by Robin Hobb
"And did they hunt well together?"
"Oh, I suppose so. It is not for large game of course, but they brought back, oh, birds, I think, and hares."
"And it always slept in his room?"
"As I understand it, it has to be kept close to a human to keep it tamed. And of course, the hounds in the stable would not have left it in peace. So, yes, it slept in his room and followed him about the keep. Fitz, what do you suspect?"
I answered him honestly. "The same thing that you do. That our Witted Prince has vanished with his hunting cat companion. And that none of this is a coincidence. Not the gift of the animal, not the bonding, not the disappearance. Someone planned this."
Chade frowned, not wanting to admit what he believed. "The cat could have been killed when the Prince was taken. Or she could have run off."
"So you've said. But if the Prince is Witted, and the cat is bonded to him, she would not have run off when he was taken." The stool was uncomfortable but I stubbornly remained perched on it. I closed my eyes for a moment.
Sometimes, when the body is weary, the mind takes flight. I let my thoughts skip where they would. "I've bonded thrice, you know. The first time to Nosy, the puppy that Burrich took from me. And again, to Smithy when I was still a boy. The last time, to Nighteyes. Each time, there was that instant sense of connection. With Nosy, I bonded before I was even aware I was doing it. I suspect it happened because I was lonely. Because when Smithy offered love, I accepted it with no discrimination. And when the wolf's anger and hatred of his cage so exactly matched mine, I could not distinguish between us." I opened my eyes briefly and met Chade's startled stare. "I had no walls, you see." I looked away from him, down at the dwindling fire. "From what I've been told, in Witted families, the children are protected from doing that. They are taught to have walls when they are young. Then, when they are of an age, they are sent out to find suitable partners, almost like seeking a suitable marriage partner."
"What are you suggesting?" Chade asked quietly.
I followed the thought where it led me. "The Queen has chosen a bride for Prince Dutiful for the sake of a political alliance. What if an Old Blood family has done the same?"
A lengthy silence followed my words. I looked back at Chade. His eyes were on the fire, and I could almost see his mind working frantically to sort out all the implications of what I had said. "An Old Blood family deliberately selects an animal for the Prince to bond with. Assumptions, then: that Lady Bresinga is Witted, that indeed her whole line is, as you put it, Old Blood. That they somehow knew or suspected the Prince is also Witted." He paused, pursed his mouth, and considered. "Perhaps they were the source of the note claiming the Prince was Witted… I still do not grasp what they would profit from it."
"What do we profit from marrying Dutiful to some Outislander girl? An alliance, Chade."
He scowled at me. "The cat somehow is part of the Bresinga family and retains ties to it? The cat can somehow influence the Prince's political actions?"
The way he said it made it seem ridiculous. "I haven't got it completely worked out yet," I admitted, "But I think there is something there. Even if their only goal is to prove that the Prince himself is Witted, and hence that other Witted folk should not be chopped up and burned for being the way they are. Or to gain the Prince's sympathy toward Witted folk, and through him, the Queen's."
Chade gave me a sidelong glance. "Now that is a motive I can concede. There is also possible blackmail there. Once they have bonded the Prince to an animal, they can hold out for political favors under the threat that they will tell others he is Witted." He looked aside from me. "Or attempt to reduce him to the level of an animal, if we do not comply with their political wishes."
As always, Chade's mind was capable of far more convolutions than mine was. It was almost a relief to have him refine my ideas. I did not want my mentor to be failing in mind or body. In so many ways, he still stood as shield between me and the world. I nodded to his suggestions.
He stood up suddenly. "So all the more reason we should proceed as we had planned. Come, take my chair. You look like a parrot perched up there; you can't possibly be comfortable. One thing all the basic scrolls stress is that a practitioner of the Skill should find a comfortable starting place, one in which the body is relaxed and unobtrusive to the mind."
