Fool’s Quest

Queen Elliania lifted her head. She glanced at Dutiful as if to reassure him and then said, ‘But of course, there is a Farseer princess. She has long dwelt among us, tacitly known to many and yet unacknowledged by her dukes and duchesses. Two days ago, she gave me portentous news. She will soon bear a child. I myself swung a needle on a thread over her palm, and my heart leapt with joy when its swinging foretold a girl child in her womb. Ladies and gentlemen of Buckkeep Castle, my dukes and duchesses of the Six Duchies, you will soon be blessed with a new Farseer princess!’

What had begun as gasps of astonishment was now a rising mutter of voices. I felt faint. White-faced, Nettle stared straight ahead. Chade had a stiff smile of feigned puzzlement on his face. Dutiful, mouth ajar, stared in horror at his queen and then betrayed Nettle by swinging his gaze to her.

Elliania seemed completely immune to the catastrophe she was wreaking. She looked out over her audience with a wide smile and then laughed aloud. ‘And so, my friends, my people, let us acknowledge what many of us have long known. Skillmistress Nettle, Nettle Farseer, daughter of FitzChivalry Farseer, cousin to my own dear husband, and a princess of the Farseer line, stand forth, please.’

I had folded my arms across my chest. At the mention of my daughter’s rightful name, and my own, I had to fight to keep breathing. Whispering in the hall rose to the level of chirring summer insects. I scanned the faces. Two young ladies exchanged delighted glances. One grey-haired lord looked scandalized while his lady held her hands before her mouth in horror at the disgrace. Most of Elliania’s audience was simply dumbstruck, waiting for whatever might happen next. Nettle’s eyes were wide, her mouth ajar. Chade’s face was ashen. Kettricken’s slender fingers covered her mouth but could not conceal the joy in her eyes. My gaze flickered to King Dutiful. For a long moment, he was frozen. Then he rose, to stand beside his queen. He extended a hand to Nettle. His voice shook but his smile was genuine as he said, ‘Cousin, please.’

Fitz. Fitz, please. What … The desperate Skilling that reached me from Chade was nearly incoherent.

Be calm. Let them handle it. What other choice did we really have? If it had been someone else’s life, someone else’s secret, I might have found the tableau charming. The queen, her cheeks flushed and eyes bright with delight at honouring Nettle, Dutiful, his hand outstretched to welcome his cousin to the most dangerous moment of her life, and Nettle, her teeth showing in something not quite a smile, her gaze fixed, unmoving at the table.

I saw Riddle, too. He had always had a talent for moving unobserved in crowded situations. Now he carved through the melee like a shark through water. I saw the determined look on his face. If they turned on Nettle, he would die fighting to protect her. By the set of one shoulder, I knew he already had his hand on the haft of his knife. Chade, too, marked his passage. I saw him make a small motion. Wait, his hand said, but Riddle moved closer.

Lady Kettricken moved gracefully to stand behind Nettle’s chair, bent down and whispered something to her. I saw Nettle take a breath. She rose, her chair scraping back on the floor. The erstwhile queen paced at her side as she escorted Nettle to the throne dais. There, as was proper, they both curtseyed deeply. Kettricken remained at the bottom of the steps while Nettle managed to ascend all three. Dutiful took her hands in his. For a moment, their bowed heads were close together. I am sure he whispered something to her. Then they straightened, and Queen Elliania embraced her.

Nettle had locked her thoughts down so firmly that I could not even reach out to her with reassurance. Whatever she felt on the inside, she betrayed only pleasure as she thanked the king and queen for congratulating her on her child. She said nothing of the revelation of her parentage. Truly, Elliania had the right of it when she said it was a secret already known to many. The stamp of the Farseer line was on Nettle’s face and many of the older folk had known of the scandalous gossip about FitzChivalry and Lady Patience’s maid. Patience’s transfer of Withywoods to Lady Molly, supposedly in honour of Burrich’s selfless sacrifice to the Farseer family, would have only confirmed that Molly’s daughter was mine. A larger omission was mention of Nettle’s marriage or the father of her child. Those ripe bits of gossip would be well chewed tomorrow. I watched my daughter as she began to turn and return to her seat, but Kettricken stopped her and held her there, her hands on her shoulders. I saw Riddle look up at her, white-faced, a mere man among many as the woman he loved was proclaimed a princess. My heart went out to him.

