Fool's Fate

by neetha Napew

  He wasn’t alone. Kitten-Thick nestled in the middle of a big bed upon his cushion while Nettle moved quietly around the tiny room. She seemed to be busy with evening tasks. She hummed as she tidied away discarded clothing and then set foodstuffs into cupboards. When she was finished, the little room was neat and bright. “There,” she told the watchful kitten. “You see. All is well. Everything is where it should be and as it should be. And you are safe. Sweet dreams, little one.” She stood on her tiptoes to blow out the lamp. I had a sudden odd realization. I had known she was Nettle, but perceived her through Thick’s eyes as a short, stout woman with long graying hair bundled into a knot and deep lines in her face. His mother, I realized, and knew then that she had borne him very late in her life. She looked more of an age to be his grandmother.

  Then Thick’s dream retreated from me, as if I gazed at a lighted window from a distance. I looked around me. We were on the hillside, the melted tower above me and a bramble of dead briars surrounding me. Nettle stood at my side. “I do this for him, not you,” she said bluntly. “No soul should have to endure dreams so plagued with fear.”

  “You’re angry at me?” I asked her slowly. I dreaded her answer.

  She did not look at me. From nowhere, a cold wind blew between us. She spoke through it. “What did they really mean, those words you told me to say to my father? Are you truly a callous beast, Shadow Wolf, that you gave me words to pierce his heart?”

  Yes. No. I lacked a truthful answer to give her. I tried to say, I would never want to hurt him. But was that true? He had taken Molly to be his own. They had believed me dead; neither of them had intended me ill. But he had taken her from me, all the same. And raised my daughter, in safety and health. Yes. That was true, and I was grateful to him for that. But not grateful that she would always see his face when she heard the word “papa.” “You asked me for those words,” I said, and then heard how harsh I sounded.

  “And just like the wishes granted in old tales, you gave me what I wanted and it has broken my heart.”

  “What happened?” I asked unwillingly.

  She didn’t want to tell me, and yet she did. “I told him I’d had a dream, and that in the dream, a wolf with porcupine quills in his nose had promised to watch over Swift and bring him safely home to us. And I said the words you gave me. ‘As once you did, so I do now. I shelter and guide your son. I will put my life between him and any harm, and when my task is done, I will bring him safely home to you.’ ”

  “And?”

  “My mother was kneading bread, and she told me not to speak of Swift if all I could talk was moonshine and foolishness. But her back was to the table where I sat with my father. She did not see his eyes widen at my words. For a time, he just stared at me, with his eyes showing the whites all around them. Then he fell from the chair to the floor and lay there, staring like a corpse. I thought he was struck dead. My brothers and I carried him to his bed, fearing the worst. My mother was terrified, demanding of him where he hurt. But he did not answer. He only put his hands over his eyes, curled up like a beaten child, and began to weep.

  “He wept all day today, and did not say a word to any of us. As night fell, I heard him get up. I came to the edge of my loft and looked down. He was dressed for travel. My mother was holding to his arm, begging him not to go out. But he said to her, ‘Woman, you’ve no idea what we have done, and I haven’t the courage to tell you. I’m a coward. I’ve always been a coward.’ Then he shook her off and left.”

  For a terrible flashing instant, I imagined Molly spurned and abandoned. It was devastating.

  “Where did he go?” I managed to ask her.

  “I suspect he’s coming to you. Wherever you are.” Her words were curt, and yet I heard hope in them, hope that someone knew where her father was bound and why. I had to take it from her.

  “That cannot be. But I think I know where he has gone, and I think he will come back to you soon.” Buckkeep, I thought to myself. Burrich was a direct man. He’d go to Buckkeep, hoping to corner Chade and question him. He’d get Kettricken instead. And she would tell him. Just as she had told Dutiful who I really was. Because she believed in telling people the truth, even if it hurt them.

