Czytaj książkę: «Fool’s Fate»

ONE
Lizards

Sometimes it seems unfair that events so old can reach forward through the years, sinking claws into one’s life and twisting all that follows it. Yet perhaps that is the ultimate justice: we are the sum of all we have done added to the sum of all that has been done to us. There is no escaping that, not for any of us.

So it was that everything that the Fool had ever said to me and all the things he’d left unsaid combined. And the sum was that I betrayed him. Yet I believed that I acted in his best interests, and mine. He had foretold that if we went to Aslevjal Island, he would die and Death might make another snap of his jaws at me. He promised to do all in his power to see that I survived, for his grand scheme to change the future required it. But with my latest brush with death still fresh in my memory, I found his promises more threatening than reassuring. He had also blithely informed me that once we were on the island, I would have to choose between our friendship and my loyalty to Prince Dutiful.

Perhaps I could have faced one of those things and stood strong before it, but I doubt it. Any one of those things was enough to unman me, and facing the sum of them was simply beyond my strength.

So I went to Chade. I told him what the Fool had said. And my old mentor arranged that when we sailed for the Out Islands, the Fool would not go with us.

Spring had come to Buckkeep Castle. The grim black stone edifice still crouched suspiciously on the steep cliffs above Buckkeep Town, but on the rolling hills behind the keep, new green grass was pushing optimistically up through the standing brown straw of last year’s growth. The bare-limbed forests were hazed with tiny green leaves unfurling on every tree branch. The wintry mounds of dead kelp on the black beaches at the foot of the cliffs had been swept away by the tides. Migratory birds had returned, and their songs rang challenges in the forested hills and along the beaches where sea birds battled for choice nesting nooks in the cliffs. Spring had even invaded the dim halls and high-ceilinged chambers of the keep, for blossoming branches and early blooming flowers graced every alcove and framed the entries of the gathering rooms.

The warmer winds seemed to sweep my gloom away. None of my problems and concerns had vanished, but spring can dismiss a multitude of worries. My physical state had improved; I felt more youthful than I had in my twenties. Not only was I building flesh and muscle again, but I suddenly possessed the body that a fit man of my years should have. The harsh healing I had undergone at the inexperienced hands of the coterie had inadvertently undone old damage as well. Abuse I had suffered at Galen’s hands in the course of his teaching me the Skill, injuries I had taken as a warrior, and the deep scars from my torture in Regal’s dungeons had been erased. My headaches had nearly ceased, my vision no longer blurred when I was weary, and I did not ache in the chill of early morning. I lived now in the body of a strong and healthy animal. Few things are so exhilarating as good health on a clear spring morning.

I stood on the top of a tower and looked out over the wrinkling sea. Behind me, tubs of earth, freshly manured, held small fruit trees arrayed in blossoms of white and pale pink. Smaller pots held vines with swelling leaf buds. The long green leaves of bulb-flowers thrust up like scouts sent to test the air. In some pots, only bare brown stalks showed, but the promise was there, each plant awaiting the return of warmer days. Interspersed with the pots were artfully arranged statuary and beckoning benches. Shielded candles awaited mellow summer nights to send their glow into the darkness. Queen Kettricken had restored the Queen’s Garden to its former glory. This high retreat was her private territory. Its present simplicity reflected her Mountain roots, but its existence was a much older Buckkeep tradition. I paced a restless turn around its perimeter path, and then forced myself to stand still. The boy was not late. I was early. That the minutes dragged was not his fault. Anticipation warred with reluctance as I awaited my first private meeting with Swift, Burrich’s son. My queen had given me responsibility for Swift’s instruction in both letters and weaponry. I dreaded the task. Not only was the boy Witted, but he was undeniably headstrong. Those two things, coupled with his intelligence, could carry him quickly into trouble. The Queen had decreed that the Witted must be treated with respect, but many still believed that the best cure for beast-magic was a noose, a knife and a fire.

I understood the Queen’s motive in entrusting Swift to me. His father, Burrich, had turned him out of his home when the boy would not give up the Wit. Yet the same Burrich had devoted years to raising me when I was a lad and abandoned by my royal father as a bastard that he dared not claim. It was fitting that I now do the same for Burrich’s son, even if I could never let the boy know that I had once been FitzChivalry and his father’s ward. So it was that I awaited Swift, a skinny lad of ten summers, as nervously as if I faced the boy’s father. I took a deep breath of the cool morning air. The scent of the fruit tree blossoms balmed it. I reminded myself that my task would not last long. Very soon, I would accompany the Prince on his quest to Aslevjal in the Out Islands. Surely I could endure being the lad’s instructor until then.

