killed the children while Raiders were hacking her door down. Survived, and gave birth to a Raider's child the next summer. Was found wandering days later, badly burned, but recalling nothing. Had her face burned and her hands hacked oft, but lived a short—"
"Stop!" I commanded him. "Stop it! I beg you, stop."
He paused and drew a breath. His eyes came back to me, focused on me. "Stop it?" He sighed. He put his face into his hands, spoke through muffling fingers. "Stop it? So shrieked the women of Siltbay. But it is done already, my liege. We cannot stop what's already happening. Once it's come to pass, it's too late." He lifted his face from his hands. He looked very weary.
"Please," I begged him. "Cannot you tell me of the one woman I saw?" I suddenly could not recall her name, only that she was very important to me.
He shook his head, and the small silver bells on his cap jingled wearily. "The only way to find out would be to go there." He looked up at me. "If you command it, I shall do so."
"Summon Verity," I told him instead. "I have instructions for him."
"Our soldiers cannot arrive in time to stop this raid," he reminded me. "Only to help to douse the fires and assist the folk there in picking from the ruins what is left to them."
"Then so they shall do," I said heavily.
"First, let me help you return to your bed, my king. Before you take a chill. And let me bring you food."
"No, Fool," I told him sadly. "Shall I eat and be warm, while the bodies of children are cooling in the mud? Fetch me instead my robe and buskins. And then be off to find Verity."
The Fool stood his ground boldly. "Do you think the discomfort you inflict on yourself will give even one child another breath, my liege? What happened at Siltbay is done. Why must you suffer?"
"Why must I suffer?" I found a smile for the Fool. "Surely that is the same question that every inhabitant of Siltbay asked tonight of the fog. I suffer, my fool, because they did. Because I am king. But more, because I am a man, and I saw what happened there. Consider it, Fool. What if every man in the Six Duchies said to himself, `Well, the worst that can befall them has already happened. Why should I give up my meal and warm bed to concern myself with it?' Fool, by the blood that is in me, these are my folk. Do I suffer more tonight than any one of them did? What is the pain and trembling of one man compared with what happened at Siltbay? Why should I shelter myself while my folk are slaughtered like cattle?"
"But two words are all I need say to Prince Verity." The Fool vexed me with more words. `Raiders' and `Siltbay', and he knows as much as any man needs to. Let me rest you in your bed, my lord, and then I shall race to him with those wor
ds."
"No." A fresh cloud of pain blossomed in the back of my skull. It tried to push the sense from my thoughts, but I held firm. I forced my body to walk to the chair beside the hearth. I managed to lower myself into it. "I spent my youth defining the borders of the Six Duchies to any who challenged them. Should my life be too valuable to risk now, when there is so little left of it, and all of that riddled with pain? No, Fool. Fetch my son to me at once. He shall Skill for me, since my own strength for it is at an end this night. Together, we shall consider what we see, and make our decisions as to what must be done. Now go. GO!"
The Fool's feet pattered on the stone floor as he fled.
I was left alone with myself. Myselves. I put my hands to my temples. I felt a painful smile crease my face as I found myself. So, boy. There you are. My king slowly turned his attention to me. He was weary, but he reached his Skill toward me to touch my mind as softly as blowing spiderweb. I reached clumsily, attempting to complete the Skill bond and it all went awry. Our contact tattered, fraying apart like rotten cloth. And then he was gone.
I hunkered alone on the floor of my bedchamber in the Mountain Kingdom, uncomfortably close to the hearth fire. I was fifteen, and my nightclothes were soft and clean. The fire in the hearth had burned low. My blistered fingers throbbed angrily. The beginnings of a Skill headache pulsed in my temples.
I moved slowly, cautiously as I rose. Like an old man? No. Like a young man whose health was still mending. I knew the difference now.
My soft, clean bed beckoned, like a soft clean tomorrow.
I refused them both. I took the chair by the hearth and stared into the flames, pondering.
When Burrich came at first light to bid me farewell, I was ready to ride with him.
CHAPTER TWO. The Homecoming
BUCKKEEP HOLD OVERLOOKS the finest deep-water harbor in the Six Duchies. To the north, the Buck River spills into the sea, and with its waters carries most of the goods exported from the interior Duchies of Tilth and Farrow. Steep black cliffs provide the seat for the castle, which overlooks the river mouth, the harbor, and the waters beyond. The town of Buckkeep clings precariously to those cliffs, well away from the great river's floodplain, with a good portion of it built on docks and quays. The original stronghold was a log structure built by the original inhabitants of the area as a defense against Outislander raids. It was seized in ancient time, by a raider named Taker, who with the seizing of the fort became a resident. He replaced the timber structure with walls and towers of black stone quarried from the cliffs themselves, and in the process sank the foundations of Buckkeep deep into the stone. With each succeeding generation of the Farseer line, the walls were forted and the towers built taller and stouter. Since Taker, the founder of the Farseer line, Buckkeep has never fallen to enemy hands.
Snow kissed my face, wind pushed the hair back from my forehead. I stirred from a dark dream to a darker one, to a winterscape in forestland. I was cold, save where the rising heat of my toiling horse warmed me. Beneath me, Sooty was plodding stolidly along through wind-banked snow. I thought I had been riding long. Hands the stable boy was riding before me. He turned in his saddle and shouted something back to me.
Sooty stopped, not abruptly, but I was not expecting it, and I nearly slid from the saddle. I caught at her mane and steadied myself. Steadily falling flakes veiled the forest around us. The spruce trees were heavy with accumulated snow, while the interspersed birches were bare black silhouettes in the clouded winter moonlight. There was no sign of a trail. The woods were thick around us. Hands had reined in his black gelding in front of us, and that was why Sooty halted. Behind me Burrich sat his roan mare with the practiced ease of the lifelong horseman.
