Fool's Fate Part 23

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 s...o...b..g 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 a.s.sumes 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 superst.i.tious 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 a.s.sa.s.sin 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 feet 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 pa.s.s? That 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 be 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 be made made to fight it. 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 that you you think are fixed." 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 that I I choose not to have. It's late, and I'm tired. I'm going to bed." 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.

chapter 16.

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 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 pa.s.sing nod. I went directly to the Prince's tent, walking softly. I had forgotten that I had a.s.signed 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 m.u.f.fled 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 hiking 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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.s on our suspicions of a traitor." He nodded to himself, and then rolled his head to look at the Prince. "Agreed?"

"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 in my my nose." 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 pa.s.sing that the peculiar arrow I had seen him holding the day before was now in his quiver.

The tent collapsed swiftly. The poles disa.s.sembled 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? What was that long conversation about?

Elderlings, I replied, well aware that both Dutiful and Thick were sharing our thoughts. 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. 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 att.i.tude. 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. 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 att.i.tude. 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 sound 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 repet.i.tion 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 Fa.r.s.eers 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 k.n.o.bby 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! 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. 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."