The Wit-magic makes one aware of other life, and so I turned even before Swift pushed open the heavy door. He shut it quietly behind him. Despite his long climb up the steep stone stairs, he was not breathing hard. I remained partially concealed by screening blossoms and studied him. He was dressed in Buckkeep blue, in simple garments befitting a page. Chade was right. He would make a fine axe-man. The boy was thin, in the way of active boys of that age, but the knobs of shoulders under his jerkin promised his father’s brawn. I doubted he would be tall, but he would be wide enough to make up for it. Swift had his father’s black eyes and dark curling hair, but there was something of Molly in the line of his jaw and the set of his eyes. Molly, my lost love and Burrich’s wife. I took a long, deep breath. This might be more difficult than I had imagined.

I saw him become aware of me. I stood still, letting his eyes seek me out. For a time we both stood, unspeaking. Then he threaded his way through the meandering paths until he stood before me. His bow was too carefully practised to be graceful.

‘My lord, I am Swift Witted. I was told to report to you, and so I present myself.’

I could see he had made an effort to learn his court courtesies. Yet his blatant inclusion of his beast-magic in how he named himself seemed almost a rude challenge, as if he tested whether the Queen’s protection of the Witted would hold here, alone with me. He met my gaze in a forthright way that most nobles would have found presumptuous. Then again, I reminded myself, I was not a noble. I told him so. ‘I am not “my lord” to anyone, lad. I’m Tom Badgerlock, a man-at-arms in the Queen’s Guard. You may call me Master Badgerlock, and I shall call you Swift. Is that agreed?’

He blinked twice and then nodded. Abruptly, he recalled that that was not correct. ‘It is, sir. Master Badgerlock.’

‘Very well. Swift, do you know why you were sent to me?’

He bit his upper lip twice, swift successive nibbles, then took a deep breath and spoke, eyes lowered. ‘I suppose I’ve displeased someone.’ Then he flashed his gaze up to mine again. ‘But I don’t know what I did, or to whom.’ Almost defiantly, he added, ‘I cannot help what I am. If it is because I am Witted, well, then, it isn’t fair. Our queen has said that my magic should not make any difference in how I am treated.’

My breath caught in my throat. His father looked at me from those dark eyes. The uncompromising honesty and the determination to speak the truth was all Burrich’s. And yet, in his intemperate haste, I heard Molly’s quick temper. For a moment, I was at a loss for words.

The boy interpreted my silence as displeasure and lowered his eyes. But the set of his shoulders was still square; he did not know of any fault he had committed, and he would not show any repentance until he did.

‘You did not displease anyone, Swift. And you will find that to some at Buckkeep, your Wit matters not at all. That is not why we separated you from the other children. Rather, this change is for your benefit. Your knowledge of letters surpasses the other children of your age. We did not wish to thrust you into a group of youths much older than you. It was also decided that you could benefit from instruction in the use of a battle-axe. That, I believe, is why I was chosen to mentor you.’

His head jerked and he looked up at me in confusion and dismay. ‘A battle-axe?’

I nodded, both to him and to myself. Chade was up to his old tricks again. Plainly the boy had not been asked if he had any interest in learning to wield such a weapon. I put a smile on my face. ‘Certainly a battle-axe. Buckkeep’s men-at-arms recall that your father fought excellently with the axe. As you inherit his build as well as his looks, it seems natural that his weapon of choice should be yours.’

‘I’m nothing like my father. Sir.’

I nearly laughed aloud, not from joy, but because the boy had never looked more like Burrich than he did at that moment. It felt odd to look down at someone giving me his black scowl. But such an attitude was not appropriate to a boy of his years, so I coldly said, ‘You’re like enough, in the Queen’s and Councillor Chade’s opinions. Do you dispute what they have decided for you?’

It all hovered in the balance. I saw the instant when he made his decision, and almost read the workings of his mind. He could refuse. Then he might be seen as ungrateful and sent back home to his father. Better to bow his head to a distasteful task and stay. And so he said, voice lowered, ‘No, sir. I accept what they have decided.’

