by neetha Napew
“Why didn’t Civil just tell Dutiful, months ago?” I felt outraged. My prince had forgiven Civil, had welcomed him back as a comrade and friend, and he had held back from us this key piece of information.
The Fool shook his head. “I don’t think Dutiful realizes the full implications, even now. Perhaps some part of him suspects, but he doesn’t dare let himself see it. He is true Old Blood, not Piebald. What they did is so monstrous by his standards that he cannot imagine Sydel being connected to such a plot.” He leaned over and picked up the snowbag from the floor, regarded it dolefully, and then put it gingerly to the swollen side of his face. “I’m so tired of being cold,” he remarked. One-handed, he opened a small wooden box at the end of his pallet, and took out a cup and a bowl that nested together. From beneath them, he took a small cloth bag and shook herbs from it into the cup and bowl. He went on. “It’s the only way I can make the pieces fit. Sydel is disgraced in her father’s eyes; the engagement is broken. Civil assumes her father caught her in my bed. It is the only explanation he can imagine, and so he blames me for ruining all that was between them. But that isn’t it at all. One or both of her parents are Piebalds. They used their close ties with the Bresinga household to intercept messages meant for Civil and return their own. They saw to it that the Prince was hosted invisibly within that household. The gift of the cat for Dutiful was probably delivered through them. The plan for Civil was that he’d wed their daughter, bringing his family’s wealth and position to the Piebald cause. Then she failed them, by flirting with me. And we were the mechanism for the whole downfall of that first Piebald plan. That is how she is disgraced.” He gave a sigh, leaned back on his bedding, and moved the kerchief to a different spot on his face. “It’s small comfort to have worked it out now.”
“I’ll see that Kettricken knows of it,” I promised him without telling him how I’d attempt to do that.
“But if we have set one puzzle to rest tonight, we’ve only encountered a greater one. Who is he, what is he?” The Fool’s voice was musing.
“The Black Man?”
“Of course.”
I shrugged. “Some recluse living on the island, accepting tribute from superstitious folk and ambushing those who don’t leave him gifts. That’s the simplest explanation.” Chade’s teaching was that the simplest explanation was often likely to be the right one.
The Fool shook his head slowly. The look he gave me was incredulous. “No. Surely you cannot believe that. Never have I felt a man so hung about with portents . . . not since I first encountered you have I felt such a tingle of . . . of significance. He is important, Fitz, vastly important. Perhaps the most important person we have ever met. Didn’t you feel his consequence, hanging like mist in the air?” He held the snow away from his face and leaned forward eagerly. A single scarlet final drop hung from the tip of his nose. I gestured at it and he wiped it carelessly on his bloodstained sleeve.
“No. I felt nothing like that. In fact—Oh, Eda and El! Why does it come to me only now? I could not see him when the sentry shouted, and when he was pointed out to me, I thought I saw but his shadow. Because I didn’t sense him with my Wit. Not at all. He was as blank as a Forged One . . . He’s Forged, Fool. And that means there is no predicting what he might do.”
A chill went over me despite the coziness of the tent. It had been many years since I’d had to deal with Forged Ones, but the unmerciful memories had not faded. One of my tasks as Chade’s apprentice assassin had been to kill as many of them as I could, by whatever means was most expeditious. The deaths I had dealt to Six Duchies folk haunted me still, even though I knew there had been no alternative. Forging stole all humanity from its victims and was irreversible.
“Forged? Oh, surely not!” The Fool’s astounded reaction broke my moment of introspection. He shook his head. “No, Fitz. Not Forged. Almost the opposite, if such a thing is possible. I felt in him the weight of a hundred lifetimes, the significance of a dozen heroes. He . . . displaces fate. Much as you do.”
“I don’t understand,” I said uneasily. I hated it when the Fool spoke like this. He loved it.
