Fool's Fate Part 5

He looked down, pondering. Then he set his hand to the hilt of Chivalry's sword. "Until the day when you give this sword back to me, on the day I am crowned, I wish it to remain here with you." He took a breath. "And when I take your father's sword from you, I will return my father's sword to you."

That was a gesture I could not refuse.

Soon he left as he had come, taking Verity's sword with him. I made myself a fresh cup of tea and sat considering my father's blade. I tried to think what it meant to me, but encountered only a curious absence inside myself. Even my recent discovery that he had not ignored me, but had Skill-watched me through his brother's eyes, did not make up for his physical absence in my life. Perhaps he had loved me from afar, but Burrich had been the one to discipline me and Chade the one to teach me. I looked at the blade and groped for a sense of connection, for any emotion at all, but could not find one. By the time I had finished my tea, I still had no answer, nor was I completely certain what my question was. But I had resolved that I would find time to see Hap again before I departed.

I went to bed, successfully claiming the pillow from Gilly. Nonetheless, I slept badly, and even that poor rest was interrupted. Nettle edged into my dreams like a child reluctantly seeking comfort. It was a peculiar contrast. In my dream, I was crossing a steep scree slope from my sojourn in the mountains. I had crossed this avalanche-p.r.o.ne incline carrying the Fool's lax body. I was not so burdened in my dream, but the mountainside seemed steeper and the fall eternal. Loose pebbles shifted treacherously under my feet. At any moment I might go sliding off the face of the mountain like the small stones rattling past me. My muscles ached with tension and sweat streamed down my back. Then I caught a flash of motion at the corner of my eye. I turned my head slowly, for I dared risk no swift movement. I discovered Nettle sitting calmly uphill from me, watching my agonized progress.

She sat amongst gra.s.s and wildflowers. Her gown was green and her hair decked with tiny daisies. Even to my father's eyes, she looked more woman than child, but she sat like a little girl, her knees drawn up under her chin and her arms clasped around her legs. Her feet were bare and her eyes troubled.

Such was our dichotomy. I still struggled to retain my footing on the unstable slope. In her dream, adjoining mine, she sat in a mountain meadow. Her presence forced me to admit that I dreamed, and yet I could not surrender the exertion of my nightmare. I did not know if I feared I would be swept to my death or thrust into wakefulness. So, "What is it?" I called to her as I continued my inching progress across the mountain's face. It mattered not how many steps I took: solid ground remained ever distant, while Nettle kept her place above me.

"My secret," she said quietly. "It gnaws at me. So I have come to ask your advice."

She paused but I did not reply. I did not want to know her secret, or to offer advice. I could not commit myself to helping her. Despite the dream, I knew I was leaving Buckkeep soon. Even if I stayed, I could not venture into her life without the risk of destroying it. Better to remain a vague dream-thing on the edge of her reality. Despite my silence, she spoke to me.

"If someone gives her word to keep silent about a thing, not realizing how much pain it will bring, not just to herself but to others, is she bound to keep her word?"

That was too grave a question to leave unanswered. "You know the answer to that," I panted. "A woman's word is her word. She keeps it, or it is worth nothing."

"But I did not know the trouble it would cause when I gave it. Nim goes about like half a creature. I did not know that Mama would blame Papa, or that Papa would take to drink over it, blaming himself more deeply than she does."

I halted. It was dangerous to do so, but I turned to face her. Her words had plummeted me into a deeper danger than the chasm that yawned below me. I spoke carefully. "And you think you've found a way around the word you gave. To tell me what you promised not to tell them."

She lowered her forehead to her knees. Her voice was m.u.f.fled when she spoke. "You said you knew Papa, long ago. I do not know who you truly are; but perhaps you know him still. You could speak to him. The last time Swift ran away, you told me when he and Papa were safely on their way home to us. Oh, please, Shadow Wolf! I don't know what your connection to my family is, but I know it exists. In trying to aid Swift, I have nearly torn us apart. I have no one else to turn to. And I never promised Swift that I would not tell you."

I looked down at my feet. She had changed me into her image of me. Her dream was devouring mine. Now I was a man-wolf. My black claws dug into the loose gravel. Moving on all fours, with my weight lower, I clawed my way up the slope toward her. When I was close enough to see the dried salt track of tears on her cheeks, I growled, "Tell me what?"

