Fool's Fate

by neetha Napew

  It was play, pure and simple. Play that I’d had no time for, that I had dismissed as unnecessary and an interruption to all the practical tasks of a well-ordered life. When had I lost sight of taking simple pleasure for the sake of pleasure? I forgot myself in it and came back to the world with a start when I heard my name being called. I had just come to the end of the slide, and as I turned to the Fool’s voice, Thick crashed into me from behind. I went flying and landed, mostly unhurt, with Thick on top of me. We floundered to our feet to find the Fool watching us with amusement and fondness that was hard to look upon. Regret and wistfulness were there also. “You should try it,” I told him, half-embarrassed to be caught cavorting like a boy in the first snow of the year. I stood and helped Thick to his feet. He was grinning despite his tumble.

  “My back,” the Fool said quietly, and I nodded, feeling suddenly subdued. I knew it was more than his newly healed back, more than the stiffness of half-healed hurts. His experience had scarred and stiffened more than his body. I wondered how long it would be before his spirit regained its flexibility.

  “You’ll heal,” I assured us both as I walked up to him. I wished I had been more certain.

  “Prilkop has made food for us,” he told me. “I’ve come to tell you it’s ready. We shouted from the door, but you didn’t hear us.” He paused. “The walk down looked easy. It wasn’t. Now I dread the walk up again.”

  “It’s steep,” I agreed as we started back. At the mention of food, Thick had broken into a trot and preceded us. “Prilkop?”

  “The Black Man’s name.” The Fool trudged along beside me as we headed back to the steep cliffside trail. He was breathless. “It took him a moment or two to recall it. It has been long since he had anyone to speak with, and longer still since he has spoken our native tongue.”

  “You both seemed to be enjoying it,” I said, and hoped I did not sound jealous.

  “Yes,” he agreed. He almost smiled. “It has been so long since he was home that when I told him my childhood memories, he could only marvel at how many things had changed. We both wonder what things are like there now.”

  “Well, I suppose he could go home now if he wished. I mean, he has no vision to keep him here anymore. Does he?”

  “No.” We walked a bit in silence and then the Fool said quietly, “Fitz, home is people. Not a place. If you go back there after the people are gone, then all you can see is what is not there anymore.” He set his hand on my arm and I halted. “Let me breathe,” he begged, and then defeated our pause by speaking. “You are the one who should go home,” he told me earnestly. “While you still can. While there are people there who will know you and rejoice in your return. Not just Buckkeep. Molly. And Patience.”

  “I know. I intend to.” I looked at him puzzled, surprised that he had thought I would not.

  His face went almost blank with astonishment. “You will? You are?”

  “Of course.”

  “You mean it, don’t you?” His eyes searched my face. Almost, I saw a shadow of disappointment there. But then he seized one of my hands in both of his and said, “I am glad for you, Fitz. Truly glad. You had said you would, but you seemed hesitant. I thought perhaps you would change your mind.”

  “What else would I do?”

  He hesitated a moment, as if he would say something. Then he seemed to change his mind. He gave a small snort. “Go find a cave to live in alone for the next decade or so.”

  “Why would I do that? Retreat from life, and there is no opportunity for anything to get better . . . Oh.”

  And then I was rewarded by the slow spread of his old smile across his face. “Help me up the path,” he said, and I was glad to do so. He leaned more heavily on my arm than I had expected him to. When we reached Prilkop’s cavern, I made him sit down. “Spirits? Brandy?” I asked of Prilkop, and when the Fool had weakly translated my words, the Black Man shook his head. He came closer to the Fool and bent down to look into his face. He touched the Fool’s forehead and then shook his head.

  “I will make a tea. For this, a helpful tea.”

