by neetha Napew
“Agreed.” Dutiful gave a small sigh of his own. “Let us hope that Queen I-Highly-Doubt-It will be receptive to communicating with me via the Skill.” And he too gave me a pointed look that placed the blame squarely on my doorstep that he and his cousin did not already know one another.
“I did what I thought best,” I said stiffly.
And Chade, ever one to seize an advantage, agreed smoothly with “Of course you did. You always act from high motives, Fitz. But next time it is up to you to make a significant decision based on what you ‘think is best,’ you may remember this, and reflect that perhaps I have a few more years of experience than you do. Perhaps the next time, you will give my opinion of the matter a bit more weight.”
“I will keep your advice in mind,” I agreed, and this time my words were formally cool as well as stiff. Never had I thought to have my loyalty tugged between Chade and the Fool as if it were a rag desired by two puppies. Each had conceded that the decision would be mine, but apparently neither trusted me to make it without prompting. And then Swift returned with a pot packed full of snow so I excused myself and left. The Prince watched me go with thoughtful eyes but I felt no touch of his mind on mine.
By that time, the rest of the camp was well astir. Peottre had arisen early, Riddle told me, and had gone ahead to scout out the first part of our journey. He did not like the balmy breeze, heavy with moisture, that blew over the snowy ground. Even Thick was up and blundering about in the tent, scattering the contents of his pack in an effort to find fresh clothing. When I told him that we were traveling light and would both wear what we had on the day before, he looked quite displeased. I reminded him that when he first came into the Prince’s service, he had had but one set of clothing to his name. At that, he knit his brows as if thinking deeply, then shook his head and said he did not recall such a time. I did not think the point worth arguing. I bundled him into his outer clothes and got him out of the tent so our guardsmen could strike it.
I found food for us, plain porridge and a bit of salt fish. He wasn’t pleased with the breakfast and neither was I, but it was all that we had. Then I busied myself lightening his pack into mine. All the while I spoke to him encouragingly about the day’s travel, saying that now that we knew how to walk over this glacier, we would do better and keep up with the others. He nodded, but in an unconvinced way that made my heart sink.
With a casualness I didn’t feel, I observed, “I didn’t sleep well last night. Bad dreams. But doubtless you had Nettle for company, and soothing dreams to welcome you.”
“Nah.” He pulled off his mitten to scratch his nose, and then spent a few moments putting it back on. “Bad dreams were everywhere last night,” he observed darkly. “Nettle couldn’t change them. When I called her, she just told me, ‘Come away from there, don’t look at that.’ But I couldn’t, because they were everywhere. I walked and walked and walked through the snow, but the dreams just kept coming up to me and looking at me.” He took off his mitten and poked thoughtfully at his nose. “One had maggots in his nose. Like boogies, but wriggly. It made me think I had maggots inmy nose.”
“No, Thick, your nose is fine. Don’t think about it. Come, let’s walk around and see what everyone else is doing.”
We were among the first to be ready to depart. I was anxious to be on the move, for the clear sky had filled with low clouds. The wind was damp, and the prospect of either snow or rain was daunting to me. The others seemed to be taking a very long time to get ready, even though Peottre prowled through the camp casting anxious looks at the sky and beseeching us to get an early start. Thick began to complain of being too tired to hike and too bound up with layers of clothing. To distract him, I took him with me to watch the Fool take down his tent. Swift was already there, helping him. The lad’s pack, quiver, and bow were neatly stacked to one side as he followed the Fool’s instructions for dismantling the wooden poles that had supported the tent’s airy fabric. I noted in passing that the peculiar arrow I had seen him holding the day before was now in his quiver.
The tent collapsed swiftly. The poles disassembled into pieces no longer than a good arrow. I had thought his little oil pot for his fire was heavy clay, but when I picked it up out of curiosity, it felt light and almost porous. The airy coverlets crushed down into a bundle the size of a small cushion. When all had been stowed, the Fool’s pack was sizable and probably heavier than mine, even with Thick’s belongings in it. Nevertheless, he shouldered into its harness and hefted it onto his back without a grunt. Never before had I seen a camp so neatly and swiftly stowed, and my admiration for Elderling skill at devising such things increased.
