Fool’s Quest

I remained perfectly still on my bed. I heard only what I expected to hear, the winter wind outside my window, the soft sounds of the fire, my own breathing. I smelled nothing beyond my own smells. I opened my eyes to slits, feigning sleep still, and studied what I could of the room. Nothing. There was nothing to be alarmed about. Wit and Skill, I sensed all around me. There was nothing to alarm me. And yet I could not shake my anxiety. I closed my eyes. Sleep. Sleep.

I slept, but I did not rest. My heart was a wolf, hunting over snow hills, not for prey but for his lost pack. Hunting and hunting and hunting. Howling out my pain to the night, I ran and ran and ran. I awoke sweaty and still in my clothes. I had a moment of stillness and then heard the tiny scratch at my door. My senses were still wolf-sharpened from my dream. I crossed the room and opened the door while Ash was still poking at my lock.

Without a trace of embarrassment, he removed the pick from the lock, stooped, picked up the breakfast tray and carried it into my room. Moving efficiently, he set out my breakfast for me. Then he moved a small table that had been by my bed. He unslung a pouch from his shoulder, removed papers from it and set them out in orderly rows.

‘What are those? Are they from Chade?’

He pointed to each category. ‘Letters of congratulation. Invitations. Petitions for you to use your influence. I did not read them all, only the ones that looked useful. I expect you will have a host of them every day now.’

My unwanted correspondence arranged, he looked around my chamber for his next task. I was still grasping that reading my private correspondence was part of what he considered his duty. I saw only a shadow of disapproval in his eyes as he took in my rumpled clothes before he offered, ‘Have you any washing, my lord? I should be happy to take it to the laundry folk.’

‘Yes, I suppose I do. But I don’t think guests use the washerfolk that way. And I am not your “lord”.’

‘Sir, I do believe that all of that changed last night. Prince FitzChivalry, I should be greatly honoured to convey your dirty smallclothes to the washerfolk.’ A grin twitched and then disappeared.

‘Are you being cheeky with me?’ I was incredulous.

He lowered his eyes and observed quietly, ‘Not cheeky, sir. But one bastard may rejoice at another lowborn’s good fortune, and dream of better days for himself.’ He cocked his head at me. ‘Chade has had me hard at learning the history of the Six Duchies. Did you know that one queen-in-waiting actually gave birth to a bastard, and that he rose to be King of the Six Duchies?’

‘Not quite. You are thinking of the Piebald Prince. And that did not end well for him at all.’ His cousin had killed him for being Witted and had taken the throne.

‘Perhaps not.’ He glanced at my breakfast tray and tugged the napkin straight. ‘But he had a moment, didn’t he? Some day, I’d like a moment. Does it seem fair to you that how we are born determines how we are seen for the rest of our lives? Must I always be the son of a whore, a bawdyhouse errand boy? A few promises and a ring, and you might have been the king. Did you never think of that?’

‘No,’ I lied. ‘It was one of the first lessons I had from Chade. Think of what is and don’t let what might have been distract you.’

He nodded to that. ‘Well, being Lady Rosemary’s apprentice is definitely a step up in my life. And if the opportunity presents itself, I will imagine a better status for myself. I respect Lord Chade, but if one only remains what one is today, well …’ He tipped his head at me with a speculative look.

That stung, a bit. ‘Well. No offence taken, Ash, and if you continue with your lessons and your present master then, yes, I think you can rightly dream of better days.’

‘Thank you, sir. Your clothes, then?’

‘A moment.’ As I began to strip off my sweaty shirt and crumpled trousers, Ash went to Lord Feldspar’s travelling trunk and began to pull out garments. ‘This won’t do,’ I heard him mutter. ‘Nor this. Not now. What’s this? Perhaps.’

But when I turned back to him to accept the clothing he was offering me, his eyes were very wide. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Sir, what happened to your back? Were you attacked? Should I request a private guard for you? One on your door?’