It was all the permission she needed. "They think Swift ran away to sea, for so we made it seem, he and I. Oh, do not look at me like that! You don't know what it was like around here! Papa was a perpetual storm cloud and Swift near as bad. Poor Nim slunk around like a whipped dog, ashamed to win praise from Papa because his twin could not share it. And Mama, Mama was like a madwoman, every night demanding to know what ailed them, and both of them refusing to answer. There was no peace in our house anymore, no peace at all. So when Swift came to me and asked me to help him slip away, it seemed the wise thing to do."

"And what sort of aid did you give him?"

"I gave him money, money that was mine, to use as I pleased, money I had earned myself helping with the Gossoin's lambing last spring. Mama often sent him to town, to make deliveries of honey or candles. I thought up the plan for him, that he would start asking neighbors and folk in town about boats and fishing and the sea. And then, at the last, I wrote a letter and signed Papa's name as I have become accustomed to doing for him. His eyes . . . Papa can still write, but his hand wanders for he cannot see the letters he is forming. So, of late, I have written things for him, the papers when he sells a horse and such. Everyone says that my hand is just like his; probably because he taught me to make my letters. So . . ."

"So you wrote a letter for Swift saying that his father had released him and that he could go forth and do as he pleased with his life." I spoke slowly. Every word she spoke burdened me more. Burrich and Molly quarreled, and he took to drink again. His sight was failing him, and he believed he had driven his son away. Hearing these things rent me, for I knew I could not mend any of them.

"It can be difficult for a boy to find any sort of work if folk think he is a runaway apprentice or a lad whose work still belongs to his father." She spoke the words hesitantly, trying to excuse her forgery. I dared not look at her. "Mama packed up six racks of candles and sent Swift into town to deliver them and to bring back the money. When he said good-bye to me, I knew he meant to take that opportunity. He never came back." Around her, flowers bloomed and a tiny bee buzzed from one to the next, seeking nectar.

I slowly worked through her words. "He stole the candle money to travel on?" My estimate of Swift dropped.

"It wasn't . . . it wasn't exactly stealing. He'd always helped with the hives. And he needed it!"

I shook my head slowly. It disappointed me that she found excuses for him. But then, I'd never had a little brother. Perhaps it was a thing all sisters did.

"Won't you help me?" she asked piteously when my silence grew long.

"I can't," I said helplessly. "I can't."

"Why not?"

"How could I?" I was completely in her dream now. The meadow gra.s.s was firm beneath my feet. A spring day in the hills surrounded me. The bee buzzed past my ear, and I flicked it away. I knew my nightmare still lurked behind me. If I stepped back two paces, I'd be on that treacherous slope again.

"Talk to Papa for me. Tell him it wasn't his fault Swift went away."

"I can't talk to your papa. I'm far, far away. Only in dreams can we reach across distances like this."

"Can't you visit his dreams, as you do mine? Can't you talk to him there?"

"No. I can't." Long ago, my father had sealed Burrich off from all other Skill-users. Burrich himself had told me that. Chivalry had been able to draw strength from him for Skilling, and the bond between them meant that Chivalry would be vulnerable through Burrich to other Skill-users. Dimly I wondered, did that mean that at one time Burrich had had some level of Skill ability? Or did it only mean that the two men were so close that Chivalry could take strength from him for Skilling?

"Why not? You come to my dreams. And you were friends long ago; you said so. Please. He can't go on as he is. It's killing him. And my mother." She added softly, "I think you owe him this."

A bee from Nettle's flowers buzzed past my face and I swiped at it. I decided I needed to end this contact swiftly. She was drawing too many conclusions about her father and me. "I cannot come to your father's dreams, Nettle. But there may be something I can do. I may be able to speak to someone, someone who can find Swift and send him home again." Even as I said the words, my heart sank. As annoying as Swift was, I knew what it would mean to the boy to be sent back to Burrich; I hardened my will. It truly wasn't my problem. Swift was Burrich's son, and they must sort it out themselves.

"Then you know where Swift is? You've seen him? Is he well, is he safe? A thousand times I've thought of him, so young and alone and out in the world. I never should have let him talk me into this! Tell me about him."

"He's fine," I said shortly. The bee buzzed past my ear again. I felt it settle on the back of my neck. I tried to paw it off me, but an instant later, I was bowed under the weight of a sizable animal on my back. I yelped and struggled, but before I could draw breath, I was dangling from the dragon's jaws. She gave me a shake, not to kill but to caution. I stopped struggling and hung there. Her teeth gripped the scruff of my neck, not piercing either hide or flesh but paralyzing me.