“The Elderlings made such marvelous things, and then they vanished. I’ve always wondered what made an end of them.” I was not trying to start a conversation so much as distract Thick. He was rubbing at his nose again.
“When the dragons perished, the Elderlings perished with them. The one could not exist without the other.” The Fool spoke as if he observed that leaves were green and the sky blue, as if that were a fact everyone accepted.
Before I could comment on that astonishing statement, Thick dropped his hand from his nose and asked, “What’s an Elderling?”
“No one really knows,” I told him, and then the look on the Fool’s face stopped me. He looked as if he would burst with it if I didn’t give him a chance to tell. I wondered when he had acquired the knowledge and why he chose now to share it. Swift, sensing excitement, drew closer.
“The Elderlings were an old people, Thick. Old not just in how long ago they prospered, but old in how many years they numbered to a life. I suspect that for some of them, memory reached back beyond even the long spans of their own lives, back into the lives of their forebears.”
Thick’s brow was furrowed as he endeavored to understand. Swift was already enraptured in the tale. I interrupted. “Do you know these things, or do you guess?”
He pondered this for a moment. “I am as sure of these things as I can be, without either an Elderling or a dragon to consult.”
Now it was my turn to look puzzled. “A dragon? Why would you consult a dragon about the Elderlings?”
“They are . . . intertwined.” The Fool appeared to choose his word carefully. “In all I have read or heard, we never find one without the other. It seems that they create one another, or are necessary to one another’s being somehow. I cannot explain it, I can only observe it.”
“So, if you succeed in bringing back the dragons, you restore the Elderlings as well?” I asked recklessly.
“Perhaps.” He smiled uncertainly. “I don’t know. But I do not think it would be an evil thing if that happened.”
And that was as much talk as we had time for. Peottre had returned and he wanted us on the move as swiftly as possible. The Prince called for Thick, and we hurried to him. Chade sent me a brief scowl.What was that long conversation about?
Elderlings,I replied, well aware that both Dutiful and Thick were sharing our thoughts.Lord Golden believes that if he can restore dragons to the world, the Elderlings would return, as well. He feels there is some link between them, though he cannot explain what it might be.
And that was all?
Yes.The brevity of my reply let him know I resented his prying. I wondered if Dutiful’s Skill-silence meant he approved or disapproved of Chade’s attitude. Then I told myself it didn’t matter. If the time came when it was truly up to me whether the dragon lived or died, then I would decide. Until then, I refused to torment myself with it, or to sever my friendship with either of them.
Peottre formed us up for the day’s journey. Today, we took our places right behind the Prince’s company. He warned us that the mellow wind now sweeping over the glacier ahead of us could make the surface unpredictable. We would follow the old established trail, looking for the poles and banners that marked it, but should remember that conditions changed and the trail was not absolutely trustworthy. Snow could blow across recent fissures, making it look like sou
nd ground. He cautioned us again to be sure of our every step. Then, staves in hand, we moved out in a line. For the first part of the march, Thick and I kept up well enough. He coughed, but not as much as he had, and he trudged along gamely. Peottre moved us more slowly today, plunging his stave ahead of us before every step he took. He was correct about the treacherous weather. Although the warmer breeze soon had us loosening our hoods and collars, it sculpted the damp snow into fantastic shapes. The bluish shadows cast by the icy forms imparted a dreamlike quality to the frozen land we traversed.
Twice, Peottre turned us aside from his chosen path. The first time, he prodded the snow, only to have the crusty surface suddenly give way beneath the pressure. The top of the snow sagged, then collapsed and fell into a deep hollow before us. The winds had sculpted an airy bridge out of the frozen crystals, too fragile to bear any creature’s weight. He turned us and took us around the revealed chasm.