I opened my mouth to say that was the opposite of what Galen had done to us. On the contrary, when he was teaching us, he had made us so miserable in body that the mind became our only escape. I shut my mouth, the words unsaid. Useless to protest or ponder what Galen had done. The twisted, pleasureless man had tormented us all, and those he had succeeded in training, he had warped into a mindlessly loyal coterie for Prince Regal. Perhaps that had had something to do with it; perhaps he had wanted to break down the body's resistance and the mind's judgment before he could shape them into the coterie he desired.
I sat down in Chade's chair. It retained his warmth and the imprint of his body. It felt strange to sit there in his presence. It was as if I were becoming him. He assumed my perch on the stool and looked down on me from that towering height. He crossed his arms on his chest and leaned forward to smirk down at me. "Comfortable?" he asked me. "No," I admitted.
"Serves you right," he muttered. Then, with a laugh, he got off the stool. "Tell me what I can do to help you with this process."
"You want me to just sit here and Skill out, hoping to find the Prince?"
"Is that so hard?" It was a genuine question.
"I tried for several hours last night. Nothing happened except that I got a headache."
"Oh." For a moment he looked discouraged. Then he announced firmly, "We will simply have to try again." In a lower voice he muttered, "For what else can we do?"
I could think of no answer to that. I leaned back in his chair and tried to relax my body. I stared at his mantelpiece, only to have my attention stick on a fruit knife driven into the wood. I had done that, years ago. Now was not the time to dwell on that incident. Yet I found myself saying, "I crept into my old room today. It looks as if it has not been used since last I slept there."
"It hasn't. Castle tradition says it is haunted."
"You're joking!"
"No. Think about it. The Witted Bastard slept there, and he was taken to his death in the castle dungeons. It's a fine basis for a ghost tale. Besides, flickering blue lights have been seen through its shutters at night, and once a stable-boy said he saw the Pocked Man staring down from that window on a moonlit night."
"You kept it empty."
"I am not entirely devoid of sentiment. And for a long time, I hoped you would someday return to that room. But, enough of this. We have a task."
I drew a breath. "The Queen did not mention the note about the Prince being Witted."
"No. She did not."
"Do you know why?"
He hesitated. "Perhaps some things are so frightening that even our good Queen cannot bring herself to consider them."
"I'd like to see the note."
"Then you shall. Later." He paused, then asked me heavily, "Fitz? Are you going to settle down and do this thing or keep procrastinating?"
I took a deliberate breath, blew it out slowly, and fixed my gaze on the dwindling fire. I looked into its heart as I gradually unfastened my mind from my thoughts. I opened myself to the Skill.
My mind began to unfold. I have, over the years, given much thought to how one could describe Skilling. No metaphor really does it justice. Like a folded piece of silk, the mind opens, and opens, and opens again, becoming larger and yet somehow thinner. That is one image. Another is that the Skill is like a great unseen river that flows at all times. When one consciously pays attention to it, one can be seized in its current and drawn out to flow with it. In its wild waters, minds can touch and merge.
Yet no words or similes do it justice, any more than words can explain the smell of fresh bread or the color yellow. The Skill is the Skill. It is the hereditary magic of the Fars
eers, yet it does not belong to kings alone. Many folk in the Six Duchies have a touch of it. In some it bums strong enough that a Skilled one can hear their thoughts. Sometimes, I can even influence what a Skill-touched person thinks. Far more rare are those who can reach out with the Skill. That ability is usually no more than a feeble groping unless the talent is trained. I opened myself to it, and let my consciousness expand but with no expectations of reaching anyone.
Threads of thought tangled against me like waterweed. "I hate the way she looks at my beau." "I wish I could say one last word to you, Papa." "Please hurry home, I feel so ill." "You are so beautiful. Please, please, turn around, see me, at least give me that." Those who flung the thoughts out with such urgency were, for the most part, ignorant of their own strength. None of them were aware of me sharing their thoughts, nor could I make my own thoughts known to them. Each cried out in their deafness with voices they believed were mute. None was Prince Dutiful. From some distant part of the keep, music reached my ears, temporarily distracting me. I pushed it aside and strove on.
I do not know how long I prowled amongst those unwary minds, nor how far I reached in my search. The range of the Skill is determined by strength of ability, not distance. I had no measure of my strength and time does not exist when one is in the grip of the Skill. I trod again that narrow measure, clinging to my awareness of my own body despite the temptation to let the Skill sweep me free of my body forever.