As Nettle surged indignantly to her feet, reaching for me, the dragon lifted me higher. I dangled above Nettle and then was swung out over the chasm from my earlier nightmare.

"Ah-ah!" the dragon cautioned us both. "Resist and I drop him. Wolves do not fly." Her words did not come from her mouth and throat, but penetrated my thoughts, a mind-to-mind touch.

Nettle froze. "What do you want?" she growled. Her dark eyes had gone flinty.

"He knows," Tintaglia replied, giving me a small shake. I felt it unhinge every bone in my spine. "I want to know all that you know of a black dragon buried in ice. I want to know all you know of an island humans name Aslevjal."

"I know nothing of such things!" Nettle replied angrily. Her hands had knotted into fists. "Let him go."

"Very well." The dragon released me, and for a heart-stopping instant, I plummeted. Then her head shot out on her snakelike neck and she caught me up again. This time her jaws encompa.s.sed my ribs. She squeezed me, demonstrating how easily she could crush me. Then she eased the pressure and asked me, "And what do you know, little wolf thing?"

"Nothing!" I gasped, and then choked out every bit of air in my lungs as she crushed me. It would be quick, I told myself. I would not have to maintain my lie long. She wasn't a patient creature; she'd kill me swiftly. I glanced back to take a last look at my daughter.

Nettle stood, suddenly larger than she had been. Then she flung her arms wide. Her hair tossed in a wind that only she felt, and then haloed out around her face. She threw her head back. "This is a dream dream!" she shouted. "And it is my my dream! I cast you out of it!" The last she spoke as single words, uttered with all the command of a queen. For the first time, I comprehended the strength of my daughter's Skill. Her ability to shape dreams and command that which happened in them was a manifestation of her Skill-talent. dream! I cast you out of it!" The last she spoke as single words, uttered with all the command of a queen. For the first time, I comprehended the strength of my daughter's Skill. Her ability to shape dreams and command that which happened in them was a manifestation of her Skill-talent.

Tintaglia flung me spinning out over an infinite void. Beneath me I saw, not the rocky chasm of my dream, but a vast emptiness without color or end. I had one whirling glimpse of the dragon writhing as Nettle dwindled her back to the size of a bee. Then I clenched my eyes shut against the dizzying fall. Even as I drew painful breath to scream, Nettle spoke softly by my ear. "It's only a dream, Shadow Wolf. And it belongs to me. In my dreams, you will never come to harm. Open your eyes, now. Awake to your own world."

An instant before I awoke, I felt the comforting resistance of bedding beneath me and when I opened my eyes to the darkness of my workroom, I was not in panic. Nettle had taken the terror from the nightmare. For a moment, I felt relief. I drew a deep breath, and as I surrendered to sleep once more, I felt a drowsy amazement at my daughter's odd Skill-strength. But as I tugged my blanket back over my shoulder and reclaimed half the pillow from the ferret, the earlier portion of my dream dragged me back to wakefulness. Swift had lied. Burrich hadn't discarded him. Worse, his leaving had thrown the family into turmoil.

I lay still, eyes closed, wishing vainly to sleep. Instead, I mapped out what I must do. The boy must be sent home, but I didn't want to be the one to do it. He'd demand to know how I knew he had lied. So. I'd tell Chade that Burrich had not released Swift from his household. That would involve admitting to Chade that I'd had more Skill-contact with Nettle. Well, it couldn't be helped, I told myself grumpily. All my secrets seemed intent on leaking out and becoming known.

So I made my resolution and tried to persuade myself that was the best I could do. I tried not to imagine Burrich going back to drinking every night, or Molly driven to distraction not only by her husband's dive into the bottle but by her son's vanishing. I tried not to wonder how much Burrich's vision had faded. Enough that he had either not tried to track his son, or had failed in the effort.

I was up at dawn. I got bread and milk and bacon in the guardroom, and carried it out to the Women's Garden to eat it. I sat listening to the birdcalls and smelling the new day's warmth touching the earth. Such things have always been a deep comfort to me. This morning, they affirmed that the goodness of the earth always goes on and made me wish that I could stay to watch the summer grow strong and the fruit swell on the trees.

I felt her before I saw her. Starling wore a morning robe of pale blue. Her hair was loose upon her shoulders, and her graceful narrow feet were in simple sandals. She carried a steaming mug between both her hands. I watched her and wished that things could have been simpler between us. When she noticed me sitting silently on the bench beneath the tree, she gaped in feigned astonishment, then changed her expression to a smile as she came to join me. She sat down, kicked her feet free of her sandals, and curled her legs on the bench between us.