He leaned forward, eyes gleaming with enthusiasm. As he spoke, he lifted the kettle from the oil flame and poured steaming water into the cup and a bowl. Ginger and cinnamon wafted toward me. “All of time, every sliced instant of it, is rich with vertices of choices. One becomes accustomed to that, to the point at which sometimes even I have to stop and remind myself that I am making choices, even when I do not seem to be. Every indrawn breath is a choice. But sometimes one is reminded of that forcibly, sometimes I meet a person so laden with possibilities and potential that the mere existence of such a being is a jolt to reality. You are like that, still, to me. The sheer improbability of your existence took my breath away. I have discovered relatively few possible futures in which you exist at all. In most of them, you died as a child. In others . . . well, I do not think I need to tell you all the ways in which you have died in other times. How many times have you been snatched from the jaws of death, in the most unlikely ways? I promise you, Fitz, in other times that parallel ours, you have met your deaths at those moments. Yet here you are, with me still, defying the odds by existing. And by your existence, with every breath you take, you change all time. You are like a wedge driven into dry wood. With every beat of your heart, you are pounded deeper into ‘what might be’ and as you advance, you crack the future open, and expose a hundred, a thousand new possibilities, each branching into another hundred, another thousand.” He paused for breath. Noting my disgruntled expression, he laughed aloud. “Well. Like it or not, you do, my Catalyst. And so also did he feel to me tonight, the Black Man! So many possibilities shimmered around him that I could scarcely see him. He is even more unlikely than you are!” He drew a black kerchief out of his sleeve and wiped all traces of blood from his face, and then his hands. Carefully enfolding the bloody side, he tucked it into his sleeve again. Then he leaned back on his cushions, his eyes staring into the dim shadows at the peak of his tent. “And I have not a clue as to who or what he is. I’ve never glimpsed him before. What does that mean? Was it only with our coming here that his influence on the future became possible?”
He picked up the steaming bowl and offered it to me, excusing it with “I only brought one cup. Traveling light, you know.” I took it from him, welcoming the warmth against my hands. With an odd jolt, I reminded myself that in the Six Duchies it was summer. Summer seemed an impotent thing here in the Out Islands, camped on a glacier. He picked up the cup and, looking around, frowned slightly. “You took my honey, didn’t you? You don’t happen to have it with you, do you? It brings out the flavor of the ginger and makes the tea more warming.”
“Sorry. I left it in my tent . . . no, that’s not quite true. I left it outside by the fire last night, and this morning it was gone.” I halted, feeling as if I’d just heard a key turn in a lock. “Or taken,” I amended. “Fool, the Outislanders left gifts for the Black Man. He didn’t take any of them, but honey was one of the things offered. And yours was missing this morning.”
“You think he took mine? You think that he supposed it an offering left by you?”
The excitement he manifested was out of proportion, I thought, to my speculation. I took a sip of the tea he had made. The ginger was heat. I felt it spread comfortingly through my belly even as his words unnerved me. “More likely someone in our own camp took it. How could he creep amongst our very tents, unseen?”
“Unseen and unfelt,” he corrected me. “You said he is invisible to your Wit. Likely the same is true for the other Witted ones. So. I think he took the honey. And with it, bound his fate to ours. It connects us, you see, Fitz.” He drank from his cup, his eyes near closing in enjoyment of the warm liquid as he did so. When he set the cup down, he had nearly drained it. He reached for a bright yellow coverlet that looked as insubstantial as the stuff of his tent walls and draped it around his shoulders, then kicked off his loose boots and pulled his narrow f
eet up under him. “It connects him to both of us. I think it might be highly significant. Do you see that it could change the outcome of our mission here? Especially if I let it be known that the Black Man had accepted our offering.”
My mind raced through the possibilities. Would such an announcement win the Outislanders to his side? Turn the Narcheska and Peottre against him? Where did it leave me, not only in relation to them but in terms of how Chade saw me? The answers were not comforting. “It could create a greater division in our party than there is now.”
He lifted his cup and drank the rest of the tea before answering. “No. It would only expose the division that already exists.” He looked at me and his expression was almost pitying. “This is the culmination of my life’s work, Fitz. You cannot expect me to refuse any weapon, any advantage, that fate gives me. If I must die on this cold and forsaken island, at least let me die knowing I’ve achieved my aim.”
I drank off the tea in the bowl and set it down beside his cup. I spoke firmly. “I’m not going to stay here and listen to this . . . nonsense. I don’t believe any of it.”
