by Robin Hobb
The first time I spared a glance back at him, Dutiful was hanging on grimly, his mouth set in a snarling grimace and his eyes distant. Somewhere, I sensed, an angry cat followed us. As we came down one steep hillside in a series of leaps and slides, I heard a crashing in the brush behind and above us. I heard a shout of encouragement, and recognized the Fool's voice as he urged Malta to greater speed. My heart leapt with relief that he still followed us. At the bottom of the hill, I pulled Myblack in for an instant. The Prince's horse was already lathered, the white foam dripping from her bit. Behind her, the Fool reined Malta in. "You're all in one piece?" I asked hastily. "So it appears," he agreed. He tugged his shirt collar straight and fastened it at the throat. "And the Prince?"
We both looked at Dutiful. I expected anger and defiance. Instead, he reeled in his saddle, his eyes unfocused. His gaze swung from the Fool to me and back again. His eyes wandered over my face, and his brow furrowed as if he saw a puzzle there. "My Prince?" the Fool asked him worriedly, and for that instant, his tone was that of Lord Golden. "Are you well?"
For a moment, he just gazed at both of us. Then, life returned to his face and, "I must go back!" he suddenly shouted wildly. He started to pull his foot free of the stirrup. I kicked Myblack, and in that instant we were off again. I heard his cry of dismay, and looked back to see him clutching frantically at his saddle as he tried to regain his seat. With the Fool at our heels, we fled on.
Chapter XXII
Choices
The legends of the Catalyst and the White Prophet are not Six Duchies' legends. Although the writings and lore of that tradition are known to some scholars in the Six Duchies, it has its roots in the lands far to the south, beyond even the reaches of Jamaillia and the Spice Islands. It is not properly a religion, but is more a concept both of history and philosophy. According to those who believe such things, all of time is a great wheel that turns in a track of predetermined events. Left to itself, time turns endlessly, and all the world is doomed to repeat the cycle of events that lead us all ever deeper into darkness and degradation. Those who follow the White Prophet believe that to each age is born one who has the vision to redirect time and history into a better path. This one is known by his white skin and colorless eyes. It is said that the blood of the ancient lines of the Whites finds voice again in the White Prophet. To each White Prophet there is a Catalyst. Only the White Prophet of that particular age can divine who the Catalyst is. The Catalyst is one who is born in a unique position to alter, however slightly, predetermined events, which in turn cascade time into other paths with possibilities that diverge ever wider. In partnership with this Catalyst, the White Prophet labors to divert the turning of time into a better path.
Caterhill's "Philosophies"
We could not keep up the pace forever, of course. Long before I felt safe, the condition of the horses forced us to breathe them. The sounds of pursuit had faded behind us; a warhorse is not a courser. As the evening approached true dark around us, we walked the horses down a winding streambed. The Prince's horse could barely hold her head up. As soon as the heat was walked off her, we would have to stop for a time. I rode crouched in my saddle to avoid the sweeping branches of the willows that lined the stream. The others followed. When we had first slowed the horses, I had feared that the Prince would try a leaping escape. But he had not. Instead he sat his horse in sullen silence as I led her on.
"Mind this branch," I warned Dutiful and Lord Golden as a low limb snagged on me when Myblack pushed her way under it. I tried not to let it snap back in the Prince's face.
"Who are you?" the Prince suddenly demanded in a low voice.
"You do not recognize me, my lord?" Lord Golden asked him anxiously. I recognized his effort to distract the Prince's attention from me.
"Not you. Him. Who is he? And why have you assaulted me and my friends in this way?" There was an amazing depth of accusation in his voice. Abruptly he sat up straighter in his saddle as if he were just discovering his anger.
"Duck," I warned him as I released another branch. He did.
Lord Golden spoke. "That is my servant, Tom Badgerlock. We've come to take you home to Buckkeep, Prince Dutiful. The Queen, your mother, has been most worried about you."