I reached around to touch the sore spots on my back. I was startled that they were not completely healed. One was still oozing and two others were sore to the touch. And I could not think of a ready lie to explain what must look like a number of small puncture wounds on my back. ‘A bizarre accident, not an attack. My shirt, please.’ I tried to sound as if I were accustomed to having some young man as my valet. Wordlessly, he shook it out and held it open for me. I turned, and met his eyes. He glanced away. He knew I was lying about my back. But was I? It had been, after all, a bizarre accident. I said nothing as I accepted clean smallclothes, trousers and stockings. I was pleased that he had chosen clothes that were far more sensible than those Lord Feldspar had been flaunting. There were still a multitude of buttons, but fewer that poked me. My boots, newly cleaned, were ready for me. I felt a measure of relief as I sat down to put them on. ‘Thank you. You’re good at this.’

‘I served my mother and the other women of the house for years.’

I felt a little sinking of my heart. Did I want to know more about this apprentice of Chade’s? But that sort of an invitation could not be heartlessly ignored. ‘So I heard.’

‘Lord Chade was never my mother’s patron, so you need not fear he is my father. But he was always kinder to me than most. I began running errands for him when I was about ten. So, when my mother was … killed, and I was forced to flee, he sent someone to find me. And he saved me.’

Tumbling facts falling into place. Chade was a patron of the house where his mother worked, just not his mother’s patron. Some kindness, and probably the boy had begun spying for him without even knowing he was doing it. Some coins to run an errand, and a few casual questions, and Chade would learn things about the other patrons. Enough to put the boy’s life in danger when his mother died? A story there. Too many stories. Which noble son had taken his deviation too far? I didn’t want to know. The more I knew, the more involved I would become. Last night, I’d been netted as neatly as a fish. I already knew that the more I thrashed, the tighter the web would become. ‘I’m tired,’ I said, and then amended it to a weary smile and, ‘I’m already tired and the day has only just begun. I’d best check on my friend. Ash, count me among the friends you could run to, did you ever need that again.’

He nodded gravely. Another noose of spiderweb wrapped around me. ‘I’ll take these to the washerfolk for you, and bring them back this afternoon. Do you require anything else of me?’

‘Thank you. That will be all for now.’

I heard a distant echo of Verity in my voice. Verity dismissing his man who always attended him. Charim. That had been his name. So long ago. I half-expected Ash to be offended at my dismissal, but he bobbed a bow and went out of the door with my laundry over his arm. I sat down to the tray of food that he had brought and made a start on it. Was the food better today? Was FitzChivalry Farseer supplied a better breakfast than Lord Feldspar? And if he was, what did that say for the expectations folk would have, both low and high? Would nobles try to curry favour with me? Underlings seek employment with me? I sampled some of the missives Ash had left. Favour begged, fawning invitations and overly kind congratulations on my return. I closed my eyes tight and opened them again. The stack of correspondence was still there. Eventually, I’d have to deal with it. Or perhaps that was one of Ash’s duties. He’d said he’d read most of it, without apology.

Where would I fit into Dutiful’s court now? And how could I leave it? What of my Bee? I still had not had a chance to tell Kettricken to send for her, but it seemed that I must, for it came to me suddenly that those who connected me with Tom Badgerlock would know there was a second, secret, Farseer daughter. Did I control any aspect of my life any longer? The life I had led for the past forty years was suddenly shattered to fragments. Lies and deceptions had been swept aside. Well, some lies and deceptions. I needed to talk to Chade: a tale must be concocted about what I had been doing all those years. Would we admit my part in the freeing of IceFyre, the black dragon? Reveal that I had snatched Dutiful back from a misadventure with the Witted and preserved him for the throne? How did Tom Badgerlock intersect with FitzChivalry Farseer? It suddenly seemed to me that truth-telling was just as hazardous as lying. One little bit of truth might lead to requiring another revelation. Where would it end?

I concentrated on the eating, not letting myself dwell on all the questions crowding into my brain. I had no intention of leaving my room today until someone Skilled to me or sent me a message.

So when I heard the light tap at my door, I set down my cup and stood immediately. The tap came again. And not from the chamber door, but from the concealed door that led to Chade’s old lair. ‘Fool?’ I queried softly, but no one replied. I triggered the door.

But it was not the Fool who waited there, but the crow. She looked up at me, turning her head to regard me with one bright eye. Then, as if she were the queen herself, she hopped gravely down the remaining steps and into the centre of the room.