  We ate together and passed the evening telling stories. The Fool and Prilkop seemed to have slaked some of their thirst for conversing in their own tongue. I made up a pallet for the Fool and insisted he lie down near the fire. I tried to tell Prilkop the full tale of how we had come to Aslevjal. He listened intently, nodding, his brow furrowed. From time to time, the Fool would offer a brief explanation to Prilkop of some part of our tale that he did not understand. Mostly he lay still, eyes closed, listening. When he did break into my telling, it was strange to hear how the Fool pieced out our life tale for him, for he made it seem as if always the goal had been to awaken and restore true dragons to the world. I suppose that for him, it had been that. But it was peculiar to see my own life in that light.

  It became very late and Thick had dozed off long before Prilkop bade us good night. I knew an odd moment of awkwardness when I spread my blankets separately from the Fool’s. There was plenty of bedding here; no need to share anymore. But I had slept beside him for so many nights that I wondered if he would want the comfort of me close by to guard him from his night terrors, but I could not find a way to ask him. Instead, I propped my head on my arm and watched him sleep. His face was slack with exhaustion, yet pain still furrowed his brow. I knew that after all he had been through, he would need time apart from me, time alone with himself to discover once again who he was. Yet, selfishly, I did not want him to grow apart from me again. Not only my love for Molly but my boyish fondness and closeness to the Fool had been rejuvenated, as well. To be the best of friends again, making nothing of one another’s differences, to enjoy the days and face hardships optimistically; he represented all that to me, and I vowed I would not let that carelessly slip from my grip again. He and Molly would round out my life to what it should have been. And Patience, I thought with wonder. I would reclaim her too, and never heed the cost.

  Perhaps it was that Thick slept close by me, or perhaps it was that for the first time since I’d ventured into the Pale Woman’s realm, I slept deeply enough to dream my own dreams. In either case, Nettle found me. Or perhaps I found her. I found myself in an evening place. It was a place I almost remembered, yet it had changed so much that I was not certain of it. Banks of flowers glowed luminously in the dimness. Somewhere, a fountain played, a muted splashing. The evening fragrances of blossoms wafted and blended on the night breeze.

  Nettle was sitting on a stone bench, alone. She leaned her head against the wall behind her and stared up at the night sky. I winced when I saw her. Her beautiful hair had been shorn down to her scalp. It was the oldest sign of mourning in the Six Duchies, and not often practiced among women. I came and sat on the paving stones in front of her in my wolf guise. She stirred and looked down at me.

  “You know that my father is dead?”

  “Yes. I am sorry.”

  Her fingers toyed with a fold of her dark skirt. “Were you there?” she asked at last.

  “When he died, no. When he took the injury that would kill him, yes.”

  A little silence spun out between us. “Why do I feel so awkward asking this, as if it is improper for me to be curious? I know that the Prince thinks it more appropriate to speak all around it and say only that my father was a hero and fought well. But that is not enough for me. I want to know how he died . . . was hurt. I want . . . I need to know every detail. Because they dumped his body in the sea and I will never see him again, dead or alive. Do you know how that feels? Just to be told that your father is dead, and that is all?”

  “I know exactly how it feels,” I said. “So was it done to me, also.”

  “But, eventually, they told you?”

  “They told me the lie that they told everyone. No. I was never told how he truly died.”

  “I am sorry,” she said, and meant it. She turned her head and looked at me curiously. “You’ve changed, Shadow Wolf. You . . . ring. You . . . like a bell when it is str
uck. What is the word?”

  “Resonate,” I suggested, and she nodded.

  “I feel you more clearly. Almost as if you were real.”

  “I am real.”

  “I mean, real, here.”

  I wished that I were. “How much of it do you want to know?” I asked her.

  She lifted her chin. “All. Everything. He was my father.”

  “That he was,” I was forced to agree. I steeled myself. It was time. Then another thought came to me and I asked her, “Where are you now? When you are awake?”

  She sighed. “As you see. In the Queen’s Garden, at Buckkeep Castle,” she said forlornly. “The Queen allowed me to go home for three days. She apologized to me and to my mother, but said it was as much time as she could spare me now for my mourning. Ever since I learned to dream true, not even my nights have belonged to me. Always I am at the call of the Farseer throne, expected to give my entire life to it.”

