The Golden Fool ttm-2

by Robin Hobb

  I nodded stiffly. I felt cold. ‘The Pale Woman. Kebal Rawbread’s adviser during the Red Ship War.’

  He returned my nod as stiffly. Again he looked away from me, staring into a darkened corner of the room. ‘So, a White I might be but I could not be the White Prophet. Therefore, I must be an anomaly. A creature born out of my time and place. They were fascinated by me and listened to my every word and recorded every dream I spoke. They treasured me and treated me very well. They listened to me, but they never heeded what I said. And when she heard of me, she commanded that they keep me there. And they did. Later, she commanded that I be marked this way. And so they did.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. Save, perhaps, that we had both dreamed of these creatures, of sea serpents and dragons. But perhaps it is what you do with an extra White Prophet. Cover him over so he is no longer white.’ His voice tightened until the words were hard as knots. ‘It has shamed me so to be marked like this, at her will. It is worse now, to know that the Narcheska is also decorated with the Pale Woman’s markings. As if she claimed us as her tool, her creatures…’ His words faded away.

  ‘But why did they obey her? How could anyone do a thing like that?’

  He laughed bitterly. ‘She is the White Prophet, come to set time in a better path. She has a vision. You do not question her will. Questioning her command can have severe repercussions. Ask Kebal Rawbread. You do as the Pale Woman tells you.’ His shivering had become a wild shaking.

  ‘You’re cold.’ I would have put a blanket around him, but to do so I would have had to step closer. I don’t think he could have allowed me to do that.

  ‘No.’ He gave me a sickly smile. ‘I’m afraid. I’m terrified. Please. Please go out while I get dressed again.’

  I withdrew, shutting the door quietly behind myself. Then I waited. It seemed to take him a long time to put a shirt on.

  When he emerged, he was meticulously attired, every strand of his hair restored to its rightful place. Still, he did not look at me. ‘There’s brandy by the fire for you,’ I told him.

  He crossed the room in short nervous steps and took up the glass but did not drink from it. Instead, arms crossed as if he were cold, he stood very close to the fire, hugging his cup to him. He stared fixedly at the floor.

  I went into his room and took one of his thick woollen cloaks from the wardrobe there, then he came back and I put it around him. I pulled his chair closer to the hearth, then took him by the shoulders and sat him down in it. ‘Drink the brandy,’ I told him. My voice sounded harsh. ‘I’ll put on the kettle for tea.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He whispered the words. Horribly, tears began to track down his face. They cut runnels in his carefully-applied paint, and dripped paleness onto his shirt.

  I spilled water and burned myself putting the kettle on the hook. When it was in place, I dragged my chair close to his. ‘Why are you so scared?’ I asked him. ‘What does it mean?’

  He sniffled, an incongruous sound from dignified Lord Golden. Worse, he took the corner of the cloak and wiped his eyes with it. It smeared his Jamaillian cosmetics, and I saw his bare skin. ‘Convergence,’ he said hoarsely. He drew a breath. ‘It means convergence. All comes together. I’m on the right path. I feared I had strayed. But this confirms it. Convergence and confrontation. And time set aright.’

  ‘I thought that was what you wanted. I thought that was what White Prophets do.’

  ‘Oh, yes. That is what we do.’ An unnatural calm came over him. He looked at me and met my eyes. I looked into a sorrow older and deeper than I wished to know. ‘A White Prophet finds his Catalyst. The one on whom great events may turn. And he uses him, ruthlessly, to turn time out of his track. Once more my tracks will converge with hers. And we will set our wills against one another, to see who prevails.’ His voice suddenly strangled. ‘Again, death will try to take you.’ His tears had stopped but moisture still glistened on his face. He caught up the hem of the cloak and smeared his face with it again. ‘If I don’t succeed, we’ll both just die.’ Hunched miserably in his chair, he looked up at me. ‘Last time was too close. Twice, I felt you die. But I held you and refused to let you go to peace. Because you are the Catalyst, and I win only if I keep you in this world. Alive no matter how. A friend would have let you go. I heard the wolves calling you. I knew you wanted to go to them. But I didn’t let you. I dragged you back. Because I had to use you.’

  I tried to speak calmly. ‘That is the part that I have never understood.’