‘That’s good,’ I said with false heartiness.

But before I could continue, he informed me, ‘But I have a skill with a weapon already. The bow, sir. I had not spoken of it before, because I did not think it would be of interest to anyone. But if I’m to train as a fighter as well as a page, I already have a weapon of choice.’

Interesting. I regarded him in silence for a moment. I’d seen enough of Burrich in him to suspect he would not idly boast of a skill he didn’t possess. ‘Very well, then. You may show me your skills with a bow. But this time is set aside for other lessons. To that end, we’ve been given permission to use scrolls from the Buckkeep library. That’s quite an honour for both of us.’ I waited for a response.

He bobbed a nod, and then recalling his manners, ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good. Then meet me here tomorrow. We’ll have an hour of scrolls and writing, and then we’ll go down to the weapons court.’ Again I awaited his reply.

‘Yes, sir. Sir?’

‘What is it?’

‘I’m a good horseman, sir. I’m a bit rusty now. My father refused to let me be around his horses for the last year. But I’m a good horseman, as well.’

‘That’s good to know, Swift.’ I knew what he had hoped. I watched his face, and saw the light in it dim at my neutral response. I had reacted almost reflexively. A boy of his age shouldn’t be considering bonding with an animal. Yet as he lowered his head in disappointment, I felt my old loneliness echo down the years. So, too, had Burrich done all he could to protect me from bonding with a beast. Knowing the wisdom of it now didn’t still the memory of my thrumming isolation. I cleared my throat and tried to keep my voice smoothly assured when I spoke. ‘Very well, then, Swift. Report to me here tomorrow. Oh, and wear your old clothes tomorrow. We’ll be getting dirty and sweaty.’

He looked stricken.

‘Well? What is it, lad?’

‘I … sir, I can’t. I, that is, I don’t have my old clothes any more. Only the two sets the Queen gave me.’

‘What happened to them?’

‘I … I burned them, sir.’ He suddenly sounded defiant. He met my eyes, jaw jutting.

I thought of asking him why. I didn’t need to. It was obvious from his stance. He had made a show for himself of destroying all things that bound him to his past. I wondered if I should make him admit that aloud, then decided that nothing would be gained by it. Surely such a waste of useful garments was something that should shame him. I wondered how bitterly his differences with his father had run. Suddenly the day seemed a little less brightly blue. I shrugged, dismissing the matter. ‘Wear what you have, then,’ I said abruptly, and hoped I did not sound too harsh.

He stood there, staring at me, and I realized that I hadn’t dismissed him. ‘You can go now, Swift. I will see you tomorrow.’

‘Yes, sir. Thank you, Master Badgerlock.’ He bowed, jerkily correct, and then hesitated again. ‘Sir? May I ask you a last question?’

‘Certainly.’

He looked all around us, almost suspiciously. ‘Why do we meet up here?’

‘It’s quiet. It’s pleasant. When I was your age, I hated to be kept indoors on a spring day.’

That brought a hesitant smile to his face. ‘So do I, sir. Nor do I like to be kept so isolated from animals. That is my magic calling me, I suppose.’

I wished he had let it rest. ‘Perhaps it is. And perhaps you should think well before you answer it.’ This time I intended that he hear the rebuke in my voice.

He flinched, then looked indignant. ‘The Queen said that my magic was not to make a difference to anyone. That no one can treat me poorly because of it.’

‘That’s true. But neither will people treat you well because of it. I counsel you to keep your magic a private matter, Swift. Do not parade it before people until you know them. If you wish to know how to best handle your Wit, I suggest you spend time with Web the Witted, when he tells his tales before the hearth in the evenings.’

He was scowling before I was finished. I dismissed him curtly and he went. I thought I had read him well enough. His possession of the Wit had been the battle line drawn between him and his father. He had successfully defied Burrich and fled to Buckkeep, determined to live openly as a Witted one in Queen Kettricken’s tolerant court. But if the boy thought that being Witted was all he needed to earn his place, well, I’d soon clear that cobweb from his mind. I’d not try to deprive him of his magic. But his flaunting of it, as one might shake a rag at a terrier to see what reaction he would win, distressed me. Sooner or later, he’d encounter a young noble happy to challenge him over the despised beast-magic. The tolerance was a mandated thing, grudgingly given by many who still adhered to the old distaste for our gift. Swift’s attitude made me doubly determined that he should not discover I was Witted. Bad enough that he cockily flaunted his own magic; I wouldn’t have him betraying mine.