  While I was still pondering that scene, Nettle spoke again. “What have I done?” she asked me. It was not a rhetorical question. “I thought I was so clever. I thought I could bargain with you, and get my brother safely home. Instead . . . what have I done? What are you? Do you wish us ill? Do you hate my father?” Then, with even more dread she asked, “Is my brother in your power somehow?”

  “Please don’t fear me. You have no reason to fear me,” I said hastily, and then wondered if it was true. “Swift is safe, and I promise I will do all in my power to bring him home to you as soon as I can.” I paused, wondering what I could safely tell her. She was no fool, this daughter of mine. Too many hints and she’d unravel the whole mystery. Like as not, then I’d lose her forever. “I knew your father, a long time ago. We were close. But I made decisions that went against his rules, and so we parted. For a long time, he has believed I was dead. With your words, he knows I am not. And, because I never came back to him, he now believes he did me a great wrong. He didn’t. But if you know your father at all, you will know that it is what he believes in that regard that will drive him.”

  “You knew my father a long time ago? Did you know my mother then, too?”

  “I knew him long before you were born.” Not quite a lie, but a deception nonetheless. I let her mislead herself.

  “And so my words meant nothing to my mother,” Nettle softly concluded after a moment.

  “Yes,” I confirmed. Then, gingerly I asked, “Is she all right?”

  “Of course not!” I felt her impatience with my stupidity. “She stood outside the house and shouted after him when he left, and then ranted to all of us that she never should have married such a stiff-necked man. A dozen times she asked me what I said, and a dozen times I told her of my ‘dream.’ I came so close to telling her all I knew of you. But that would not have helped, would it? For she never knew you.”

  For one chill instant, I saw it through Nettle’s eyes. Molly stood in the road. In her struggle to restrain Burrich, her hair had come loose. It curled as it ever had, brushing against her shoulders as she shook her fist after him. Her youngest son, little more than six, clutched at her skirts, sobbing in terror at this wild spectacle of his father abandoning his mother. The sun was setting, tingeing the landscape with blood. “You blind old fool!” Molly shrieked after her husband, and the flung words rattled against me like stones. “You’ll be lost or robbed! You’ll never come home to us!” But the fading clatter of galloping hooves was her only reply.

  Then Nettle turned away from the scalding memory of it, and I found we were no longer on the hill with the melted tower. Instead, we were in a loft. My wolf ears on top of my head nearly brushed the low rafters. She was sitting up in her bed, her knees clutched to her chest. Beyond the curtain that screened us from the rest of the attic, I could hear her brothers breathing. One shifted in his sleep and cried out restlessly. No one dreamed peacefully in this house tonight.

  I desperately wanted to beg her to say no word of me to Molly. I dared not, for then she would be certain that I lied. I wondered how strongly she already suspected a link between her mother and myself. I did not answer her directly. “I don’t think your father will be gone long. When he returns home, will you tell me, to put my mind at rest?”

  “Ifhe comes home,” she said in a low voice, and I suddenly knew that Molly had voiced aloud the family’s very real fears. Now Nettle spoke reluctantly, as if to speak the truth made it more real. “He has already been robbed and beaten once when he was traveling alone seeking for Swift. He has never admitted it to us, but we all know that is what befell him. Nevertheless, he has once more set out alone.”

  “That’s Burrich,” I said. I dared not voice aloud what I hoped in my heart: that he had ridden a horse that he kne
w well. Although he would never use his Wit to speak to his mount, that did not prevent the animals he worked with from communicating with him.

  “That’s my father,” she agreed, both with pride and sorrow. And then the walls of the room began to run like inked letters when tears fall on them. She was the last sight to fade from my dream. When I came to myself, I was staring up at a darkened corner of the Prince’s cabin, seeing nothing.

  In the tedious days and nights that followed, Thick’s condition changed little, for better or worse. He would rally for a day and a night, and then slip back into fever and coughing. His real illness had chased away his fear of seasickness, but there was no comfort for me in that. More than once, I sought Nettle’s aid in banishing Thick’s fever-dreams before they could unsettle the crew. Sailors are a superstitious lot. Under Thick’s influence, they shared a nightmare and, when they compared their night’s recollections, decided it was a warning from the gods. It only happened once, but was nearly enough to set off a mutiny.