"I do not wish to go." With every sentence, the young man was recovering himself. There was dignity in his voice as he spoke these words. I waited for Lord Golden to reply, but the splashing thuds of the horses' hooves in the stream and the swish and crackle of the branches we passed through were the only sounds. To our right, a meadow suddenly opened out. A few blackened, snaggly stumps in it were reminders of a forest fire in this area years ago. Tall grasses of browned seedheads vied against fireweed with sprung and fluffy seedpods. I turned the horses out of the stream and onto the grass. When I looked up at the sky, it was dark enough to show a pricking of early stars. The dwindling moon would not show herself until night was deep. Even now, the gathering darkness was leaching color from the day, making the surrounding forest an impenetrable tangle of blackness.
I led them out to the center of the meadow, well away from the forest edge, before I reined in. Any attackers would have to cross open ground before they reached us. "Best we rest until moonrise," I observed to Lord Golden. "It will be difficult enough to make our way then."
"Is it safe to stop?" he asked me.
I shrugged my shoulders. "Safe or not, I think we must. The horses are nearly spent, and it's getting dark. I think we've gained a good lead. That warhorse is strong, but not swift or nimble. The terrain we've covered will daunt him. And the Piebalds must either abandon their wounded, splitting their party, or come after us more slowly. We have a little breathing space."
I looked back at the Prince before I dismounted. He sat, shoulders slumped, but the anger in his eyes proclaimed him far from defeated. I waited until he swung his dark eyes to meet mine, and then spoke to him. "It's up to you. We can treat you well and simply return you to Buckkeep. Or you can behave like a willful child and try to run away back to your Witted friends. In which case I will hunt you down, and take you back to Buckkeep with your hands bound behind you. Choose now."
He stared at me, a flat, challenging stare, the rudest thing one animal can do to another. He didn't speak. It offended me on so many levels that I could scarcely keep my temper.
"Answer me!" I commanded.
He narrowed his eyes. "And who are you?" His tone made the repeated question an insult.
In all the years I'd had the care and raising of Hap, he had never provoked me to the level of temper that this youth had instantly roused in me. I wheeled Myblack. I was taller than the lad to begin with and the differences in our mounts made me tower over him. I crowded both him and his horse, leaning over him to look down on him like a wolf asserting authority over a cub. "I'm the man who's taking you back to Buckkeep. One way or another. Accept it."
'Badgerlo' Lord Golden began warningly, but it was too late. Dutiful made a move, a tiny flexing of muscle that warned me. Without considering anything, I launched at him from Myblack's back. My spring carried us both off our horses and onto the ground. We landed in deep grass, luckily for Dutiful, for I fell atop him, pinning him as neatly as if I had intended it. Both our horses snorted and shied away, but they were too weary to run. Myblack trotted a few paces, knees high, snorted a second rebuke at me, and then dropped her head to the grass. The Prince's horse, having followed her so far today, copied her example.
I sat up, straddling the Prince's chest while pinning both his arms down. I heard the sound of Lord Golden dismounting, but did not even turn my head. I stared down at Dutiful silently. I knew by the laboring of his chest that I had knocked the wind out of him, but he refused to make a sound. Nor would he meet my eyes, not even when I took his knife from him and flung it disdainfully into the forest. He looked past me at the sky until I seized his chin and forced him to look me in the face.
"Choose," I told him again.
He met my eyes, looked away, then me
t them again. When he looked away a second time, I felt some of the fight go out of him. Then his face twisted with misery as he stared past me. "But I have to go back to her," he gasped out. He drew breath raggedly, and tried to explain. "I don't expect you to understand. You're nothing but a hound sent to track me down and drag me back. Doing your duty is all you know. But I have to go after her. She is my life, the breath in my body… she completes me. We have to be together."
Well. You won't be. I came a knife's edge away from saying those words, but I did not. Matter-of-factly, I told him, "I do understand. But that doesn't change what I have to do. It doesn't even change what you have to do."
I got off him as Lord Golden approached. "Badgerlock, that is Prince Dutiful, heir to the Farseer Throne," he reminded me sharply.