  I phrased it carefully. “In that, you are your father’s child.”

  She blazed up at me suddenly, lighting the garden with her wrath. “He gave his life for them! And what did he get in return? Nothing. Well, some estate, now that he is dead, some Withywoods place I’ve never heard of. What do I care for land and a title? Lady Nettle, they call me now, as if I were a noble’s daughter. And Lady Thornbush they call me, behind my back, simply because I speak my mind in honest words. I care nothing for what they think of me. As soon as I can, I will leave this court and go home. To my real home, the house my father built and its barns and pastures. They can take Withywoods and tear it stone from stone for all I care. I’d rather have my father.”

  “So would I. But all the same, you have more right to Withywoods than anyone else. Your father served Prince Chivalry, and that estate was one of his favorites. It is almost as if you are Chivalry’s heir, that you receive it.” And I was sure that was what Patience had intended. She could count the months and years on her fingers, and know that Molly’s child was mine. The old woman had done her best to see something of her grandfather’s lands passed on to Nettle. It warmed my heart that she had done so. I suddenly knew why Patience had waited until after Burrich’s death to see the land go to Nettle. It was because she had respected his claim to Nettle’s paternity and would do nothing to make anyone else question it. Now the lands would appear a thing that Burrich had earned for his family rather than an inheritance passed on to a grandchild. The subtleties of my eccentric stepmother would always delight me.

  “I would still rather have my father.” She sniffed, and turned her face from me. She spoke to the darkness, hoarsely. “Are you going to tell me what happened to him?”

  “Yes. I am. But I am trying to decide where to begin that tale.” I weighed caution against courage, and then suddenly realized my decision should not rest onmy feelings at all. How much should a young woman, alone and in grief, suddenly be confronted with? Now was not the time to change her perception of who she was. She was facing enough changes. Let her grieve unfettered by questions such as my revelations could raise for her.

  “Your father took his death wound in service to the Farseer monarchy, it is true. But when by sheer will alone he dropped a dragon to his knees, it was not for his prince. It was because the stone dragon had threatened his beloved son.”

  She was incredulous. “Swift?”

  “Of course. Swift was why he came here. To get his son and take him safely home. He did not think there would be a real dragon to face.”

  “There is so much I don’t understand. You call the dragon that they faced a ‘stone dragon.’ What is that?”

  She deserved to know. And so I told her a hero’s tale, full of the Pale Woman’s dark magic and of a man who had come, half-blind and alone, to face down a dragon for the sake of his wayward son. I told her too of how Swift had stood before the dragon’s charge, and sped the arrow that slew him. And then I spoke of Swift’s loyalty to her father as he lay dying. I even explained the earring that Swift would be wearing when he returned home to them. She wept as I spoke, black tears that vanished as they fell. Her garden faded around us, and the icy glacier wind blew past us and I realized the strength of my telling was such that she saw it, much as I had. Only when my words had faded, did the garden ease back into existence around us. The fragrances were sharper, as if a recent rain had watered them. A moth fluttered by.

  “But when will Swift come home?” she demanded anxiously. “It is hard enough for my mother to know her husband is dead. She should not have to worry whether her son will return safely. Why do they linger so long there when their task is done?”

  “Swift serves his prince. He will come back when Dutiful returns,” I assured her. “They are still negotiating the marriage that will bind our countries in friendship. These things take time.”

  “What is wrong with that girl?” Nettle demanded angrily. “Is she without a mind or has she no honor? She should live up to the word she gave. She got her dragon’s head on the hearthstones. I saw to that!”

  “So I have heard,” I told her wryly.

  “I was so angry with him,” she told me confidentially. “It was the only thing I could think of to do.”

  “You were angry with Icefyre?”