  I worked more closely and more often on Skill-dreams with Nettle than I desired. She did not speak of Burrich and I did not ask, though I know we both counted the days that he had been gone. I knew that if she had had tidings of him, she would share them. His absence in her life left a place for me. Unwillingly, I felt our bond grow stronger, until I carried a constant awareness of her with me at all times. She taught me, without realizing, how to slip behind Thick’s dreams and manipulate them, gently guiding them into consoling images. I could not do it as well as she did. Mine was more a suggestion to him, while she simply set the dream right.

  Twice I felt Chade observing us. It grated on me, but there was nothing I could do about it since to acknowledge him would have made Nettle aware of him, as well. Yet, in ignoring him, I profited as well, for he grew bolder and I saw my old mentor grow stronger in the Skill. Did he not realize it, or did he conceal it from me? I wondered, but did not betray that wondering to him.

  I have never found sea travel enthralling. One watery seascape is much like any other. After a few days, the Prince’s cabin seemed almost as cramped, confining, and stuffy as the hold my fellow guardsmen shared. The monotonous food, the endless rocking, and my anxiety for Thick hollowed me. Our diminished coterie made little progress in our Skill-lessons.

  Swift continued to come to me daily. He read aloud, earning knowledge of the Out Islands and refreshing mine as he did so. At the end of each session, I would question him to be sure the knowledge was settling into his mind and not simply passing through his eyes and out of his mouth. He had a good head for holding information, and asked a few questions of his own. Swift was seldom gracious but he was obedient to his teacher, and for now that was all I asked. Thick seemed to find Swift’s presence soothing, for he would relax, and some of the lines would smooth from his brow as he listened. He spoke little and breathed hoarsely and would sometimes go off into coughing fits. The process of coaxing spoonfuls of broth into him exhausted both of us. The rounded paunch he had recently gained dwindled, and dark hollows showed under his small eyes. He was as sick a creature as I’ve ever seen, and his acceptance of his misery was heart-wrenching. In his own mind, he was dying, and not even in his dreams could I completely vanquish that notion.

  Nor could Dutiful aid me in that. The Prince did his best, and he was truly fond of Thick. But Dutiful was fifteen, and a boy in many ways still. Moreover, he was a boy being courted by his nobles, who daily devised distractions that would put him in their company. Freed of Kettricken’s austere traditions, they plied him with entertainment and flattery. Smaller boats shuttled between the ships of our betrothal fleet, not only bringing nobles to visit Dutiful but often carrying Chade and him off to the other vessels for wine and poetry and song. Such trips were meant to divert his attention from the ennui of the uneventful voyage and they succeeded only too well, but it behooved Dutiful to distribute his favors and attentions amongst his nobles. The success of his reign would be built upon the alliances he forged now. He could scarcely have refused to go. Yet all the same, it bothered me to see how easily his attention could be drawn away from his ill servant.

  Web was my sole comfort. He came every day, offering quietly to keep watch by Thick while I took some time for myself. I could not completely relax my vigil, of course. I maintained a Skill-awareness of Thick lest he sweep us all into some wild and fearful dream. But I could at least leave the confines of the cabin to stroll briefly on the deck and feel some wind in my face. This arrangement, however, kept me from having time alone with Web. It was not just for Chade’s ends that I longed to speak with him. More and more, his quiet competency and kindness impressed me. I had a sense that he courted me, not as Dutiful’s nobles courted the Prince, but as Burrich had insinuated himself into the presence of a horse he wished to retrain. And it worked, despite my being aware of it. With every passing day, I felt less wariness and caution toward him. It no longer seemed a threat that he knew who I really was, but almost a comfort. I harbored a host of questions I longed to ask him: How many of the Old Blood knew that FitzChivalry still lived? How many knew I was he? Yet I dared not voice such questions in Thick’s hearing, even when he wandered in his fever-dreams. There was no telling how he might repeat such words, aloud or in dreams.