  He looked at me sadly. ‘You understand. You simply refuse to accept it.’ He paused for a moment, then stated it simply. ‘In the world that I seek to sculpt, you live. I am the White Prophet and you are my Catalyst. The Farseer line has an heir and he reigns. It is but one factor, but it is a key factor. In the world the Pale Woman seeks to advance, you do not exist. Failing that, you do not survive. There is no Farseer heir. The Farseer line fails completely. There is no renegade White.’ He dropped his head into his hands and spoke through his fingers. ‘She engineers your death, Fitz. Her machinations are subtle. She is older than I am, and far more sophisticated. She plays a horrible game. Henja is her creature. Make no mistake about that. I do not understand her ploy there, nor why she offers the Narcheska to Dutiful. But she is behind it all, I am certain. She sends death for you, and I try to snatch you out of the way. So far, we have always matched her, you and I. But it has been more your luck than my cleverness that has saved you. Your luck and your… dare I say it? Your magics. Both of them. Still, always, always the odds are against your survival. And the deeper we go in this game, the worse the odds become. This last time… This last time was too much. I don’t want to be the White Prophet any more. I don’t want you to be my Catalyst.’ His voice had degraded to a cracked whisper. ‘But there isn’t any way to stop. The only thing that stops this is if you die.’ He suddenly looked about frantically. I found the brandy bottle and set it within his reach. He didn’t even bother to pour. He uncorked it and drank from the bottle. When he set it down, I reached over and took it.

  ‘That won’t help anything,’ I told him severely.

  He gave me a loose-lipped smile. ‘I can’t go through another one of your deaths. I can’t.’

  ‘You can’t?’

  He gave a giggle of despair. ‘You see. We’re trapped. I’ve trapped you, my friend. My beloved.’

  I tried to fit my mind around what he was telling me. ‘If we lose I die,’ I said.

  He nodded. ‘If you die, we lose. It’s all the same.’

  ‘What happens if I live?’

  ‘Then we win. Not much chance of that, now. Not much chance and getting worse all the time, I’d say. Most likely we lose. You die and the world spirals down into darkness. And ugliness. Despair.’

  ‘Stop being so cheerful.’ This time I drank out of the bottle. Then I passed it to him. ‘But what if I do live? What if we win? What then?’

  He parted the bottle’s mouth from his. ‘What then? Ah.’ He smiled beatifically. ‘Then the world goes on, my friend. Children run down muddy streets. Dogs bark at passing carts. Friends sit and drink brandy together.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound much different from what we have,’ I observed sourly. ‘To go through all this and make no difference at all.’

  ‘Yes.’ He agreed beatifically. His eyes filled with tears. ‘Not much different from the wondrous and amazing world that we have now. Boys falling in love with girls that aren’t right for them. Wolves hunting on the snowy plains. And time. Endless time unwinding for all of us. And the dragons, of course. Dragons sliding across the sky like beautiful jewelled ships.’

  ‘Dragons. That sounds different.’

  ‘Does it?’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Does it really? I think not. Remember with your heart. Go back, go back, and go back. The skies of this world were always meant to have dragons. When they are not there, humans miss them. Some never think of them, of course. But some children, from the time they are small, th
ey look up at a blue summer sky and watch for something that never comes. Because they know. Something that was supposed to be there faded and vanished. Something that we must bring back, you and I.’

  I put my face in my hand and rubbed my brow. ‘I thought we had to save the world. What has that got to do with dragons?’

  ‘It’s all connected. When you save any part of the world, you’ve saved the whole world. In fact, that’s the only way it can be done.’

  I hated his riddles. Hated them passionately. ‘I don’t know what you want from me.’

  He was silent. When I lifted my face to regard him, he was watching me calmly. ‘It’s safe for me to tell you. You won’t believe me.’ He drew a steadying breath. He had the brandy bottle cradled in one arm as if it were his babe. ‘We have to go on the Prince’s quest with him. To Aslevjal. To find Icefyre. Then we must prevent the Prince from slaying him. Instead we must free the black dragon trapped beneath the ice so he can rise, to become Tintaglia’s consort. So that they can mate and there can be real dragons in the world again.’

  ‘But… I can’t do that! Dutiful must cut off the dragon’s head and bring it to the hearth of Elliania’s motherhouse. Otherwise, she will not wed him. All these negotiations and hopes will have been for naught.’