It is common for folk who are not Witted to think that those of us with Old Blood can talk to any animal. We can’t. The Wit is a mutual exchange, a sharing of thoughts. Some creatures are more open than others; some cats will not only talk to anyone, but will natter on or nag or pester with absolutely no restraint. Even the person with only the tiniest shred of the Wit will find themselves standing to open the door before the cat has scratched at it, or calling the cat from across the room to share the best morsel of fish. Having been bonded to a wolf for so many years set my thoughts in a pattern that, I believed, made all creatures of that family more open to me. Dogs, wolves and even foxes have communicated with me from time to time. One hawk I have spoken with, at the bidding of her mistress. One small ferret, ever a hero in my heart. But no Witted one can simply arrow thoughts at a creature and expect to be understood. I considered trying, but the Wit swiftly becomes an intimate sharing. And I had little desire to develop such a bond with this bird. So I did not use the Wit, but only words as I said to her, ‘Well, you look much better than the last time I saw you. Would you like me to open the window for you?’

‘Dark,’ she said, and I was astonished at the clarity of the word, and how appropriate it was. I had heard birds trained to speak, but usually the human words they uttered were simple repetitions bereft of sense or context. The crow walked rather than hopped across the room and studied the window before fluttering to the top of my clothing chest. I did not stare at her. Few wild creatures are comfortable with that. Instead, I stepped carefully past her and opened the window.

Wind and chill came in: the storms of the past few days had paused but clouds promised more snow tonight. For a moment I stood and stared out over the castle walls. It had been years since I had studied this view. The forest had retreated. I could see farm cottages where once there had been only the sheep pastures, and pastures where there had been forest, and stumplands beyond that. My heart sank; once we had hunted there, my wolf and I, where now sheep pastured. The world had to change and for some reason the prosperity of men always results in them taking ever more from wild creatures and places. Foolish, perhaps, to feel that pang of regret for what was gone, and perhaps it was only felt by those who straddled the worlds of humans and beasts.

The crow fluttered to the windowsill. I stepped back carefully to give her room. ‘Fare well,’ I wished her and waited for her to go.

She cocked her head and looked at me. In that quick way birds have, she twisted her head again and looked out over the world. Then she opened her wings and with a flutter crossed the room and landed with a rattle of crockery on my breakfast tray. Wings spread wide, as if to remind me, she said, ‘White! White!’ Then without hesitation she snatched up and swallowed a shred of bacon. She stabbed at a bit of leftover bread and with a shake scattered it over the floor. She eyed it for a moment, and then disregarded it as she clattered her bill in a dish that had held apple compote.

While she dismembered my breakfast, I went to Lord Feldspar’s trunk. Yes, Chade had supplied him well. I found the bottle of ink. And a quill pen. I thought for a bit, then cleared the correspondence from the table. I reversed the quill and dipped the feathered end into the ink bottle and studied it. It would do. ‘Crow. Come here. I’ll paint you black.’

She dropped the piece of bacon she’d been trying to shred. ‘White! White!’

‘No white,’ I told her. I focused my Wit. No white.

She cocked her head and pointed one bright eye at me. I waited. With a clatter that sent my spoon to the floor, she lifted from my tray and hopped to the table.

‘Open your wings.’ She stared. I slowly lifted my arms wide. ‘Open. Show me the white.’

To understand what someone wants is not the same as trusting. She tried. She opened her wings. I tried to dab black on, but she fluttered her wings and spattered ink all over us. I tried again. I talked to her as I worked. ‘I’ve no idea if this will stand up to rain. Or wind. Or if your feathers will stick together. Open them. No, leave them open. So the ink dries. That’s it!’

By the time I began work on the second wing, she was more cooperative. My arms and my correspondence were freckled with ink. I finished her second wing and went over the first one again. Then I had to make her understand that I had to paint the undersides of her wings as well. ‘Now dry!’ I warned her, and she stood, wings outstretched. She rattled her pinions to put them in order and I was glad to see little spatter of ink. And when she folded them, she looked to me like an ordinary black crow.

‘No white!’ I told her. She turned her head and preened her feathers to smoothness. She seemed satisfied with my work, for she hopped abruptly back into the middle of my plate.

‘I’ll leave the window open for you,’ I told her, and left her there, making a mess of my unfinished breakfast.

I pulled the door shut behind me, for what Chade had told me once was true. That open window and this opened door together created a terrific draught in the apartments about.