I decided to play the role he'd left open for me. "And that's why he's still got all his teeth, my lord. Most boys who draw knives on me are lucky to keep any." I tried to sound both surly and truculent. Let the lad think Lord Golden had me on a short leash. Let him worry that I wasn't completely under the lord's control. It would give me an edge of mastery over him.
"I'll tend the horses," I announced, and stalked away from them into the darkness. I kept one eye and one ear on the shapes of the Fool and the Prince as I dragged off saddles, slipped bits, and wiped the horses down with handfuls of grass. Dutiful got slowly to his feet, disdaining Lord Golden's offered hand. He brushed himself off, and when Golden asked if he had taken any harm, replied with stiff courtesy that he was as well as could be expected. Lord Golden retreated a short way, to consider the night and allow the lad to collect his shattered dignity. In a short time, the horses were grazing as greedily as if they had never seen grass before. I had put the saddles in a row. I removed bedding from Myblack's saddle packs and began to make it into pallets near them. If possible, I'd steal an hour of sleep. The Prince watched me. After a moment he asked, "Aren't you going to build a fire?"
"And make it easier for your friends to find us? No."
"But—"
"It's not that cold. And there's no food to cook anyway." I shook out the last blanket, then asked him, "Do you have any bedding in your saddle pack?"
"No," he admitted unhappily. I divided the blankets to make three pallets instead of two. I saw him pondering something. Then he added, "I do have food. And wine." He took a breath, then said, "It seems a fair trade for a blanket." I kept a wary eye on him as he approached and began to open his saddle packs.
"My Prince, you misjudge us. We would not think of making you sleep on the bare earth," Lord Golden protested in horror.
"You might not, Lord Golden. But he would." He cast me a baleful glance and added, "He does not even accord me the courtesy one man gives to another, let alone the respect a servant should have for his sovereign."
"He is a rough man, my Prince, but a good servant all the same." Lord Golden gave me a warning look.
I made a show of lowering my eyes, but muttered, "Respect a sovereign? Perhaps. But not a runaway boy fleeing his duty."
Dutiful took a breath as if he would reply in fury. Then he let it out as a hiss, but leashed his anger. "You know nothing of what you speak about," he said coldly. "I did not run away."
Lord Golden's tone was much gentler than mine had been. "Forgive me, my lord, but that is how it must appear to us. The Queen feared at first that you had been kidnapped. But no notes of ransom arrived. She did not wish to alarm her nobles, or to offend the Outislander delegation soon to arrive for your betrothal agreement. Surely you have not forgotten that in nine more nights, the new moon brings your betrothal? For you to be absent at such a time goes beyond mere discourtesy to insult. She doubted that was your intent. Even so, she did not turn out the guards after you, as she might have done. Preferring to be subtle, she asked me to locate you and bring you safely home. And that is our only aim."
"I did not run away," he repeated adamantly, and I saw that the accusation had stung him more sharply than I suspected. Nonetheless, he stubbornly added, "But I have no intention of returning to Buckkeep." He had taken a bottle of wine from his pack. Now he pulled out food. Smoked fish wrapped in linen, several slabs of hard-crusted honey cake, and two apples; hardly traveling rations, but the toothsome repast that loyal companions would supply for a prince's enjoyment. He unfolded the linen on the grass, and began to divide the food into three portions. Dainty as a cat, he arranged the food. I thought it was well done, a show of a gracious nature by a boy in an uncomfortable situation. He uncorked the wine and set it in the middle. With a gesture he invited us, and we were not slow to respond. Little as there was, it was very welcome. The honey cake was heavy, suety, and thick with raisins. I filled my mouth with half my slab and tried to chew it slowly. I was fiercely hungry. Yet even as we attacked the food, the Prince, less hungry, spoke seriously.
