by Robin Hobb
A flash of anger crossed her face. She looked down to her old hands curled in her lap. She gave a sigh of exasperation. ‘It might. The old legends that I have heard say that when a thing is Skill-wrought, it can be dangerous to some folk. Not to ordinary people, but to those who have an aptitude for the Skill but have not been trained in it. Or to those whose training is not advanced far enough for them to know how to be wary.’
‘I have never heard of any legends about Skill-wrought things.’ I turned to the Fool and Starling. ‘Have either of you?’
Both shook their heads slowly.
‘It seems to me,’ I said carefully to Kettle, ‘that someone as well-read as the Fool should have come across such legends. And certainly a trained minstrel should have heard something about them.’ I continued to look at her levelly.
She crossed her arms on her chest. ‘I am not to blame for what they have not read or heard,’ she said stiffly. ‘I only tell you what I was told, a long time ago.’
‘How long ago?’ I pressed. Across from me, Kettricken frowned, but did not interfere.
‘A very long time ago,’ Kettle replied coldly. ‘Back when young men respected their elders.’
The Fool’s face lit with a delighted grin. Kettle seemed to feel she had won something, for she set her tea mug in her porridge bowl with a clatter and handed them to me. ‘It is your turn to clean the dishes,’ she told me severely. She got up and stamped away from the fire and into the tent.
As I slowly gathered the dishes to wipe them out with clean snow, Kettricken came to stand beside me. ‘What do you suspect?’ she asked me in her forthright way. ‘Do you think she is a spy, an enemy among us?’
‘No. I do not think she is an enemy. But I think she is … something. Not just an old woman with a religious interest in the Fool. Something more than that.’
‘But you don’t know what?’
‘No. I don’t. Only I have noticed that she seems to know a deal more about the Skill than I expect her to. Still, an old person gathers much odd knowledge in a lifetime. It may be no more than that.’ I glanced up to where the wind was stirring the treetops. ‘Do you think we shall have snow tonight?’ I asked Kettricken.
‘Almost certainly. And we shall be fortunate if it stops by morning. We should gather more firewood, and stack it near the tent’s door. No, not you. You should go within the tent. If you wandered off now, in this darkness and with snow to come, we’d never find you.’
I began to protest, but she stopped me with a question. ‘My Verity. He is more highly trained than you are in the Skill?’
‘Yes, my lady.’
‘Do you think this road would call to him, as it does to you?’
‘Almost certainly. But he has always been far stronger than I in matters of Skill or stubbornness.’
A sad smile tweaked her lips. ‘Yes, he is stubborn, that one.’ She sighed suddenly, heavily. ‘Would that we were only a man and a woman, living far from both sea and mountains. Would that things were simple for us.’
‘I wish for that as well,’ I said quietly. ‘I wish for blisters on my hands from simple work and Molly’s candles lighting our home.’
‘I hope you get that, Fitz,’ Kettricken said quietly. ‘I truly do. But we’ve a long road to tread between here and there.’
‘That we do,’ I agreed. And a sort of peace bloomed between us. I did not doubt that if circumstances demanded it, she would take my daughter for the throne. But she could no more have changed her attitude about duty and sacrifice than she could have changed the blood and bones of her body. It was who she was. It was not that she wished to take my child from me.
All I needed do to keep my daughter was to bring her husband safely back to her.
We went to bed later that night than had become our custom. All were wearier than usual. The Fool took first watch despite the lines of strain in his face. The new ivory cast his skin had taken on made him look terrible when he was cold, like a statue of misery carved from old bone. The rest of us did not notice the cold much when we were moving during the day, but I don’t think the Fool was ever completely warm. Yet he bundled himself warmly and went to stand outside in the rising wind without a murmur of complaint. The rest of us lay down to sleep.