I climbed the steep steps wondering how I could convey to the Fool all that had happened in one night. A foolish grin took command of my face. For the first time, I allowed myself to admit that part of me rejoiced. So long, so long, I had stood at the edge of the forest, looking at the lit windows in the distance. Buckkeep Castle was my home, had always been my home. Despite all my misgivings and fears, I allowed myself to imagine, for one delicious moment, that I could stand to my king’s left side during his judgments or be seated at the high table during a banquet. I imagined my small daughter dancing with me in the Great Hall. I would tell the Fool and he would understand my torn feelings. Then, with a rush of regret, I wished again that the Fool had been there last night, to see and hear Starling singing of my courage and brave and selfless deeds.

But he would have seen nothing of it. And like a hunted stag run off a cliff over a frozen lake, my mood plummeted into dark and cold. My exultation vanished and I almost dreaded telling him. Yesterday I had not mentioned Nettle’s pregnancy. Today I feared to tell him of King Dutiful’s public recognition of me.

My steps had slowed and by the time I reached the top of the stairs, I was plodding. So I was not prepared to see the Fool seated at Chade’s table, six candles burning bright in a tight circle before him. I was even less prepared for the lopsided smile with which he greeted me. ‘Fitz!’ he exclaimed, almost merrily, the scars on his face contorting his smile to a puppet’s grin. ‘I’ve news to share!’

‘And I,’ I rejoined, my spirits daring to lift a bit.

‘It’s good news,’ he told me, as if I could not have guessed that. I wondered if he was going to tell me my own tidings, and immediately resolved that if he wished to do so and take pleasure in it, then I would let him.

‘So I see,’ I told him, taking a seat at the table opposite him.

‘No, you don’t!’ he rejoined, his laughter bubbling up at a jest I didn’t share yet. ‘But I do!’

I sat for a long moment in silence, waiting for him to add words to that. Then, as often had happened in our youths, I suddenly grasped the meaning he intended. ‘Fool! You can see?’

‘I just told you that,’ he responded, and burst into hearty laughter.

‘Look at me!’ I commanded him, and he lifted his eyes but they did not meet my gaze. To my deep disappointment, they were still clouded and grey.

The smile on his face faded a little. ‘I can see light,’ he admitted. ‘I can tell light from darkness. Well, that’s not it exactly. Being blind isn’t darkness as you know darkness. Oh, it doesn’t matter, so I won’t try to explain it except to say, I know there are candles burning on the table before me. And when I turn my face away, I know there are not candles over there. Fitz, I think my eyesight is coming back. When you used the Skill on me that night … I knew that the sores on my back began to heal. But this is so much more than that.’

‘I did nothing to your eyes that night. It may simply be that a natural healing process has begun.’ I bit back the warning that nearly burst from me. Don’t hope too much. I knew how tenuous his health was. And yet, he could now perceive light. That had to mean he was starting to rally. ‘I’m glad for you. And we must keep you on the path. Have you eaten today?’

‘Oh, yes. I’ve eaten. Chade’s boy brought food, and seemed less fearful of me. Or perhaps more fascinated by the bird. And then Chade himself came by, with a parcel of things for you. Fitz! He told me all. And I am … befuddled. And happy for you. And frightened. How can such a time be, such a world where things happen that I never foresaw! And he told me that Starling played your story and sang it beautifully! Is it truly so? Did I dream it?’

A lurch of disappointment. I had not known how much I wished to tell him myself until I found he already knew. But his smile at my good fortune was everything I could have wished for.

‘No. It was all true. It was wonderful.’ And with him, I shared the moments that few others would have understood. I told him how Celerity, the Duchess of Bearns, heir to her sister Lady Hope, had set her hands on my shoulders. I had stared into her clear eyes. There were lines at the corners of her eyes and framing her mouth, but still a determined girl met my gaze. ‘I never doubted you. You should not have doubted me,’ she had said, and kissed my mouth softly before turning and walking quickly away, her husband shooting me a puzzled glare before he hastened after her. I recounted how Queen Elliania had cut a silver narwhal button from her cuff and given it to me, bidding me wear it always. He smiled to that, and then his face grew thoughtful when I told him that people that I scarcely recalled had taken my hand and pressed it, or slapped my shoulder. Some had smiled incredulously, a few had wept. Very disconcerting were those who tipped me a wink or leaned in to whisper, ‘Remember well that I kept your secret,’ and messages of that ilk. Worst of all was a young guardsman who strode boldly past the waiting nobility. Sparks of anger had danced in his eyes as he said, ‘My grandfather died thinking he had sent you to your death. To the end of his days, Blade believed he had betrayed you. He, I think, you might have trusted.’ Then he had turned on his heel and was engulfed by the crowd before I could speak a word to him.