But I did. And it tightened my guts more than any cold or danger I’d ever faced.
“And you think that if you refuse to believe it, it can’t come to pass?That is nonsense, Fitz. Accept it, and let’s make the best of what time we have left.” There was such terrible calm in his voice that I suddenly wanted to strike him. If death was truly lurking in wait for him, he should not be so placid and accepting of it. He should fight it, he should bemade to fight it.
I drew a deep breath. “No. I won’t believe it and I won’t accept it.” A thought came to me and I tried to speak it jokingly, but it came out as a threat. “Remember what I am to you, White Prophet. I’m the Catalyst. I am Changer. And I can change things, even the things thatyou think are fixed.”
Halfway through my jest, I saw emotion transform his face. I would have halted my words, but once begun, they seemed to proceed of their own accord. The expression on his face was so stark, it was as if I stared at his bared skull bones. “What are you saying?” he demanded in a horrified whisper.
I looked away from him. I had to. “Only what you’ve been telling me for most of our lives. You may be the Prophet and foretell things. But I’m the Catalyst. I change things. Perhaps even what you’ve foretold.”
“Fitz. Please.”
The words drew my gaze back to him. “What?”
He was breathing through his mouth as if he’d run a race and lost. “Don’t do this,” he begged me. “Don’t try to stop me from doing what I must do. I thought I’d made you understand it, back there on the beach. I could have run away from this. I could have stayed in Buckkeep, or gone back to Bingtown, or even gone home. Or back to where home once was. But I didn’t. I’m here. I’m facing it. I’m afraid and I don’t deny that. And I know this will be hard for you. But it is what I’ve been aimed toward, all these years. You understand duty to family and king. You understand it all too well. Please see that this, now, is my duty to what I am. If you set out to defeat me, simply for the sake of keeping me alive, you will render all my life meaningless. All we have gone through up to now will be for nothing. You’ll be condemning me to live out my years knowing that I failed. Would you do that to me?”
He gave me a piteous look. I gave him a few moments to calm before I spoke quietly. “So. You are saying, if I see something killing you, I’m to let it happen? Even if I can prevent it?”
Suddenly he seemed confused. “I suppose so . . .”
“What if it’s the wrong thing? What if I see a bear killing you, and you’re supposed to die in an avalanche? And I do nothing, so you die in the wrong way, and it’s still all for nothing.”
He looked at me blankly for a moment. “But that . . . No. I think you’ll know. When the time comes, I think you’ll know what—”
“And if I don’t? If I make a mistake, what then?”
“I don’t . . .” He faltered to a halt.
I pounced. “Do you see how stupid this is? I cannot possibly stand by and watch you die, Fool. I know that and you know that. You’d be asking me to be profoundly different from who I am. You’d be making the change, not me. And didn’t you once tell me that precipitating the change was my task, not yours? So don’t ask it of me. If fate demands that you be dead, well, then I’ll probably be dead too. At that point, I doubt if it will matter much to either of us.” I stood abruptly. “And that’s the last that we’re saying about this. This is a discussion thatI choose not to have. It’s late, and I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”
The change that came over his face shocked me. I saw naked relief in his eyes. I think then I understood just how much he truly feared what he felt he had to face. That he had not revealed it to anyone was as great a show of courage as I have ever known. As I lifted the tent flap, he spoke again. “Fitz. I’ve really missed you. Don’t go. Sleep here tonight. Please.”
So I did.
chapter16
ELFBARK
Elfbark, more accurately called delventree bark, is a potent stimulant with the unfortunate additional effect of making the user prey to feelings of despondency and fearfulness. For this reason, it is often used by slave-owners in Chalced to increase the hours that a slave can work while at the same time dampening his spirit. Taken steadily over a long period it is addictive, and some say that even taken sporadically the herb can permanently alter a man’s temperament, making him suspicious and defensive even with his closest companions, while eroding his sense of self-worth. Yet even with all these disadvantages, there are times when the risks are worth it for the stamina it may confer in times of necessity. It is less volatile a drug than either carris seed or cindin, in that those two may lead to wild surges of emotion and false euphoria that may prompt actions both foolish and dangerous.