The storm was, at first, a thing that was happening above us, in the treetops. Loose needles fell rattling against the yurt’s skin and as the storm grew more intense, small branches and occasional dumps of icy snow. The cold grew stronger and became a thing that crept in at every gap of blanket or garment. Midway through Starling’s watch, Kettricken called her in, saying the storm would stand watch for us now. When Starling entered, the wolf slunk in at her heels. To my relief, no one objected very loudly. When Starling commented that he carried snow in with him, the Fool replied that he had less on him than she did. Nighteyes came immediately to our part of the tent, and lay down between the Fool and the outer wall. He set his great head on the Fool’s chest and heaved a sigh before closing his eyes. I almost felt jealous.
He’s colder than you are. Much colder. And, in the city, where hunting was so poor, he often shared food with me.
So. He is pack, then? I asked with a trace of amusement.
You tell me, Nighteyes challenged me. He saved your life, fed you from his kills and shared his den with you. Is he pack with us or not?
I suppose he is, I said after a moment’s consideration. I had never seen things in quite that light before. Unobtrusively, I shifted in my bedding to be slightly closer to the Fool. ‘Are you cold?’ I asked him aloud.
‘Not so long as I keep shivering,’ he told me miserably. Then he added, ‘Actually, I’m warmer with the wolf between me and the wall. He gives off a lot of heat.’
‘He’s grateful for all the times you fed him in Jhaampe.’
The Fool squinted at me through the tent’s dimness. ‘Really? I did not think animals carried memories for that long.’
That startled me into thinking about it. ‘Usually, they don’t. But tonight, he recalls that you fed him and is grateful.’
The Fool lifted a hand to scratch carefully around Nighteyes’ ears. Nighteyes made a puppy growl of pleasure and happily snuggled closer. I wondered again at all the changes I was seeing in him. More and more often, his reactions and thoughts were a mixture of human and wolf.
I was too tired to give it much thought. I closed my eyes and started to sink into sleep. After a time, I realized that my eyes were tightly shut, my jaw clenched, and I was no closer to sleep. I wanted to simply let go of consciousness, so weary was I, but the Skill so threatened and lured me that I could not relax enough to sleep. I kept shifting, trying to find a physical position that was more relaxing, until Kettle on the other side of me pointedly asked me if I had fleas. I tried to be still.
I stared up into the darkness of the tent’s ceiling, listening to the blowing wind outside and the quiet breathing of my companions inside. I closed my eyes and relaxed my muscles, trying to at least rest my body. I wanted so desperately to fall asleep. But Skill-dreams tugged at me like tiny barbed hooks in my mind until I thought I should scream. Most were horrible. Some sort of Forging ceremony in a coastal village, a huge fire burning in a pit, and captives dragged forward by jeering Outislanders and offered the choice of being Forged or flinging themselves into the pit. Children were watching. I jerked my mind back from the flames.
I caught my breath and calmed my eyes. Sleep. In a night chamber in Buckkeep Castle, Lacey was carefully removing lace from an old wedding gown. Her mouth was pinched shut with disapproval as she picked out the tiny threads that secured the orn
ate work. ‘It will bring a good price,’ Patience said to her. ‘Perhaps enough to supply our watchtowers for another month. He would understand what we must do for Buck.’ She held her head very upright, and there was more grey in the black of her hair than I recalled as her fingers unfastened the strings of tiny pearls that glistened in scalloping at the neckline of the gown. Time had aged the white of the gown to ivory, and the luxuriant breadth of the skirts cascaded over their laps. Patience cocked her head suddenly as if listening, a puzzled frown on her face. I fled.
I used all my will to pry my eyes open. The fire in the small brazier burned small, shedding a reddish light. I studied the poles that supported the taut hides. I willed my breath to calmness. I dared not think of anything that might lure me out of my own life, not Molly, not Burrich, not Verity. I tried to find some neutral image to rest my mind upon, something with no special connotations to my life. I called up a bland landscape. A smooth blank plain of land cloaked in white snow, a peaceful night sky over it. Blessed stillness … I sank into it as into a soft featherbed.