  He looked at me and I think he knew how torn I was. He spoke quietly. ‘Fitz. Set it out of your mind. Don’t think of it for now. The Convergence and the confrontation await us. We need not rush towards them. When the time comes, I promise, you alone will be the one to choose. Do you keep your vowed loyalty to the Farseers or do you save the world for me?’ He paused. ‘One other thing I shall tell you. I should not, but I will. So you do not think that it is your fault when the time comes. Because, I promise you, it will not be. I prophesied it long ago, not understanding what I spoke of until this business of the tattoos was made clear to me. I dreamed it long ago, a child’s wild nightmare. Soon I will live it. So when it happens, you must promise me not to torment yourself with it.’

  His shivering had returned as he spoke. His words came out between chattering teeth.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked with dread, already knowing.

  ‘This time, on Aslevjal.’ A terrified smile trembled at the corners of his mouth. ‘It is my turn to die.’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Connections

  The legend of the White Prophet and his Catalyst might be better described as a religion from the far south, only echoes of which have reached Jamaillia. Like many philosophies from the south, it is riddled with superstitions and contradictions, so that no thinking man could subscribe to such foolishness. At the core of the White Prophet heresy is the concept that for ‘every age’ (and this space of time is never defined) there is born a White Prophet. The White Prophet comes to set the world on a better course. He or she (and in this duality of gender we may see some borrowing from the true faith of Sa) does this by means of his or her Catalyst. The Catalyst is a person chosen by the White Prophet because he stands at a juncture of choices. By changing what happens to the Catalyst in his lifetime, the White Prophet enables the world to follow a truer, better course of history. Any thinking man can see that, as there is no way to compare what has happened to what might have happened, White Prophets can always claim to have bettered the world. Nor can any of the adherents of this heresy explain the idea that the world and time roll in a circular track, endlessly repeating itself. A perusal of the history that we have recorded shows quite clearly that this is not so, yet adherents of this false belief will still cling to it.

  Delnar, the wise old priest of Sa, has written in his Opinions that not only the followers of this heresy are to be pitied, but also the ‘White Prophets’ themselves. He proves conclusively that such self-deluded fanatics are actually suffering from a rare disorder that drains all pigment from their flesh, at the same time inducing hallucinations of prophetic dreams sent by gods.

  — Wiflen, priest of Sa, Jorepin Monastery

  Cults and Heresies of the Southlands

  CHADE I need you, I need you now! Come to me in the workroom. CHADE. Please hear me, please come!

  I skilled the summons wildly as I staggered up the stairs to my workroom. I do not even recall what urgent errand I had invented for my departure. I’d left him, the Fool and yet no longer the Fool, sitting by his fire with the brandy bottle. Now, heart hammering, I cursed my wasted body as I forced my legs to bend and push me along. I could not tell if Chade could hear me. Then I cursed myself and shifted my attention to Dutiful and Thick. I need to see Lord Chade immediately. With the greatest urgency. Find him and send him to me in the workroom.

  Why? This from Dutiful.

  Just do it!

  Then, when I did stagger, sweating and puffing, into the workroom, I found Chade sitting impatiently by the hearth. He turned to glare at me. ‘What has kept you? I heard you’d come back into the castle, and I know Lord Golden would pass on my message. I don’t have all day to wait on you, boy. Important things are afoot, things that require your presence.’

  ‘No,’ I gasped. And then, ‘I talk first.’

  ‘Sit down,’ he growled at me. ‘Breathe. I’ll get you some water.’

  I made it to the chair by the fire before I collapsed. I’d tried to force my body too much today. The ride and the practice bout by itself were enough to exhaust me. Now I was shaking as badly as the Fool had been.

  I drank the water Chade brought me. Before he could begin to speak, I told him everything that the Fool had told me. When I had finished, I was still panting. He sat thinking while my breathing gradually slowed.

  ‘Tattoos,’ he muttered in disgust. ‘The Pale Woman.’ He sighed, ‘I don’t believe him. And I don’t dare disbelieve him.’ He scowled as he pondered my tale. Then, ‘You saw my spy’s report? He found no trace of a dragon on Aslevjal.’

  ‘I don’t think he made a very thorough search.’

  ‘Perhaps not. That is the trouble with hired men. When the money trickles away, their loyalty goes with it.’

  ‘Chade. What are we going to do?’