Kettricken spoke now, her voice cutting through the rising murmur. ‘For years many have persisted in believing that FitzChivalry Farseer was a traitor. Despite what I have recounted of that fateful night when I fled Buckkeep, the taint on his name has lingered. So I would ask if any minstrel here knows of a song, sung but once in this hall? Tagson, son of Tag, son of Reaver, sang it. It was the true tale of the doings of FitzChivalry Farseer, when he came to the aid of his king in the Mountains. Do any minstrels here know it?’

My mouth went dry. I’d never heard the song, but I’d been told of it. In my lifetime, I’d been the subject of two songs. One, ‘Antler Island Tower’ was a rousing ballad that recounted how I had fought against the Red-Ship Raiders when by treachery they had managed to gain a foothold on Antler Island. It had been composed during the Red-Ship Wars by an ambitious young minstrel named Starling Birdsong. The melody was pleasing and the refrain was memorable. When first it had been sung, the folk of Buckkeep Castle had been willing to believe that enough Farseer blood ran through my bastard veins that I might be a hero, of sorts. But that had been before my fall from grace, before Prince Regal had convinced all of my treachery. It had been before I’d been thrown into his dungeon on the accusation of killing King Shrewd. Before I had supposedly died there, and vanished from Buckkeep history and public knowledge forever.

Yet there had been a second song, one that celebrated not only my Farseer blood and Witted magic, but asserted that I had risen from my grave to follow King Verity on his wild quest to wake the Elderlings and bring their aid to the Six Duchies. Like the Antler Island song, strands of truth had been braided with poetry and exaggeration. To my knowledge, only one minstrel had ever sung it in Buckkeep, and he had done so to assert that those with the Old Blood Wit-magic could be as loyal and noble as anyone else. Many of the listeners of that day had not welcomed such an opinion.

Kettricken’s eyes roved over the gallery where the minstrels were gathered. I watched with relief as they exchanged puzzled glances and shrugs. One fellow folded his arms on his chest and shook his head in disgust, evidently displeased that anyone would wish to sing the praises of the Witted Bastard. One harper leaned over the railing to consult a greybeard below. The fellow nodded and even though I could not hear him, I suspected he admitted to having heard the song once, but the eloquent lift of his shoulders denied any real knowledge of the words, tune or authorship. Just as my heart began to slow and the look of disappointment to settle on Lady Kettricken’s face, a matronly woman dressed in an extravagant gown of blue and green stepped from the crowd. As she made her way forward into the open space before the royal dais, I heard a scattering of applause and then someone cried out, ‘Starling Birdsong! Of course!’

I wondered if I would have recognized my old lover without that call. Her body had changed with the years, her waist thickening and her curves growing. In the be-buttoned layers of lush fabrics that made up her gown, I did not recognize the tough and pragmatic wandering minstrel who had also followed Verity into the Mountain Kingdom to wake the Elderlings. She had let her hair grow long, and the streaks in it were silver, not grey. She wore jewels on her ears and wrists and fingers, but as she advanced, she was stripping the rings from her fingers.

The look of disappointment on Kettricken’s face had been replaced with one of delight. ‘Well, here is a minstrel of yore who has let many years pass since we last heard her lift her voice. Our own Starling Birdsong, now Lord Fisher’s lady wife! Do you remember the song of which I spoke?’

Despite her years, Starling flourished a curtsey and then rose gracefully. Age had lowered the timbre of her voice but the music had not left it. ‘Lady Kettricken, King Dutiful and Queen Elliania, if it please you, I have heard the song sung but once. And do not think me a jealous minstrel when I say, while the threads of truth ran strong through it, the words rattled against one another as painfully as gravel in a boot, and the tune was one stolen from an ancient ballad.’ She shook her head, lips folded, and then said, ‘Even if I recalled every word and note, I would not think it a kindness to you if I sang it.’