  “No! With Prince Dutiful. Dither, dither, dither. Does she like me, does she love me, I won’t force her to keep a bargain made under duress, I am so, so very noble . . . Why does not he tell that fickle Outislander girl, ‘I paid the toll and I’ll cross the bridge.’ I’m sure I would have!” Then her blaze of indignation suddenly dampened as she said, “You don’t think I’m traitorous to speak so of him, do you? I mean no disrespect. I am as loyal a subject to our illustrious prince as anyone. It is just that, when you speak with someone mind to mind, it is hard to remember that he is a prince and far above me. There are times when he seems as thick-witted as one of my brothers, and I just want to shake him!” Despite her earlier protestation of loyalty to her monarch, she suddenly sounded like a girl very exasperated with foolish boys.

  “So. What did you do?”

  “Well, at that time those Outislander people were making much fuss over his not having put the dragon’s head on the hearthstones of her mothershouse. As if rescuing her mother and sister were not worth the weight of a bloody dead animal head stinking in front of your fireplace!” I could feel the effort it took her to restrain herself. “Mind you, I only know of these things as I relay them to the Queen. I am the one who must stand before her each morning and pass on such tidings as they send through me. Does he think that is pleasant? But it occurred to me one dawn, after leaving my queen solemn and heavy of heart because the marriage might not happen at all, that perhaps there was something Icould do. Despite her bluster and threats, I know Tintaglia well. Perhaps because of those things, I know her well. So, as she had pestered me, disturbing my dreams whenever I slept, so I began to do to her. For in all her comings and goings from my sleep, she had worn a sort of path that I could follow back to her. If that makes sense to you.”

  “It does. But I still marvel that anyone would dare ‘pester’ such a creature.”

  “Oh, in the dream world, we are well matched, as I think you might remember. I doubt she would fly all the way here just to trample a mere human. And unlike me, she prefers to sleep heavily after she has eaten or mated. So, those were precisely the times I chose to bother her.”

  “And you asked her to ask Icefyre to return to Mayle Isle and put his head down on the Narcheska’s hearth?”

  “Asked her? No. I demanded it. And when she said she would not, I said it was because she could not, that despite all humans had done to rescue him, Icefyre was too petty to acknowledge the debt. And that she durst not make him do it, for though she claims to be a queen, she allowed him to master and drive her. I said that her mating must have addled her brains. That put her into a froth, I can tell you.”

  “But how did you know it would?”

  “I didn’t. I just got angry and said what first came t
o me.” I felt her sigh. “It’s a fault I have, one that has not made me popular in this court. I am too swift of tongue. But I think it is the best way to speak to a dragon. I told her that if she could not make Icefyre do what was right then she needn’t flaunt about so high-and-mighty. I hate it when people lord over you when you know that, given a good scratch, they’re no better than you are.” She paused, then added, “Or dragons. In all the legends, they are wise, or incredibly powerful or—”

  “Theyare incredibly powerful,” I interrupted her. “I assure you of that!”

  “Perhaps. But Tintaglia, in some ways, she’s like . . . me. Sting her pride a bit and she has to prove she can do whatever you’ve told her she can’t. She’s a nag, or worse, a bully, when she thinks she can get away with it. And just because she lives so long and was born remembering so much, she acts as if we are moths or ants, with no lives worth honoring.”

  “It sounds as if you’ve had more than one conversation with her in this regard.”

  She paused a trifle. “Tintaglia is an interesting creature. I don’t think I’d ever dare call her my friend. She thinks she is, or more accurately, I think she believes I owe her loyalty and duty or worship, simply because she is a dragon. But it is hard to call someone your friend when you know that your death would mean no more to her than a moth flying into a candle means to me. Pftt! Oh, it’s gone. Too bad. As if I were just an animal!” She snatched a flower from a nearby bed as if to tear it apart.

  I winced. She sensed it.

  “No, I meant like a bug or a fish. Not like a wolf.” Then, as if the thought had only just come to her, “You aren’t as I see you in my mind. I know that now. I know you aren’t a wolf. I mean, I don’t think of you as just an animal. Did I hurt your feelings?” Hastily, she restored the flower to its broken stem.