A rider comes, swiftly, leaning low, clinging to his horse’s neck, urging him on. There is a simple safe beauty to the duo, the running horse, the man’s streaming cloak echoed by the horse’s flowing tail. For a time, there is no more than this, the dark horse and rider cleaving the snowy plain under an open moonlit night. The horse runs well, an effortless stretching and gathering of muscles and the man sits him lightly, almost appearing to ride above him rather than on his back. The moon glints silver off the man’s brow, glistening upon the rampant buck badge that he wears. Chade.
Three riders and horses appear. Two come from behind, but those horses are running wearily, heavily. The lone rider will outdistance them if the chase goes much longer. The third pursuer cuts the plain at an angle to the others. The piebald horse runs with a will, unmindful of the deeper snow he churns through in pursuit. His small rider sits him high and well, a woman or a young man. The moonlight dances lightly along a drawn blade. For a time it looks as if the young rider will intersect with Chade’s path of flight, but the old assassin has seen him. He speaks to his horse, and the gelding puts on a burst of speed, incredible to see. He leaves the two lumbering pursuers far behind, but the piebald reaches the packed trail now and his legs stretch long as he endeavours to catch up. For a time, it looks as if Chade will escape cleanly, but the piebald horse is fresher. The gelding cannot maintain his burst of speed, and the even pace of the piebald slowly eats into his lead. The gap closes gradually but relentlessly. Then the piebald is running right behind the black gelding. The gelding slows and Chade turns in the saddle and lifts an arm in greeting. The other rider shouts to him, her voice thin in the cold air. ‘For Verity the true King!’ She tosses a bag to him, and he throws a packet to her. Abruptly they separate, the two horses both veering from the trodden path to go wide of one another. The hoofbeats dwindle in the night.
The labouring mounts of the pursuers are lathered and wet, steaming in the cold air. Their riders pull them up, cursing, when they reach the place where Chade and his cohort separated. Snatches of conversation mixed with curses float on the air. ‘Damned Farseer partisans!’ and ‘No way to tell which one has it now!’ and finally, ‘Not going back to face a lash over this mess.’ They seem to have reached an agreement, for they let their horses breathe, and then proceed more slowly, following the trodden path away from wherever they have come.
I found myself briefly. Strange to discover I was smiling even though sweat misted my face. The Skilling was strong and true. I was breathing deep with the strain of it. I tried to draw back from it, but the sweet rush of knowing was too keen. I was elated at Chade’s escape, elated to know that there were partisans who worked on Verity’s behalf. The world stretched out wide before me, tempting as a tray of sweet cakes. My heart chose instantly.
A baby is wailing, in that endless, hopeless way that infants have. My daughter. She is lying on a bed, still wrapped in a blanket that is beaded with rain. Her face is red with the earnestness of her screaming. The pent frustration in Molly’s voice is frightening as she says, ‘Be quiet. Can’t you just be quiet!’
Burrich’s voice, stern and weary. ‘Don’t be cross at her. She’s only a babe. She’s probably just hungry.’
Molly stands, lips pinched tight, arms folded tightly across her chest. Her cheeks are red, her hair has gone to wet strands. Burrich is hanging up his dripping cloak. They have all been somewhere, together, and just returned. The ashes are dead in the fireplace, the cottage cold. Burrich goes to the hearth and awkwardly kneels by it, favouring his knee, and begins to select kindling to build a fire. I can feel the tension in him, and I know how he strives to contain his temper. ‘Take care of the baby,’ he suggests quietly. ‘I’ll get the fire going and put some water to boil.’
Molly takes off her cloak and moves deliberately to hang it by his. I know how she hates to be told what to do. The baby continues wailing, as remorseless a demand as the winter wind outside. ‘I am cold, and tired, and hungry, and wet. She’s going to have to learn that sometimes she just has to wait.’