She paused, head lowered respectfully. Despite all my misgivings, I almost smiled. Starling. So well she knew how to whet the appetite of an audience! She waited until precisely the moment when Kettricken drew breath to speak; then she raised her head and offered, ‘But I can sing you a better song, if you would, my lady and once my queen. If you with a nod allow me; if my king and my queen grant permission, my tongue can be freed from its long-imposed silence, and sing to you I shall, of all I know of the Witted Bastard. Of FitzChivalry Farseer, son to Chivalry, loyal to King Verity and, to the last breath of his days, a true-hearted Farseer, despite his ignoble birth!’

The music rose and fell in her words: she was tuning and preparing her voice. I saw her husband now, Lord Fisher, standing at the edge of the crowd, a proud smile on his face. His shoulders were as broad as ever; he wore his greying hair in a warrior’s tail. Ever he had gloried in the popularity of his wild minstrel wife. The look of enjoyment on his face was not feigned; he basked in her reflected glory. She had not come to the festival tonight as Starling the minstrel but as Lady Fisher. And yet this was the moment she had dreamed of, for all those years. She would not let it pass her by and he would rejoice in it with her. She looked around at her audience as if to ask them, ‘Shall I sing?’

She could and she must. The lords and ladies of the Six Duchies already hung on her every word. How could King Dutiful forbid it, when his own queen had revealed the bastard daughter of the bastard Farseer, sheltered and then exalted as Skillmistress at Buckkeep Castle? Lady Kettricken exchanged a look with her son and his wife. And then she nodded, and the king spread his hands in permission.

‘Does my harp come?’ Starling turned to her husband, and he in turn gestured wide. The doors to the Great Hall opened and two healthy lads appeared, a grand harp supported between them. I had to smile. For it to appear so quickly, she must have ordered it the moment Kettricken asked if any recalled that song. And such a harp! This was no wandering minstrel’s harp! Sweat stood out on the boys’ faces and I wondered how far and fast they had lugged the beast. She had timed her delaying perfectly for its arrival. They brought it forward and set it down: it stood as high as Starling’s shoulder. She glanced toward the minstrel gallery, but someone had already stepped forward, bearing his own stool. He placed it before the harp, and then I saw the only awkward moment in her performance. Her gown had never been cut for her to be seated behind a harp with the instrument leaned back on her shoulder. With a fine disregard for modesty, she lifted her skirts and bundled them out of the way, displaying legs still shapely and stockinged in bright green, and dainty blue slippers with silver buttons. She woke the harp, running her fingers lightly up and down the strings, letting them barely speak, as if they whispered to her that they were in tune and waiting for her.

Then she plucked three strings, one after another, as if she were dropping gold coins on a path and bidding us follow. The notes became a chord, and her other hand began to pluck a lilting melody. Then she lifted her voice.

This, I knew, was the song she had waited a lifetime to sing. Always, always, she had wanted to leave a song that would linger in Six Duchies’ memory and be sung over and over. When first I had met her, she had spoken with hungry ambition of how she would follow me and record my deeds and fate so that she might be witness to a turning point in Six Duchies’ history. And witness she had, but her lips had been stilled and her song unsung, by royal decree that what had happened in the Mountains must ever after be kept secret. I was dead and must remain so until the Farseer throne was returned to stability.

Now I stood and I listened to my own tale. How long had she honed those words, how many times had she practised the music that flowed effortlessly and faultlessly from her fingers? This was her highest achievement. I knew that before she was two verses into the song. I had heard her sing other minstrels’ work, and I had heard her sing songs and play music of her own composing. Starling was good. No one could ever deny that.

But this was better than good. Even the minstrel who had earlier scowled seemed bespelled by her words and notes. This was the music she had saved, and these were the words she had turned and shaped as if she were a woodcarver. I knew the story of my own life, and most of the court would know at least some of it. But she sang me from an abandoned bastard child to a hero, to a shameful death in a dungeon and a crawl out of a forgotten grave, until I stood before a stone dragon, one that had drunk the life from King Verity, and looked up at her as she and Queen Kettricken departed.

For a time she plucked strings and wove chords, letting that part of the tale sink in. It was not how it had been sung before, and many a face was puzzled. Then, with a sudden sweep of her fingers, she struck up a martial air and finished the tale. I myself had told her what happened after they had departed astride a single dragon with the heart of a king bearing them back to Buckkeep. Verity-as-Dragon had set out to pit himself against the whole of the OutIslander fleet, to save his queen, his unborn child and his entire beloved kingdom from the ravages of the Red Ships. Tears rolled down Kettricken’s cheeks as she listened, and King Dutiful was rapt, his mouth slightly ajar.