"Well, good morning," she greeted me. There was mild surprise in her eyes. "I nearly didn't recognize you, Fitz. You look as if you've lost ten years."

"Tom," I reminded her gently, well knowing that she had dropped my old name to rattle me. "And I feel as if you are right. Perhaps the daily routine of a guardsman was what I needed all along."

She made a skeptical noise in her throat, and took a sip from her mug. When she looked up, she added sourly, "I notice you don't think the same is true for me?"

"What, that you'd do better as a guardsman?" I asked her innocently. Then, as she pretended a kick at me, I added, "Starling, you always look like Starling to me. Neither older nor younger than I expect you to be, but always Starling."

She furrowed her brow for a moment, then shrugged and laughed. "I never know if you mean the things you say as compliments or not." Then she leaned closer to me, sniffing the air near me. "Musk? Are you wearing musk these days, Tom Badgerlock? If you are interested in attracting female companionship . . . ?"

"No, I wear no musk. I've just been sleeping with a ferret."

I had replied with honesty, and her whoop of laughter startled me. A moment later, I was grinning with her as she shook her head at me. She shifted on the bench so that her sun-warmed thigh pressed against mine. "That is so like you, Fitz. So like you." She gave a sigh of contentment, and then asked lazily, "Then, can I surmise that you have ended your mourning and bonded again?"

Her words dimmed the summer morning for me. I cleared my throat and spoke carefully. "No. I doubt that I ever will. Nighteyes and I fit together like a knife and a sheath." I looked out over the chamomile bed and said quietly, "After him, there can be no other. It would be a disservice to whatever creature I joined, for he would be only a subst.i.tute, and never genuinely my partner."

She read more into my words than I intended. She put her arm along the back of the bench. Pillowing her head on it, she looked up at the sky through the tree branches that shaded us. I finished the milk I had brought with me and set the cup aside. I was about to excuse myself for my morning lesson with Swift when she asked, "Have you ever thought of taking Molly back, then?"

"What?"

She lifted her head. "You loved the girl. At least, so you've always maintained. And she had your child, at great cost to herself. You know that she could have shaken it from her body if she had chosen. That she didn't means that she felt something deep for you. You should go to her. Take her back."

"Molly and I were a long time ago. She is married to Burrich. They built a life together. They have six children of their own," I pointed out stiffly.

"So?" She brought her gaze to meet mine. "I saw him when he came to Buckkeep to fetch Swift home. He was closemouthed and grim when I greeted him. And he was old. He walks with a hitch and his eyes are clouding." She shook her head over him. "If you decided to take Molly back from him, he could offer you no compet.i.tion."

"I would never do that!"

She sipped from her mug, looking at me steadily over the rim. "I know that," she said when she took the cup from her lips. "Even though he took her from you."

"They both think I'm dead!" I pointed out to her, my voice harsher than I'd intended.

"Are you sure you're not?" she asked flippantly. Then, at the look on my face, her eyes softened. "Oh, Fitz. You never do anything for yourself, do you? Never take what you want." She leaned closer to me. "Do you think Molly would have thanked you for your decision? Do you truly think you had the right to decide for her?" She leaned back a little, watching my face. "You gave her and the child away as if you were finding a good home for a puppy. Why?"

I'd answered that question so many times I didn't even need to think. "He was the better man for her. That was true then; it's true now."

"Is it? I wonder if Molly would agree."

"And how is your husband today?" I asked her roughly.

Her glance went opaque. "Who knows? He's gone trout fishing in the hills with Lord and Lady Redoaks. As you know, I've never enjoyed that kind of outing." Then, glancing aside, she added, "But their lovely daughter Ivy apparently does. I've heard that she leaped at the chance to make the trip."

She did not need to explain it to me. I took her hand. "Starling. I'm sorry."

She took a breath. "Are you? It matters little to me. I've his name and his holdings to enjoy. And he leaves me the freedom of my minstrel ways, to come and go as I please." She c.o.c.ked her head at me. "I've been thinking of joining Dutiful's entourage for the journey to the Out Islands. What do you think of that?"

My heart lurched at the thought. Oh, no. "I think that it would be far worse than going trout fishing. I expect to be uncomfortable and cold for much of it. And Out Island food is terrible. If they give you lard, honey, and bone marrow mixed together, you've had the height of their cuisine."