I gazed out once more over the wide spectacle of sea and sky. It was an exhilarating view, at once breathtaking and yet reassuringly familiar. And then I forced myself to stare down, over the low wall that stood between me and a plummet to my sure death below. Once, battered both physically and mentally by Galen the Skillmaster, I had tried to make that plunge from this very parapet. It had been Burrich’s hand that had drawn me back. He had carried me down to his own rooms, treated my injuries, and then avenged them upon the Skillmaster. I still owed him for that. Perhaps teaching his son and keeping him safe at court would be the only repayment I could ever offer him. I fixed that thought in my heart to prop up my sagging enthusiasm for the task and left the tower top. I had another meeting to hasten to, and the sun told me that I was already nearly late for it.

Chade had let it be known that he was now instructing the young prince in his heritage Skill-magic. I was both grateful and chagrined at this turn of events. The announcement meant that Prince Dutiful and Chade no longer had to meet secretly for that purpose. That the Prince took his half-wit servant with him to those lessons was regarded as a sort of eccentricity. No one in the court would have guessed that Thick was the Prince’s fellow student, and far stronger in the Farseer’s ancestral magic than any currently living Farseer. The chagrin came from the fact that I, the true Skill-instructor, was the only one who still had to conceal his comings and goings from those meetings. Tom Badgerlock was who I was now, and that humble guardsman had no business knowing anything of the Farseer’s magic.

So it was that I descended the steps from the Queen’s Garden, and then hastened through the keep. From the servants’ areas there were six possible entry points to the hidden spy labyrinth that meandered through the entrails of Buckkeep Castle. I took care that every day I used a different entry from the day before. Today I selected the one near the cook’s larder. I waited until there was no one in the corridor before I entered the storeroom. I pushed my way through three racks of dangling sausages before dragging the panel open and stepping through into now familiar darkness.

I didn’t waste time waiting for my eyes to adjust. This part of the maze had no illumination of any kind. The first few times I’d explored it, I carried a candle. Today I judged that I knew it well enough to traverse it in the dark. I counted my steps, then groped my way into a narrow staircase. At the top of it, I made a sharp right and saw thin fingers of spring sunlight filtering into the dusty corridor. Stooped, I hastened along it and soon reached a more familiar part of the warren. In a short time, I emerged from the side of the hearth in the Seawatch Tower. I pushed the panel back into place, then froze as I heard someone lifting the door-latch. I barely had time to seek flimsy shelter in the long curtains that draped the tower windows before someone entered.

I held my breath, but it was only Chade, Dutiful and Thick arriving for their lessons. I waited until the door was firmly closed behind them before stepping out into the room. I startled Thick, but Chade only observed, ‘You’ve cobwebs down your left cheek. Did you know?’

I wiped away the clinging stuff. ‘I’m surprised that it’s only on my left cheek. Spring seems to have wakened a legion of spiders.’

Chade nodded gravely to my observation. ‘I used to carry a feather duster with me, waving it before me as I went. It helped. Somewhat. Of course, in those days, it little mattered what I looked like when I arrived at my destination. I just didn’t care for the sensation of little legs down the back of my neck.’

Prince Dutiful smirked at the idea of the immaculately attired and coiffed Queen’s councillor scuttling through the corridors. There had been a time when Lord Chade was a hidden resident of Buckkeep Castle, the royal assassin only, a man who concealed his pocked face and carried out the King’s justice in the shadows. No longer. Now he strode majestically through the hallways, openly lauded as both diplomat and trusted advisor to the Queen. His elegant garb in shades of blue and green reflected that status, as did the gems that graced his throat and earlobes. His snowy hair and piercing green eyes seemed like carefully chosen accoutrements to his wardrobe. The scars that had so distressed him had faded with his years. I neither envied nor begrudged him his finery. Let the old man make up now for the deprivations of his youth. It harmed no one, and those who were dazzled by it often overlooked the rapier mind that was his real weapon.