And so it was I, and my Wit-companion – my wolf Nighteyes – who had wakened the other sleeping dragons. We had battled Regal’s corrupt Skill-coterie and their hapless apprentices, and in shedding blood we had wakened the stone dragons to a semblance of life and sent them winging after Verity, a veritable army at his back. She gave three verses to how the dragons had followed the king, describing half a dozen of their varied shapes, and then recounted how swiftly the Red Ships had been driven from our shores. Verity-as-Dragon had led and the other dragons had followed, taking the battle to their islands. Queen Elliania, of OutIslander blood, listened with her face grave and nodded as if to confirm all that Starling told of those bloody days.

Again, an interlude of only music. Gradually, the tempo slowed and the chords deepened. She sang then of how the Bastard and his wolf, knowing they were dead to all, knowing that the name of FitzChivalry Farseer would ever be tarnished with shame and accusations of treachery and cowardice, walked away into the depths of the Mountain forests. Never again, she sang, would they hunt the green hills of Buck. Never could they come home. Never would their deeds be known. Never. Never. The tale and the song slowed, and became a trickle of wistful notes. They dwindled. Silence.

I do not know how long the song lasted. I came back to the Great Hall and the gathered nobles of the Six Duchies as if I had been on a long journey. Starling sat before her tall harp, her head bent forward and her brow resting on its dark wood. Her face glowed with perspiration. She breathed as if she had run over nine hills. I stared at her. She had been a stranger, a lover, a nemesis, and a betrayer to me. And now she was my historian.

When the applause came, it began as a whisper and rose to a roar. Starling lifted her head slowly and I followed her gaze as she looked around at her audience. Tears tracked down the faces of many, and anger sat on some. I saw a stony-faced woman who sneered at the emotion of the lady next to her. Another noble shook his head and leaned close to whisper to his companion. Two young women were embracing one another, overcome with the romance of the story. The Duchess of Bearns hugged herself tight, her clasped hands under her chin, her head bent over her hands. The Duke of Rippon appeared to be telling the people around him that, ‘I knew it. I always knew it,’ as his big hands beat against one another.

And I? How to describe that vindication? I stood among them, unknown and unseen, but feeling as if we had finally come home, my wolf and I. I felt a sharp pang that the Fool had not been here to hear this, and realized I was trembling, as if I had come in from somewhere very cold and was shaking as the warmth finally came back into my body. I was not weeping, and yet the water ran from my eyes until I could scarcely see.

Dutiful’s gaze scanned the crowd, and I knew he was looking for me, but he was searching for me in the guise of Lord Feldspar. Lord Chade stood and moved slowly from his place at the high table. I thought he was going to Kettricken, but then his steps wavered and he began to wend his way through the crowd. I watched him, puzzled, and then with horror realized that he had seen me and was coming straight toward me.

NO, I Skilled to him, but he was sealed tight – not to keep me out but to keep whatever he was feeling in. When he reached me, he took a firm hold of my arm. ‘Chade, please, no,’ I begged him. Had the old man’s mind turned?

He looked at me. His cheeks were wet with tears. ‘It’s time, Fitz. Time and past time. Come. Come with me.’

The people standing closest to me were watching and listening. I saw one man’s eyes widen and his face went from puzzlement to shock. We were in the midst of the crowd. If they turned on me now, they could tear me apart. There was no retreat here. And so, as Chade tugged at my arm, I let myself be led. My knees felt loose: I felt as if I walked like a puppet, jouncing with every step.

No one had expected this. Queen Elliania smiled joyously, but all colour had drained from Nettle’s face. Kettricken’s chin trembled and then her face crumpled and she wept as if I were King Verity himself walking toward her. As we passed Starling, she lifted her head. When she saw me her hands flew to her mouth. Her eyes went wide and greedy, and some part of me thought, already she plans what song she will make of this.