She stood gracefully. "Fish paste," she said. "You've forgotten their fish paste. Fish paste on everything." She stood looking down on me. Then she reached a hand and pushed several strands of hair back from my face. Her fingertips walked the scar down my face. "Someday," she said quietly. "Someday you'll realize that we were the perfect match, you and I. That in all of your days and places, I was the only one who truly understood you and loved you despite it."

I gaped at her. In all our years together, she'd never said the word "love" to me.

She slid her fingers under my chin and closed my mouth for me. "We should have breakfast together more often," she suggested. Then she strolled away, sipping from her cup as she went, knowing that I watched her go.

"Well. At least you can make me forget all of my other problems for a time," I observed quietly to myself. Then I took my mug back to the kitchen and headed for the Queen's Garden. Perhaps it was my conversation with Starling, for when I walked out on the tower top and found the boy feeding the doves, I was direct.

"You lied," I said before he could even give me "good morning." "Your father never sent you away. You ran off. And you stole money to do it."

He gaped at me. His face went white. "Who . . . how did . . . ?"

"How do I know? If I answer that question for you, I'll answer it for Chade and the Queen, as well. Do you want them to know what I know?"

I prayed I had his measure. When he gulped and shook his head suddenly and silently, I knew I had. Given the chance to run home, with no one here the wiser as to how he had shamed himself, he'd take it.

"Your family is worried sick about you. You've no right to leave people who love you in suspense about your fate. Pack up and go, boy, just as you came. Here." Impulsively I took my purse from my belt. "There's enough here to see you safely home, and pay back what you took. See that you do."

He couldn't meet my eyes. "Yessir."

When he didn't reach for the purse, I took his hand in mine, turned it palm up and put the sack into it. When I let go of his hand, he still stood staring up at me. I pointed at the door to the stairwell. He turned, stunned, and stumbled toward the door. With his hand on it, he halted. "You don't understand what it's like for me there," he whispered feebly.

"Yes. I do. Far better than you might imagine. Go home, bow your head to your father's discipline, and serve your family until you reach your majority, as an honest boy should. Didn't your parents raise you? Didn't they give you life, put food on your plate, clothes on your back, shoes on your feet? Then it is only right that your labor belongs to them, until you are legally a man. Then you can openly go your own way. You will have years after that to discover your magic, years of your own, rightfully earned, to live as you please. Your Wit can wait until then."

He halted by the door and leaned his head against it for a moment. "No. My magic won't wait."

"It will have to!" I told him harshly. "Now go home, Swift. Leave today."

He ducked his head, pushed the door open and left, shutting it behind him. I listened to his fading footsteps on the stair and felt his presence fade from my Wit-sense. Then I let out my breath in a long sigh. I had sent him to do a hard thing. I hoped Burrich's son had the spine to do it. I hoped, without real belief, that the boy's return would be enough to mend the family. I wandered over to the parapet wall and stood staring down at the rocks below.

chapter 5.

DEPARTURES.

Do not disdain those who find that their strongest Skill-talent is in the fashioning of dreams. It is a talent most often manifested among Solos. These lone Skill-users, while not as effective as a coterie, can employ their unique talents to serve their monarchs in ways both subtle and effective. Ominous dreams sent to an enemy lord can make him reconsider his actions, while dreams of victory and glory can fortify the courage of any military leader. Dreams can be rewards, and in some cases can offer balm to those who are discouraged or weary at heart.- TREEKNEE TREEKNEE'S " "LESSER USES OF THE SKILL"

That evening I told Chade that Swift had become desperately homesick and that I'd sent him home in the hopes that he could mend things with Burrich. The old man nodded distractedly: the boy was the least of his concerns.

I also told him of my conversation with Web, finishing with "He knows who I am. I think he has since he arrived here."

Chade's reaction to that was more emphatic. "d.a.m.n! Why must you start coming unraveled now, when I have so much else to deal with?"

"I don't think I'm unraveling," I said stiffly. "Rather I think that this is knowledge that someone has possessed all along, and now it has come round to bite us. What do you suggest I do?"

"Do? What can you do?" he demanded testily. "It's known, boy. All we can do is hope that Web truly has as much goodwill toward us as he appears to have. And that the knowledge is not widespread amongst the Witted." He thumped a leather case to settle the scrolls inside and then began to tie it shut. "Holly, you say?" he asked after a moment. "You think Holly told Web?"

"So he seemed to imply."

"And when is the last time you saw her?"