Our second detour came in the afternoon. By then, Thick had grown weary and discouraged. The damp snow clung heavily to our leggings and boots, and before long the main party outdistanced us, until we followed in their trodden path. We had just crested a long, low ridge when we met them all coming back toward us. Peottre had found very soft snow, his stave sinking into it to the depth of a short man, and had turned back, to seek a better route. It had been a weary climb, and Thick muttered curses as we turned and followed them back down into the trough of icy landscape.
The summer daylight bouncing off the blue and white snow dazzled our eyes. We squinted until the tears came and our brows ached with the tension. And still Peottre urged us onward.
We hiked far longer that second day, both in distance and time. The sun began its slow roll along the horizon, and still we pushed on. Thick and I followed at a substantial distance, and I soon began to wonder if Peottre would ever stop for the night. Twice Thick had stopped and refused to go on. He was tired, the damp snow was soaking through his boots and leggings, he was cold, he was hungry, and he was thirsty. He was a litany of my own complaints, and listening to him whine them only seemed to make them more unbearable. It was hard enough to talk myself into going on without prodding him along as well. His music today was a dull thudding of percussion against me, a steady and relentless rain of blows made of the crunch of our feet on the crusty snow and the keen sound of staves driving into crystalline snow.
If I walked in front of him, Thick lagged far behind, so I had to walk behind him, enduring his methodically slow poking of the snow in front of him. As the evening shadows lengthened, it became a tedious repetition of the day before. As I seethed along behind him, one slow step after another, the situation seemed to become more and more intolerable. My anger grew, slowly but steadily, like a fire methodically fed coal one lump at a time. When had I been thrust into this role? Why did I endure it? Why had Chade chosen me for this demeaning role? It had to be a punishment, a deliberate humiliation. I had been a warrior for the Farseers once. Now, in retaliation that I had taken my freedom, Chade humiliated me by making me nursemaid to a fat, smelly moron. I tried to recall all the logical reasons, to ask myself who else should be the watchdog for one so powerfully Skilled as Thick, and yet I could no longer convince myself of the necessity of my loathsome task. My thoughts spiraled down, down into an ever-deeper chasm of frustration and anger and resentment. With an effort, I controlled myself. In a sugary voice, I coaxed him along. “Please move along a bit faster, Thick. Look. They’ve begun to set up the camp. Don’t you want to get to the camp and get dry and warm?”
He turned his head to glare at me. “You say nice words. But I know what you are thinking at me. Like knives and rocks and big knobby sticks. Well, you made me come here. And if you try to hurt me, I’ll hurt you back even worse. Because I’m stronger than you. I’m stronger, and I don’t have to obey you.”
Foolishly, he had warned me: I threw up my Skill-walls as I readied my own strength against him. In the moment before Thick’s Skill-blast hit me, I became aware that all my animosity toward him had died, like a fire suddenly smothered under a wet blanket. His attack hit me, an iron hammer on an anvil of cheese. He had not touched me, and then I felt as if he had crushed my body in his grip. I staggered and then fell into the snow, feeling that the very blood must burst out through my skin, as Thick suddenly demanded, “Why are we mad? What are we doing?”
It was a child’s wail of dismay. He must have thrown up his walls against me, and experienced the same loss of anger that I had. He waddled through the snow toward where I had fallen as the long-threatened rain began to pelt us. I rolled away from his touch, knowing that he meant well, but fearful that if he touched me, my walls would fall before him. “I’m not hurt, Thick. Really, I’m not. I’m just a bit sick.” And stunned. And rattled. And aching as if I’d been flung from a horse. I got my knees under me and lurched to my feet. “No, Thick, don’t touch me. But listen. Listen. Someone is trying to trick us. Someone is using our own magic to put bad thoughts in our heads. Someone we don’t know.” I knew it with sudden certainty. Someone was employing the Skill against us.
“Someone we don’t know,” he said dully. Dimly, I was aware of Dutiful trying to Skill to me. Doubtless they had felt some shadow impact of Thick’s attack on me. I ventured to drop my walls for an instant, to Skill to them,Be wary! Guard your thoughts! And then I slammed my defenses tight against the insidious fingering of Skill that had attempted to once again infiltrate my mind. I knew that I should try to strike back, or at least follow the Skill-thread back to them. It took every bit of courage I possessed to drop my walls. I reached out wildly, Skilling in all directions to see who had been poisoning my mind against Thick.