The empty space between the crowd and the king and queen’s dais was an endless desert we crossed. King Dutiful’s face was white and stark. What are you doing? What are you doing? He demanded of us, but Chade did not hear him and I had no answer to give. A tumultuous roar of confusion, whispers, speculations and then shouts rose behind us. Nettle’s eyes were black in a face carved of ice. Her fear soaked me. When we stood before my king, I went to my knees more out of sudden weakness than from any sense of propriety. My ears were ringing.

Dutiful saved us all.

He shook his head slowly as I stared up at him. ‘Never is over,’ he proclaimed to the crowd. He looked down at my upturned face. I stared up at him. I saw King Shrewd, and King Verity there. My kings, looking down at me with earnest sympathy. ‘FitzChivalry Farseer, too long have you sojourned among the Elderlings, your memory spurned by the very people you saved. Too long have you been in a place where the months pass as if days. Too long have you walked among us in false guise, deprived of your name and your honour. Rise. Turn and face the folk of the Six Duchies, your folk, and be welcomed home at last.’ He bent and took my arm.

‘You’re shaking like a leaf,’ he whispered by my ear. ‘Can you stand up?’

‘I think so,’ I muttered. But it was his strength that pulled me to my feet. I stood. I turned. I faced them all.

The roar of acclaim broke over me like a wave.

NINE

The Crown

As I have risked my life for this knowledge, I expect that for my next piece of information, I will be paid more handsomely! When you first approached me for these ‘small tasks’ as you called them, there at Buckkeep Castle, I had no idea what sorts of missions you would be assigning me. As I have said in the past, I will continue to convey interesting information to you, but nothing that I feel undermines or exploits my friendships.

Kelsingra is indeed a city of wonders past imagining. Information is stored in almost every stone there. I have heard that there is even more to be found in the Elderling archives recently discovered in the city, but I am not invited to enter there, and I won’t risk my friends’ trust by attempting to go there. A great deal of information about Elderlings is available in the walls of the old market space and one can’t help but be aware of it, even just strolling by on an evening. If you wish to advance me some coin and ask specific questions, I will answer the ones that I can. Had I not lost a hand to a windlass, I would not be in need of your funds. Nonetheless, I will remind you that I have my pride. A simple sailor you may think me, but I have my own code of honour.

But to your most pressing question. I have seen no ‘silvery river or stream’. And as I travelled there on the Rain Wild River and then up one of its tributaries, I assure you that I saw a great many rivers and streams feeding into that vast waterway. They were grey with silt. I suppose they might appear silvery in some lights.

However, I think I have had tidings of what it is that you seek. It is not a river, but a well. Silvery stuff rises within it, and the dragons seem to find it almost intoxicating. The location of this well and its very existence is supposed to be a great secret, but for one who can hear dragons, their clamour when the stuff rises close enough to the surface for them to drink betrays it. At other times, I imagine it must be drawn up in a bucket for them. I was obliged to keep my questions on this topic oblique. Two of the young keepers have very little tolerance for brandy, and we had a lovely wandering conversation until their commander arrived and berated them and threatened me. This Rapskal seems a very unsettled sort of person, capable of carrying out his various threats against me if he found me encouraging his men to drunkenness. He demanded that I leave Kelsingra, and the next morning I was escorted from my accommodations to the next departing ship. He did not ban me from the city as I have heard other travellers and entrepreneurs have been banned, but I think I shall let some time pass before I attempt another visit.

I will anticipate your next letter of credit and your queries. I am still quartered at the Splintered Fid, and messages sent to that inn will reach me.

Jek

It was dawn when I fell face down on my bed. I was exhausted. I had climbed the stairs, eager as a boy to tell the Fool all that had transpired, only to find him soundly asleep. For a time, I had sat by his bed, wishing he could have been there with me. When I dozed off in the chair, I’d surrendered and tottered down the stairs to my bed. I closed my eyes and slept. I sank into sweet oblivion, and then jerked awake as if someone had stuck a pin in me. I could not free myself from the sensation that something was wrong: terribly, terribly wrong.

I could not sleep. Danger, danger, danger thrummed through my nerves. I seldom felt such unease without a reason. Years ago, my wolf had always been at my back, using his keener sense to warn me of lurking intruders or unseen watchers. He was long gone these many years, but in this he remained. When something prickled against my senses, I had learned to pay attention.