"Fitz," I murmured, in response to something, and then, "FitzChivalry," I said aloud to myself. A fresh log crashed down onto the embers of the fire, scattering the glowing heart into individual coals. For a time I stared at it, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. Then I blinked, and became aware of Chade's hand resting on my shoulder. I smelled hot food, and slowly turned my head. A platter rested on a low table near the chair. I stared at it, wondering how it had come to be there.
"Fitz?" Chade said again, and I tried to recall his question.
"What?"
"Did you find Prince Dutiful?"
Each word gradually made sense to me until I perceived his query. "No," I said as a wave of weariness rolled over me. "No, nothing." In the wake of the fatigue, my hands began to tremble and my head to pound. I closed my eyes, but found no relief. Even with my eyes closed, snakes of light trembled across the dark. When I opened my eyes, they were superimposed on the room before me. I felt as if too much light were getting inside my head. The waves of pain tumbled me in a surf of disorientation.
"Here. Drink this."
Chade put a warm mug into my hands and I lifted it gratefully to my mouth. I took a mouthful, then nearly spat it out. It was not elfbark tea to soothe my headache, but only beef broth. I swallowed it without enthusiasm. "Elfbark tea," I reminded him. "That is what I need right now. Not food."
"No, Fitz. Recall what you yourself told me. Elfbark stunts the Skill ability, and numbs you to your talent. That is something we cannot risk just now. Eat something. It will restore your strength."
Obediently I looked at the tray. Sliced fruit floated in cream next to fresh-baked bread. There was a glass of wine and pink slices of baked river fish. I carefully set the mug of broth down next to the revolting stuff and turned my gaze away. The fire was rekindling itself, dancing licks of flame, too bright. I lowered my face into my hands, seeking darkness, but even there the lights still danced before my eyes. I spoke into my hands. "I need some elfbark. It has not been this bad in years, not since Verity was alive, not since Shrewd took strength from me. Please, Chade. I cannot even think."
He went away. I sat counting my heartbeats until he came back. Each thud of my heart was a flare of pain in my temples. I heard the scuff of his steps and lifted my head.
"Here," he said gruffly, and set a cool wet cloth to my forehead. The shock of it made me catch my breath. I held it to my brow and felt the thudding ease somewhat. It smelled of lavender.
I looked at him through a haze of pain. His hands were empty. "The elfbark tea?" I reminded him.
"No, Fitz."
"Chade. Please. It hurts so bad I can't see." Each word was an effort. My own voice was too loud.
"I know," he said quietly. "I know, my boy. But you will just have to bear it. The scrolls say that sometimes the use of the Skill brings this pain, but that, with time and repeated effort, you will learn to master it. Again, my understanding of it is imperfect, but it seems to have to do with the split effort you make, both to reach out from yourself and to hold tight to yourself. Given time, you will learn how to reconcile those tensions and then—"
"Chade!" I did not mean to bellow but I did. "I just need the damned elfbark tea. Please!" I took sudden control of myself. "Please," I added softly, contritely. "Please, just the tea. Just help me ease this pain, and then I could listen to you."
"No, Fitz."
"Chade." I spoke my hidden fear. "Pain such as this could push me into a seizure."
I saw a brief flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. But then, "I don't think it will. Besides, I'm here beside you, boy. I'll take care of you. You have to try to get through this without the drug. For Dutiful's sake. For the Six Duchies."
His refusal stunned me into silence. Hurt and defiance tore me. "Fine." I bit off the word. "I have some in my pack in my room." I tried to find the will to stand.
A moment of silence. Then, unwillingly he admitted, "You had some in your pack in your room. It is gone. As is the carryme that was with it."
I took the rag from my forehead and glared at him. My anger built on the foundation of my pain. "You have no right. How dare you?"
He took a breath. "I dare as much as my need demands. And my need is great." His green-eyed gaze met mine challengingly. "The throne needs the talent that only you possess. I will allow nothing that diminishes your Skill."