"If you try to force me to return with you, you will only get hurt. My friends will come for me, you know. She will not surrender me so easily, nor I her. And I have no desire to see you get hurt. Not even you," he added, meeting my stare. I had thought he intended his words as a threat. Instead, he seemed sincere as he explained, "I must go with her. I am not a boy running away from his duty, nor even a man fleeing an arranged marriage. I do not run away from unpleasantness. Instead, I join myself where I most belong… where I was born to belong." His careful unfolding of words put me in mind of Verity. His eyes traveled slowly from me to Lord Golden and back again. He seemed to be seeking an ally, or at least a sympathetic ear. He licked his lips as if taking a risk. Very quietly, he asked, "Have you ever heard the tale of the Piebald Prince?"
We were both silent. I swallowed food gone tasteless. Was Dutiful mad? Then Lord Golden nodded, once, slowly.
"I am of that line. As sometimes happens in the Farseer line, I was born with the Wit."
I did not know whether to admire his honesty, or be horrified at his naive assumption that he had not just condemned himself to death. I kept my features motionless and did not let my eyes betray my thoughts. Desperately I wondered if he had admitted this to others at Buckkeep.
I think our lack of reaction unnerved him more than anything else we could have done. We both sat quietly, watching him. He took a gambler's breath. "So you see now why it would be best for everyone if you let me go. The Six Duchies will not follow a Witted king, nor can I forsake what my blood makes me. I will not deny what I am. That would be cowardice, and false to my friends. If I returned, it would only be a matter of time before all knew of my Wit. If you drag me back, it can only lead to strife and division amongst the nobles. You should let me go, and tell my mother you could not find me. That way is best for all."
I looked down at the last of my portion of fish. Quietly I asked, "What if we decided it was best for all if we killed you? Hung you and cut you in quarters and burned the parts near running water? And then told the Queen we had not found you?" I looked away from the wild fear in his eyes, shamed by what I had done and yet knowing he must be taught caution. After a space: "Know men before you share your deepest secrets with them," I counseled him.
Or your kill. He came up on me as quietly as a shadow, his thought light as the wind against my skin. Nighteyes dropped a rabbit, a bit the worse for wear, on the ground beside me. He had already eaten the guts. Casually, he lifted the smoked fish from my hands, gulped it down, and then lay down beside me with a heavy sigh. He dropped his head onto his forepaws. That rabbit started up right under me. Easiest kill I've ever made.
The Prince's eyes opened so wide I could see white all around them. His gaze darted from the Wolf to me and back again. I don't think he had overheard our shared thought, but he knew all the same. He leapt to his feet with an angry cry. "You should understand! How can you tear me from not just my bond-beast but the woman who shares that Old Blood kinship with me? How can you betray one of your own?"
I had more important questions of my own. How did you cover that much ground so quickly?
The same way his cat
will, and for much the same reason. A wolf can go straight where a horse must go around. Are you ready for them to find you? With my hand resting on his back, I could feel the weariness thrumming through him. He shuddered away my concern as if it were flies on his coat. I'm not that decrepit. I brought you meat, he pointed out. You should have eaten it all yourself. A trace of humor. I did. The first one. You don't think I'd be foolish enough to follow you all this way on an empty belly? That one is for you and the Scentless One. And this cub, if you so will it. I doubt he will eat it raw. I doubt there is sense to avoiding a fire. Come they will, and they need no light to guide them. The boy calls to her; it is like breath sighing in and out of him. He yowls it like a mating call.
I am not aware of it.
Your nose is not the only sense that you have that is not as keen as mine.
I stood up, then nudged the eviscerated rabbit with my foot. "I'll make a fire and cook this." The Prince was staring at me silently. He was well aware I'd been having a conversation that excluded him.
"What about drawing pursuit to us?" Lord Golden asked. Despite his question, I knew he was hoping for the comfort of a fire and hot meat.
"He's already doing that." I gestured at the Prince with my chin. "Having a fire long enough to have some hot food will not make it any worse."
"How can you betray your own kind?" Dutiful demanded again.
I had already puzzled out the answer to that the night before. "There are levels of loyalty here, my Prince. And my highest loyalty is to the Farseers. As yours should be." He was more my own kind than I had the heart to tell him, and I ached for him. Yet my actions did not feel like a betrayal to me. Rather, I imposed safe boundaries on him. As Burrich had once done for me, I thought ruefully.