  He gave me an odd look. ‘The obvious. Really, Fitz, you do need to recover your health. You are so easily rattled these days. Though I confess that the Fool’s tattoos are as great a surprise to me as to you. As is the connection he makes of them. When I spoke to him earlier today, to ask if he knew anything of such tattoos as an Out Island custom, he said he did not and calmly changed the subject. I can scarcely believe he would so dissemble to me, but…’ I watched Chade reorder to himself all that he knew of both the Fool and Lord Golden. Then he sighed heavily and admitted, ‘We do know there was a Pale Woman advising Kebal Rawbread for much of the Red Ship Wars. But we assumed that she perished alongside him. What could she have to do with Elliania? And even if she had lived, why should she attempt to be a part of our matchmaking, let alone have an interest in you or Lord Golden? It is all too far-fetched.’

  I swallowed. ‘The maid, Henja. Elliania’s servant. She spoke of a “she”, as did Elliania and Blackwater. Those two spoke of her with dread. Perhaps this “she” is the Pale Woman, and perhaps she is the Fool’s “other White Prophet”. Then she could have plans of her own, plans that cross our own in ways we cannot foresee.’

  I watched the old assassin mentally work through all the permutations of such a situation. Then he shrugged. ‘Regardless,’ Chade replied ruthlessly. ‘Our solution remains the same.’ He held up two fingers. ‘One. The Fool promised you that it would be your decision, to keep your oath to the Farseers or try to save this frozen dragon for him. So. You’ll keep your oath. I don’t doubt your loyalty.’

  It did not seem that simple to me at all. I kept silent.

  He touched his second finger. ‘Two. Lord Golden does not go to Aslevjal with us. Therefore, if we discover a dragon in the ice, which I very much doubt, he doesn’t try to interfere with Dutiful killing the dragon. Or at least chopping the frozen head off some ancient carcass, which I consider far more likely. Then,
even if this “Pale Woman” does still exist and is a threat to him, he never comes near her. Hence, Lord Golden doesn’t die.’

  ‘What if he comes to Aslevjal anyway, with or without us?’

  Chade gave me a look. ‘Fitz. Think, lad. Aslevjal is not an easy island to visit, even from the other Out Islands. Not that he’ll get that far. Don’t you think I can issue an order that forbids Lord Golden to take passage on any ship outbound from Buckkeep Town? I’ll do it subtly, of course. But it will be done.’

  ‘What if he changes his appearance?’

  He raised a white eyebrow at me. ‘Do you wish me to have him locked in a dungeon while we are gone? I suppose I could arrange that, if it would put your mind at rest. A comfortable dungeon, of course. All the amenities.’ His tone plainly said that he thought I was worrying unnecessarily. Confronted with his calm scepticism, I found it difficult to support the frantic fear the Fool had raised in me.

  ‘No. Of course I don’t want that,’ I muttered.

  ‘Then trust me. Trust me as you used to. Have a little confidence in your old mentor. If I don’t want Lord Golden to take ship from Buckkeep, then he won’t.’

  I CANT FIND HIM. WHAT SHOULD I DO? Dutiful sounded panicked.

  Chade cocked his head. ‘Did you hear something?’

  ‘A moment.’ I held up a finger to Chade. Never mind, Dutiful. He’s with me; it will be all right now.

  What’s it all about?

  Never mind, I tell you. Never mind. I shifted my attention from Dutiful to Chade. ‘That which you “heard” was Dutiful shouting at me that he couldn’t find you. A widespread Skilling, such as he still does when he’s anxious.’

  A slow smile dawned over Chade’s features, even as he said, ‘Oh, you must be mistaken. I was sure I heard a shout in the distance.’

  ‘So the Skill can seem at first. Until your mind learns to interpret what it senses.’

  ‘Oh, my,’ Chade said quietly. He looked afar, smiling pensively. Then he came back to me with a jolt. ‘I’d nearly forgotten why I’d summoned you. The Queen’s convocation of the Witted. It is actually going to happen, much to my surprise. We’ve had word to expect them in six days. It’s taken them time to gather themselves, and they ask that the Queen send her own guard to bring them in under a safe passage flag. They asked for an exchange of hostages too, of course, but I told her that was nonsense! Six days from now, they will send us a bird telling us where to meet them. They promise it will be within a day’s ride of Buckkeep. When we get to the rendezvous, they will come to us. They will be cloaked and hooded to protect their identities. I’d like you to go with them when they ride out.’