  Very late one evening, when the Prince and Chade had returned from some entertainment, I waited until Dutiful had dismissed his servants. He and Chade sat with glasses of wine, talking quietly on the cushioned bench beneath the window that looked out over our wake from our dimly lit cabin. I rose and left Thick’s side and, going to the table, beckoned them. Weary as they both were from a long session of Stones with Lord Excellent, they were still intrigued enough to immediately join me. I spoke to Dutiful without a preamble. “Has Web ever confided to you that he knows I am FitzChivalry?”

  The look of astonishment on his face was answer enough.

  “Did he need to know that?” Chade grumbled at me.

  “Is there a reason to keep such knowledge from me?” the Prince replied for me, more sharply than I would have expected.

  “Only that this bit of intrigue has nothing to do with our present mission. I would keep your mind focused on the matters that most concern us, Prince Dutiful.” Chade’s voice was restrained.

  “Perhaps, Councilor Chade, you could let me decide which matters concern me?” The asperity in Dutiful’s voice warned me that this was a topic that had been discussed before.

  “Then there is no sign that anyone else in your ‘Witted coterie’ knows who I am?”

  The Prince hesitated before replying slowly. “None. There has been talk, from time to time, of the Witted Bastard. And when I think back, Web has initiated it. But he brings it up in the same manner in which he teaches us Witted history and traditions. He speaks of a topic, and then asks us questions that lead us deeper into understanding it. He has never spoken of FitzChivalry as other than an historic figure.”

  A little unnerving, to hear of myself as an “historic figure.” Chade spoke before I became too uncomfortable.

  “Then Web teaches your Witted coterie formally? History, traditions . . . what else?”

  “Courtesy. He tells us old fables of Witted folk and beasts. And how to prepare before beginning a Search for an animal partner. I think that what he teaches are things that the others have known from childhood, but he teaches them for my benefit and Swift’s. Yet when he tells tales, the others listen closely, especially the minstrel Cockle. I think he possesses much lore that was on the verge of being lost, and he speaks it to us that we may keep it safe and pass it on in our turn.”

  I nodded to that. “When persecution broke up the Witted communities, the Witted had to conceal their traditions and knowledge. It would be inevitable that less of it was passed on to their children.”

  “Why, do you think, does Web speak of FitzChivalry?” Chade asked speculatively.

  I watched Dutiful think it through, in the same way Chade had taught me to ponder any man’s action
. What could he gain by it? Who did it threaten? “It could be that he suspects that I know. Yet I don’t think that is it. I think he poses it to the Wit coterie to make them consider, ‘What is the difference between a ruler who is Witted or unWitted?’ What would it have meant for the Six Duchies if Fitz had come to power at that time instead of being executed for his magic? What might it mean for the Six Duchies if it ever becomes safe for me to reveal that I am Old Blood? And also, how does it benefit my people, all my people, to have an Old Blood ruler? And how can my Wit coterie assist me in my reign?”

  “In your reign?” Chade asked sharply. “Do their ambitions run that far ahead of us? They had spoken of aiding you on this quest, to show the Six Duchies that the Wit can be put to a good cause. Do they think to continue as advisers beyond this task?”

  Dutiful frowned at Chade. “Well, of course.”

  When the old man knit his brows in irritation, I intervened. “It seems natural to me that they would, especially if their efforts do assist the Prince in his quest. To use them and then cast them aside afterward is not the sort of political wisdom you have taught me over the years.”

  Chade was still scowling. “Well . . . I suppose . . . if they truly proved to be of any value, they would expect some compensation.”

  The Prince spoke levelly, but I could sense him holding his temper. “And what would you expect them to ask in return if they were a Skill coterie aiding me?” He sounded so like Chade as he set his trap question that I almost laughed aloud.