I found myself speaking softly as if I were telling an old tale to a young child. And giving it a happy ending, when all know that tales never end, and the happy ending is but a moment to catch one’s breath before the next disaster. But I didn’t want to think about that. I didn’t want to wonder what would happen next.

‘Did Chade say why he had done it?’ he asked me.

I gave a shrug he could not see. ‘He said it was time. That both Shrewd and Verity would have wanted it to happen. Having emerged from the shadows himself, he said he could not leave me there.’ I rummaged on one of Chade’s shelves and then another before I found what I sought. Spirits of wine. I lit my own candle at the fire and found a rag. I damped the rag and began to remove my ink freckles. They were hard to get off. Good for the crow, annoying for me. I moved to Chade’s mirror, scrubbing at the spots on my face.

‘What is that smell? What are you doing?’

‘Getting ink off my face. I was painting the crow’s white feathers black so she could go out without being pecked and chased.’

‘Painting a crow. Prince FitzChivalry amuses himself painting crows the day after his acknowledgment by the throne.’ He laughed. A very good sound.

‘Chade left a package for me?’

‘At the end of the table,’ he said. He had fixed his gaze once more on the candles, revelling in whatever trace of their brilliance he could perceive. And so I did not take any of them, but moved the parcel to their vicinity and began to unfasten it. It smelled of earth. It was wrapped in leather, and tied with leather straps. The knots were green with disuse and the white-edged stains on the leather were from damp. The ties had not been undone in a very long time, and I suspected that at some point it had been stored outside, perhaps for a winter. Possibly buried somewhere. As I worked on the knots, the Fool observed, ‘He left you a note as well. What does it say?’

‘I haven’t read it yet.’

‘Shouldn’t you read it before you open the parcel?’

‘Did he say I should?’

‘He seemed to take a very long time to think about it, and then he wrote only a few words. I heard the scratching of his pen, and many sighs.’

I stopped working on the straps. I tried to decide which made me more curious, the letter or the parcel. I lifted one candle and saw the single sheet of paper on the table. I’d missed it in the dimness. I reached, trapped it and slid it toward me. Like most of Chade’s missives there was no date, no greeting and no signature. Only a few lines of writing.

‘What does it say?’ the Fool demanded.

‘“I did as he bade me. The conditions were never met. I trust you to understand. I think you should have it now.”’

‘Oh. Better and better,’ the Fool exclaimed. And added, ‘I think you should just cut the straps. You’ll never get those old knots out.’

‘You already tried, didn’t you?’

He shrugged and tipped a grin at me. ‘It would have saved you the trouble of struggling with them.’

I tormented both of us by working at the stubborn knots for some little time. Leather that has been knotted, wet, and then left to dry can seem as hard as iron. In the end, I drew my belt-knife and sawed through the straps. I tugged them off the parcel and then struggled to unfold the leather that surrounded whatever it was. It was not soft leather, but heavy, the sort one would use for a saddle. It creaked as I pried it open and brought out something wrapped in a still-greasy cloth. I set it with a thunk on the table.

‘What is it?’ the Fool demanded, and reached to send his fingers dancing over the concealed item.

‘Let’s find out.’ The greasy cloth proved to be a heavy canvas sack. I found the opening, reached in and pulled out …

‘It’s a crown,’ the Fool exclaimed, his fingers touching it almost as soon as my eyes saw it.

‘Not exactly.’ Crowns are not usually made of steel. And Hod had not been a maker of crowns but a maker of swords. She had been an excellent weaponsmaster. I turned the plain circlet of steel in my hands, knowing this was her work though I could not have explained to anyone how I recognized it. And there, there was her maker’s mark, unobtrusive but proud inside the circlet.