I felt nothing and no one. Chade and Dutiful and Thick were there, walled against me. I thought of groping toward Nettle, and decided against it. My attackers might not know of her; I would not show her to them. I drew a shuddering breath, and then once more threw up my Skill-walls. I felt only marginally safer. We had an unknown enemy. I would not rest until I had uncovered all I could about them.
“It’s the same ones that made my bad dreams, too,” Thick announced decisively.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“I know. Yes. It’s them, the bad-dream makers.” Thick nodded emphatically.
The rain was coming down steadily, shushing against the snow around us. I hoped the others had already put the tents up and that there would be some sort of dry shelter awaiting us when we arrived. All day long, the wet had crept up me from the damp snow. Now it drenched down on me, completing my misery. “Come on, Thick. Let’s get to the camp,” I suggested, and we lurched forward through the snow that packed unevenly under our feet. “Keep your Skill-walls up,” I cautioned him as we slogged along. “Someone was trying to make us think bad thoughts about each other. They don’t know that we are friends. They tried to make us hurt each other.”
Thick looked at me dolefully. “Sometimes we are friends. Sometimes we fight.”
It was true. Just as it was true that I did resent always being his caretaker. They had found my resentment and irritation with Thick and fed it, just as Verity had used to seek for fear or arrogance in our enemies, and feed it until our foes made some deadly mistake. It had been a subtle and well-planned attack by someone who had touched my mind enough to sense the feelings I hid from all others. That was unnerving.
“Sometimes we fight,” I admitted to Thick. “But not to really hurt each other. We disagree. Friends often disagree. But we don’t try to hurt each other. Even when we’re angry with each other, we don’t try to hurt each other. Because we are friends.”
Thick gave a sudden, deep sigh. “I did try to hurt you. Back on the boat, I made you bump your head a lot. I’m sorry, now.”
It was the most sincere apology I’d ever received in my life. I had to reciprocate. “And I’m sorry that I had to make you come here, on a boat.”
“I think I forgive you. But I’ll get angry with you again if you put me on a boat to go
home.”
“That’s fair,” I said after a moment. I tried to keep the dread and discouragement from my voice.
Thick shocked me when he halted and suddenly took my hand. Even through my Skill-walls, I felt the steady warmth of his regard. “I always got angry at my mum when she washed my ears,” he told me. “But she knew I loved her. I love you too, Tom. You gave me a whistle. And pink sugar cake. I’ll try not to be mean to you anymore.”
The simple words caught me off guard. He stood, lips and tongue pushed out, his round little eyes peering at me from under his knit cap. He was a toadish little man, and his nose was running. It had been a long time since I’d been offered love on such a simple and honest basis. Strangely enough, it woke the wolf in me. I could almost see the slow, accepting wag of Nighteyes’ tail. We were pack. “I love you too, Thick. Come on. Let’s get out of the wet.”
The rain turned colder and was sleet by the time we staggered into camp. Chade came to meet us. As soon as he was within earshot of a whisper, I warned him, “Keep your walls up. Someone tried to fog us with Skill, much as Verity used the Skill to confuse and confound our enemy during the time of the Red Ship War. It . . . they sought to turn Thick and me against each other. And very nearly succeeded.”
“Who is behind it?” Chade demanded, as if he thought I would actually know.
“The bad-dream people,” Thick told him earnestly. I shrugged at Chade’s scowl. It was as good an answer as any that I had.
Camp that night was a miserable place. Everything was either wet or damp. The tiny fires we could have allowed ourselves from our precious fuel wouldn’t burn. Peottre once more set boundaries for our camp and then risked himself to reconnoiter to select tomorrow’s route for us. A dim glow, as from a single candle, came from the Narcheska’s tent. The Fool’s was a gorgeous, beckoning blossom in the night, and I longed simply to go there, but Chade had demanded my presence and I recognized the need for my full report to him.