The best quality of elfbark is obtained from the new branch tips of very old trees. Incise laterally along the twig and then around it at each end of the cut. Slip a fingernail or knife point under the bark edge and carefully loosen it from the branch. The freed bark will immediately curl into a cylinder. Store it thus in a pouch in a cool dry place until the bark has dried enough to be grated into a powder, which can be infused as a tea.
If the need is immediate, a tea can be made from the freshly harvested bark, but it is far more difficult to judge the strength of the herb’s potency from the color of that tea.
—RAICHAL ’S“TABLE OF HERBS”
I emerged from the Fool’s tent very early, before the rest of the camp was astir. I had slept poorly, besieged by formless nightmares. Toward dawn, I lay awake and wished that I possessed Nettle’s skill for mastering such uneasy dreams. That put me in mind of her. I wished to speak with Chade and Dutiful privately, without even Thick listening in. I walked to the edge of our camp area to relieve myself. Deft was on guard duty, and gave me a passing nod. I went directly to the Prince’s tent, walking softly. I had forgotten that I had assigned Swift guard duty there. The boy was watchful as a fox, for as I drew close, the tent flap lifted slightly, baring not only his vigilant eyes but also the point of an arrow set in his bow.
“It’s me,” I said hastily, and was relieved when he eased the bow and lowered the quarrel. I cudgeled my brain for an errand to send him on, and then fell back on suggesting he fetch some clean snow to melt for washwater for the Prince, reminding him not to venture beyond the flagged boundaries of the camp.
As soon as he trudged off, bucket in hand, I slipped inside the dim tent. “Are you awake?” I asked quietly.
Dutiful sighed heavily. “I am now. I feel as if I’ve been awake for most of the night. Lord Chade?”
A muffled grunt was his only reply. Chade had the blankets pulled up over his head.
“This is important, and I have to talk fast, before Swift comes back,” I warned them.
Chade lifted the covers a small crack. “Talk, then.” He yawned tremendously. “I am too old for this camping out in the snow after hi
king all day,” he muttered venomously, as if it were all my fault.
“I talked with the Fool last night, after he and Civil fought.”
“Ah, yes. And we spoke with Civil. Or Civil spoke at us. For quite a long time. I had had no idea that your charade at Galekeep had been so convincing. Civil is quite distressed that we allow Swift to spend time with Lord Golden,” Chade replied grumpily.
Dutiful snickered when I scowled. “The truth is that Civil would rather believe that than the truth. The Fool charted it out for me. He thinks that Sydel’s parents, or at least one of them, were the traitors who sold Dutiful to the Piebalds. I suspect that her father is the one who broke the engagement between them, and that perhaps he did so more because Civil had opposed the Piebalds than because Sydel had behaved foolishly.”
I was rewarded by Chade poking his nose out of his blankets. I watched him ponder, turning the pieces to see if they fit. After a moment, he said almost grudgingly, “Yes. He could be right. Sydel’s parents would have been well positioned for all that was done. Would that I had an extra message bird, to send these tidings to the Queen! But I have just the one for Buckkeep, and one for the Hetgurd, to bring them back to fetch us. There are no birds to spare.”
I raised an eyebrow at him. “Thick and Nettle?” I asked bluntly. I wondered if he had kept the Prince in ignorance.
Chade shook his head, tangling his white hair against his blankets. “No. That link is not ready to bear tidings as heavy as this. Think of the consequences if the message were incorrectly interpreted, or if the girl refused to believe Thick’s tidings. No. That arrangement must be trained and tested, with simple messages, both sent and received, before we can rely on it for serious purposes.” He sighed heavily, the sound an unuttered rebuke to me. “Thick will sleep in our tent tonight. Before he dozes off, Dutiful will ask him to convey greetings to Nettle, and to pass on some simple message to the Queen, one that will provoke a response from her. The creation of that will take some thought. If it goes well, then we will try a more weighty message the next night. But only when we are certain that messages are being relayed accurately will we pass on our suspicions of a traitor.” He nodded to himself, and then rolled his head to look at the Prince. “Agreed?”