Burrich leans down to blow on a spark, curses softly when it does not catch. ‘She is cold and hungry and tired and wet, too,’ he points out. His voice is getting crisper. He continues doggedly with his fire-making. ‘And she is too small to do anything about it. So she cries. Not to torment you, but to tell you she needs help. It’s like a puppy yelping, woman, or a chick cheeping. She doesn’t do it to annoy.’ His voice is rising on every sentence.
‘Well, it annoys me!’ Molly declares, and turns to the fight. ‘She will just have to cry it out. I’m too tired to deal with her. And she’s getting spoiled. All she does is cry to be held. I never have a moment to myself any longer. I can’t even sleep a night through. Feed the baby, wash the baby, change the baby, hold the baby. That’s all my life is any more.’ She lists off her grievances aggressively. That glint is in her eye, the same one I’d seen when she defied her father, and I know she expects Burrich to stand and advance on her. Instead, he blows on a tiny glow and grunts in satisfaction when a narrow tongue of flame licks up and kindles a curl of birch bark. He doesn’t even turn to look at Molly or the wailing child. Twig after twig he sets on the tiny fire, and I marvel that he cannot be aware of Molly seething behind him. I would not be so composed were she behind me and wearing that expression.
Only when the fire is well established does he rise, and then he turns, not to Molly but to the child. He walks past Molly as if she is not there. I do not know if he sees how she steels herself not to flinch from the sudden blow she half-expects from him. It wrings my heart to see this scar her father has left on her. Burrich leans over the baby, speaking in his calming voice as he unwraps her. I watch in a sort of awe as he competently changes her napkin. He glances about, then takes up a wool shirt of his that is hanging on a chair back and wraps her in it. She continues to wail, but on a different note. He props her against his shoulder and uses his free hand to fill the kettle and set it on the fire. It is as if Molly is not there at all. Her face has gone white and her eyes are huge as he begins to measure out grain. When he finds the water is not yet boiling, he sits down with the baby and pats her back rhythmically. The wailing becomes less determined, as if the baby is wearying of crying.
Molly stalks over to them. ‘Give me the baby. I’ll nurse her now.’
Burrich slowly turns his eyes up to her. His face is impassive. ‘When you’re calm, and want to hold her, I’ll give her to you.’
‘You’l
l give her to me now! She’s my child!’ Molly snaps and reaches for her. Burrich stops her with a look. She steps back. ‘Are you trying to make me ashamed?’ she demands. Her voice is going shrill. ‘She’s my child. I have a right to raise her as I see fit. She doesn’t need to be held all the time.’
‘That’s true,’ he agrees blandly, but makes no move to give her the child.
‘You think I’m a bad mother. But what do you know about children, to say I’m wrong?’
Burrich gets up, staggers a half step on his bad leg, and regains his balance. He takes up the measure of grain. He sprinkles it over the boiling water, then stirs it to wet it evenly. Then he puts a tight lid on the pot and pulls it slightly back from the fire’s reach. All this while balancing the babe in the crook of one arm. I can tell he has been thinking when he answers, ‘Not babies, perhaps. But I know about young things. Colts, puppies, calves, piglets. Even hunting cats. I know if you want them to trust you, you touch them often when they are small. Gently, but firmly, so they believe in your strength, too.’
He was warming to his subject. I’d heard this lecture a hundred times before, usually delivered to impatient stable-boys. ‘You don’t shout at them, or make sudden moves that look threatening. You give them good feed and clean water, and keep them clean and give them shelter from the weather.’ His voice drops accusingly as he adds, ‘You don’t take out your temper on them, or confuse punishment with discipline.’
Molly looks shocked at his words. ‘Discipline comes from punishment. A child learns discipline when she is punished for doing something wrong.’
Burrich is shaking his head. ‘I’d like to “punish” the man that beat that into you,’ he says, and an edge of his old temper creeps into his voice. ‘What did you really learn from your father taking his temper out on you?’ he demands. ‘That to show tenderness to your baby is a weakness? That to give in and hold your child when she cries because she wants you is somehow not an adult thing to do?’