I was cold, and shaky with weakness. I looked around dully, wondering why we had stopped. The wind gusted sharply, snapping my damp cloak against Sooty's flank. Hands pointed suddenly. "There!" He looked back at me. "Surely you saw that?"
I leaned forward to peer through snow that fell like fluttering lace curtains. "I think so," I said, the wind and falling snow swallowing my words. For an instant I had glimpsed tiny lights. They had been yellow and stationary, unlike the pale blue will o' the wisps that still occasionally plagued my vision.
"Do you think it's Buckkeep?" Hands shouted through the rising wind.
"It is," Burrich asserted quietly, his deep voice carrying effortlessly. "I know where we are now. This is where Prince Verity killed that big doe about six years ago. I remember because she leaped when the arrow went in, and tumbled down that gully. It took us the rest of the day to get down there and pack the meat out."
The gully he gestured to was no more than a line of brush glimpsed through the falling snow. But suddenly it all snapped into place for me. The lay of this hillside, the types of trees, the gully there, and so Buckkeep was that way, just a brief ride before we could clearly see the fortress on the sea cliffs overlooking the bay and Buckkeep Town below. For the first time in days, I knew with absolute certainty where we were. The heavy overcast had kept us from checking our course by the stars, and the unusually deep snowfall had altered the lay of the land until even Burrich had seemed unsure. But now I knew that home was but a brief ride away. In summer. But I picked up what was left of my determination.
"Not much farther," I told Burrich.
Hands had already started his horse. The stocky little gelding surged ahead bravely, breaking trail through the banked snow. I nudged Sooty and the tall mare reluctantly stepped out. As she leaned into the hill I slid to one side. As I scrabbled futilely at my saddle Burrich nudged his horse abreast of mine. He reached out, seized me by the back of my collar, and dragged me upright again. "It's not much farther," he agreed. "You'll make it."
I managed a nod. It was only the second time he'd had to steady me in the last hour or so. One of my better evenings, I told myself bitterly. I pulled myself up straighter in the saddle, resolutely squared my shoulders. Nearly home.
The journey had been long and arduous. The weather had been foul, and the constant hardships had not improved my health. Much of it I remembered like a dark dream; days of jolting along in the saddle, barely cognizant of our path, nights when I lay between Hands and Burrich in our small tent and trembled with a weariness so great I could not even sleep. As we had drawn closer to Buck Duchy I had thought our travel would become easier. I had not reckoned on Burrich's caution.
At Turlake, we had stopped a night at an inn. I had thought that we'd take passage on a river barge the next day, for though ice might line the banks of the Buck River, its strong current kept a channel clear year-round. I went straight to our room, for I had not much stamina. Burrich and Hands were both anticipating hot food and companionship, to say nothing of ale. I had not expected them to come soon to the room. But scarcely two hours had passed before they both came up to ready themselves for bed.
Burrich was grim and silent, but after he had gone to bed, Hands whispered to me from his bed how poorly the King was spoken of in this town. "Had they known we were from Buckkeep, I doubt they would have spoken so freely. But clad as we are in Mountain garments, they thought us traders or merchants. A dozen times I thought Burrich would challenge one of them. In truth, I do not know how he contained himself. All complain about the taxes for defending the coast. They sneer, saying that for all the taxes they bleed, the Raiders still came unlooked for in autumn, when the weather lasted fine, and burned two more towns." Hands had paused, and uncertainly added, "But they speak uncommonly well of Prince Regal. He passed through here escorting Kettricken back to Buckkeep. One man at the table called her a great white fish of a wife, fit for the coast King. And another spoke up, saying that at least Prince Regal bore himself well despite his hardships, and looked ever as a Prince should. Then they drank to the Prince's health and long life."
A cold settled in me. I whispered back, "The two Forged villages. Did you hear what ones they were?"
"Whalejaw up in Bearns. And Siltbay in Buck itself."
&
nbsp; The darkness settled darker around me, and I lay watching it all night.
The next morning we left Turlake. On horseback. Overland. Burrich would not even let us keep to the road. I had protested in vain. He listened to me complain, then took me aside, to fiercely demand, "Do you want to die?"
I looked at him blankly. He snorted in disgust.
"Fitz, nothing has changed. You're still a royal bastard, and Prince Regal still regards you as an obstacle. He's tried to be rid of you, not once, but twice. Do you think he's going to welcome you back to Buckkeep? No. Even better for him if we never make it back at all. So let's not make easy targets of ourselves. We go overland. If he or his hirelings want us, they'll have to hunt us through the woods. And he's never been much of a hunter."
"Wouldn't Verity protect us?" I asked weakly.
"You're a King's Man, and Verity is king-in-waiting," Burrich had pointed out shortly. "You protect your king, Fitz. Not the reverse. Not that he doesn't think well of you, and would do all he could to protect you. But he has weightier matters to attend. Red-Ships. A new bride. And a younger brother who thinks the crown would sit better on his own head.
No. Don't expect the King-in-Waiting to watch over you. Do that for yourself."
All I could think of was the extra days he was putting between me and my search for Molly. But I did not give that reason. I had not told him of my dream. Instead, I said, "Regal would have to be crazy to try to kill us again. Everyone would know he was the murderer."
"Not crazy, Fitz. Just ruthless. Regal is that. Let's not ever suppose that Regal abides by the rules we observe, or even thinks as we do. If Regal sees an opportunity to kill us, he'll take it. He won't care who suspects so long as no one can prove it. Verity is our king-in-waiting. Not our king. Not yet. While King Shrewd is alive and on the throne, Regal will find ways around his father. He will get away with many things. Even murder. "