He did not look away from me, but I could scarcely keep my eyes on him. Light was flaring all around him, stabbing into my brain. The barest edge of control kept me from throwing the compress at him. As if he guessed that, he took it from me, offering me a freshly cooled one in its place. It was a pitiful comfort, but I put it on my brow and leaned back in the chair. I wanted to weep with frustration and anguish. From behind the compress, I told him, "Pain. That's what being a Farseer means to me. Pain and being used."
He made no reply. That had always been his greatest rebuke, the silence that forced me to hear my own words over and over. When I took the cloth from my forehead, he was ready with another one. As I pressed it to my eyes, he said mildly, "Pain and being used. I've known my share of that as a Farseer. As did Verity, and Chivalry, and Shrewd before them. But you know there is more to that. If there weren't, you wouldn't be here."
"Perhaps," I conceded grudgingly. The fatigue was winning. I just wanted to curl up around the pain and sleep but I fought it. "Perhaps, but it isn't enough. Not for going through this."
"And what more would you ask, Fitz? Why are you here?"
I knew he meant it to be a rhetorical question but the anxiety had been with me for too long. The answer was too close to my lips, and the pain made me speak without thought. I lifted a corner of the cloth to peer at him. "I do this because I want a future. Not for myself, but for my boy. For Hap. Chade, I've done it all wrong. I haven't taught him a thing, not how to fight, nor how to make a living. I need to find him an apprenticeship with a good master. Gindast. That's who he wishes to teach him. He wants to be a joiner, and I should have seen that this would come and saved my money, but I didn't. And here he is, of an age to learn and I haven't a thing to give him. The coins I've saved aren't enough to—"
"I can arrange that." Chade spoke quietly. Then, almost angrily, he demanded, "Did you think I wouldn't?" Something in my face betrayed me, for he leaned closer, brows furrowed, as he exclaimed, "You thought you'd have to do this in order to ask my help, didn't you?" The damp cloth was still in his hand. It slapped the stone flags when he flung it in a temper. "Fitz, you—" he began, then words failed him. He stood up and walked aw
ay from me. I thought he would leave entirely. Instead he went down to the workbench and the unused hearth at the other end of the chamber. He walked around the table slowly, looking at it and at the scroll racks and utensils as if seeking for something he had misplaced. I refolded the second cloth and held it to my forehead, but surreptitiously I watched him from under my hand. Neither of us said anything for a time.
When he came back to me, he looked calmer but somehow older. He took a fresh cloth from a pottery dish, wrung it out, folded it, and offered it to me. As we exchanged the compresses, he said softly, "I'll see that Hap gets his apprenticeship. You could simply have asked me to do that when I visited you. Or years ago, you could have brought the lad to Buckkeep and we'd have seen him decently educated."
"He can read and write and figure," I said defensively. "I saw to that."
"Good." His reply was chill. "I'm glad to hear you retained that much common sense."
There seemed no rejoinder to that. Both pain and weariness were overcoming me. I knew I had hurt him but I didn't feel it was my fault. How could I have known he'd be so willing to help me? Nevertheless, I apologized. "Chade, I'm sorry. I should have known that you would help me."
"Yes," he agreed mercilessly. "You should have. And you're sorry. I don't doubt you're sincere. Yet I seem to recall warning you, years ago, that those words will only work so often, and then they ring hollow. Fitz, it hurts me to see you this way."
"It's starting to ease," I lied.
"Not your head, you stupid ass. It hurts me to see that you are still… as you've always been since… damn. Since you were taken from your mother. Wary and isolated and mistrustful. Despite all I've… After all these years, have you given your trust to no one?"
I was silent for a time, pondering his words. I had loved Molly, but I had never trusted her with my secrets. My bond with Chade was as essential as my bones, but no, I had not believed that he would do all he could for Hap, simply for the sake of what we shared. Burrich. Verity. Kettricken. Lady Patience. Starling. In every instance, I had held back. "I trust the Fool," I said, and then wondered if I truly did. I did, I assured myself. There was almost nothing about me that he didn't know. That was trust, wasn't it?