In contrast, the Prince was garbed nearly as simply as I was. I attributed it to Queen Kettricken’s austere Mountain Kingdom traditions and her innate thrift. At fifteen, Dutiful was shooting up. What sense was there in creating fine garments for everyday wear when he either outgrew them or tore out the shoulders while practising on the weapons court? I studied the young man who stood grinning before me. His dark eyes and curling black hair mirrored his father’s, but both his height and his developing jawline reminded me more of my father Chivalry’s portrait.

The squat man accompanying him was a complete contrast. I estimated Thick to be in his late twenties. He had the small tight ears and protruding tongue of a simpleton. The Prince had garbed him in a blue tunic and leggings which matched his own, right down to the buck crest on the breast, but the tunic strained across the little man’s pot belly and the hose sagged comically at his knees and ankles. He cut an odd figure, both amusing and slightly repulsive, to those who could not sense, as I did, the Skill-magic that burned in him like a smith’s forge-fire. He was learning to control the Skill-music that served him in place of an ordinary man’s thoughts. It was less pervasive and hence less annoying than it had once been, yet the strength of his magic meant that he shared it with all of us, constantly. I could block it, but that meant also blocking my sensitivity to most of the Skill, including Chade’s and Dutiful’s weaker sendings. I could not block him and still teach them, so for now I endured Thick’s music.

Today it was made from the snickings of scissors and the clack of a loom, with the high-pitched giggle of a woman winding through it. ‘So. Had another fitting this morning, did you?’ I asked the Prince.

He was not dazzled. He knew how I had deduced it. He nodded with weary tolerance. ‘Both Thick and I. It was a long morning.’

Thick nodded emphatically. ‘Stand on the stool. Don’t scratch. Don’t move. While they poke Thick with pins.’ He added the last severely, with a rebuking look at the Prince.

Dutiful sighed. ‘That was an accident, Thick. She told you to stand still.’

‘She’s mean,’ Thick ventured in an undertone, and I suspected he was close to the truth. Many of his nobles found it difficult to accept the Prince’s friendship with Thick. For some reason, it affronted some servants even more. Some of them found small ways to vent that displeasure.

‘It’s all done now, Thick,’ Dutiful consoled him.

We took our customary places around the immense table. Since Chade had announced that he and the Prince were beginning Skill-lessons together, this room of the Seawatch Tower had been furnished well. Long curtains framed the tall windows, now unshuttered to admit a pleasant breeze. The stone walls and floor of the chamber had been well scrubbed and the table and chairs oiled and polished. There were proper scroll-racks to hold Chade’s small library as well as a stoutly locked cabinet for those he regarded as highly valuable or dangerous. A large writing desk offered inkpots and freshly cut pens and a generous supply of both paper and vellum. There was also a sideboard with bottles of wine, glasses and other necessities for the Prince’s comfort. It had become a comfortable, even an indulgent room which reflected Chade’s taste more than Prince Dutiful’s.

I enjoyed the change.

I surveyed the faces around me. Dutiful was looking at me alertly. Thick was pursuing something inside his left nostril. Chade was sitting bolt upright, fairly shivering with energy. Whatever he had taken to bring him back to alertness had done nothing for the threads of blood in his eyes. The contrast with his green gaze was unsettling.

‘What I’d like to do today … Thick. Please stop that.’

He looked at me blankly, his finger still wedged in his nose. ‘Can’t. It’s poking me in there.’

Chade rubbed his brow, looking aside. ‘Give him a handkerchief,’ he suggested to no one in particular.

Prince Dutiful was closest. ‘Here, blow your nose. Maybe it will come out.’

He handed Thick a square of embroidered linen. Thick regarded it doubtfully for several seconds, and then took it. Over the deafening sounds of his attempts to clear his nose, I asked, ‘Last night, each of us was to try Skill-walking in our dreams.’ I had been nervous about suggesting this, but I had felt both Dutiful and Chade were ready to attempt it. Thick routinely forgot what he was to do in the evenings, so I’d had small concern for him. When one Skill-walked, one could leave one’s own body and for a short time experience life through someone else. I had managed it several times, most often by accident. The Skill-scrolls had suggested that it was not only a good way to gather information but also to locate those who were open enough to be used as King’s Men, sources of strength to a Skill-user. Those sufficiently open sometimes proved to possess the Skill themselves. Chade had been enthused yesterday, but a glance at him today showed none of the triumph he would have displayed if he had managed the feat. Dutiful likewise looked gloomy. ‘So. No success?’