by Robin Hobb
I looked down at my hands. Then I looked up at the Fool. Once more, our eyes met. Hesitantly, I groped toward him with my Skill. I felt nothing. Perhaps it was only my own erratic talent cheating me again. But it seemed likely to me that Kettle had been right; the elfbark the Fool had just drunk had deadened him to me.
As Kettle spoke, she had been taking the kettle from the fire. The Fool held his cup out to her wordlessly. She gave him a pinch more of the bitter bark and filled it again with water. Then she looked at me, quietly waiting. I looked at the faces watching me, but found no help there. I picked up a mug from the stacked crockery. I saw Kettle’s old face darken and her lips tightened, but she said nothing to me. She simply reached into the pouch of elfbark, working her fingers to get to the bottom where the bark had crushed itself into powder. I looked into the empty mug, waiting. I glanced back up at Kettle. “You said the Skill-blast might have destroyed them?”
Kettle shook her head slowly. “It is not a thing to count on. ”
There was nothing I could count on. Nothing that was certain.
Then I set the mug down and crawled over to my blankets. I was suddenly tremendously weary. And frightened. I knew Will was out there somewhere, seeking me. I could hide myself in elfbark, but it might not be enough to stave him off. It might only weaken my already stunted defenses against him. Abruptly I knew I would sleep not at all that night. “I’ll take the watch,” I offered and stood again.
“He should not stand alone,” Kettle said grumpily.
“His wolf watches with him,” Kettricken told her confidently. “He can aid Fitz against this false coterie as no one else can. ”
I wondered how she knew that, but dared not ask her. Instead I took up my cloak and went to stand outside by the dwindling fire, watching and waiting like a condemned man.
32
Capelin Beach
THE WIT IS held in much disdain. In many areas it is regarded as a perversion, with tales told of Witted ones coupling with beasts to gain this magic, or offering blood sacrifice of human children to gain the gift of the tongues of beasts and birds. Some tale-tellers speak of bargains struck with ancient demons of the earth. In truth, I believe the Wit is as natural a magic as a man can claim. It is the Wit that lets a flock of birds in flight suddenly wheel as one, or a school of fingerlings hold place together in a swiftly flowing stream. It is also the Wit that sends a mother to her child’s bedside just as the babe is awakening. I believe it is at the heart of all wordless communication, and that all humans possess some small aptitude for it, recognized or not.
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The next day we once more reached the Skill road. As we trailed past the forbidding pillar of stone, I felt myself drawn to it. “Verity may be but one stride away for me,” I said quietly.
Kettle snorted. “Or your death. Have you taken complete leave of your senses? Do you think any one Skill user could stand against a trained coterie?”
“Verity did,” I replied, thinking of Tradeford and how he had saved me. The rest of that morning, she walked with a thoughtful look on her face.
I did not endeavor to get her to speak, for I carried a burden of my own. I felt within me a nagging sense of loss. It was almost the irritating sensation of knowing one had forgotten something, but was unable to recall what. I had left something behind. Or I had forgotten to do something important, something I had been intending to do. By late afternoon, with a sinking feeling, I grasped what was missing.
Verity.
When he had been with me, I had seldom been sure of his presence. Like a hidden seed waiting to unfurl was how I had thought of him. The many times I had sought him within myself and failed to find him suddenly meant nothing. This was not a doubt or a wondering. This was a growing certainty. Verity had been with me for over a year. And now he was gone.
Did it mean he was dead? I could not be certain. That immense wave of Skill I had felt could have been him. Or something else, something that had forced him to withdraw into himself. That was probably all it was. It was a miracle that his Skill touch upon me had lasted as long as it had. Several times I started to speak of it to Kettle or Kettricken. Each time, I could not justify it. What would I say: Before this, I could not tell if Verity was with me, and now I cannot feel him at all? At night by our fires, I studied the lines in Kettricken’s face and asked myself what point there was in increasing her worry. So I pushed my worries down and kept silent.
Continuous hardship makes for monotony and days that run together in the telling. The weather was rainy, in a fitful, windy way. Our supplies were precariously low, so that the greens we could gather as we walked and whatever meat Nighteyes and I could bring down at night became important to us. I walked beside the road instead of on it, but remained constantly aware of its Skill-murmur, like the muttering of a river of water beside me. The Fool was kept well dosed with elfbark tea. Very soon he began to exhibit both the boundless energy and bleak spirits that were elfbark’s properties. In the Fool’s case, it meant endless cavorting and tumbling tricks as we made our way along the Skill road, and a cruelly bitter edge to his wits and tongue. He jested all too often of the futility of our quest, and to any encouraging remark he riposted with savage sarcasm. By the end of the second day, he reminded me of nothing so much as an ill-mannered child. He heeded no one’s rebukes, not even Kettricken’s, nor did he recall that silence could be a virtue. It was not so much that I feared his endless prattle and edged songs would bring the coterie down on us as that I worried his constant noise might mask their approach. Pleading with him to be quiet did me as little good as roaring at him to shut up. He wore on my nerves until I dreamed of throttling him, nor do I think I was alone in that impulse.
The kinder weather was the only way in which our lot improved on those long days as we followed the Skill road. The rain became lighter and more intermittent. The leaves opened on the deciduous trees that flanked the road, and the hills about us greened almost over night. The health of the jeppas improved with the browse, and Nighteyes found plentiful small game. The shorter hours of sleep told on me, but letting the wolf hunt alone would not have solved it. I feared to sleep anymore. Worse, Kettle feared to let me sleep.
Of her own accord, the old woman took charge of my mind. I resented it, but was not so stupid as to resist. Both Kettricken and Starling had accepted her knowledge of the Skill. I was no longer permitted to go off alone, or in the sole company of the Fool. When the wolf and I hunted at night, Kettricken went with us. Starling and I shared a watch, during which, at Kettle’s urging, she kept my mind busy with learning to recite both songs and stories from Starling’s repertoire. During my brief hours of sleep Kettle watched over me, a dark stewing of elfbark at her elbow where, if need be, she could pour it down my throat and douse my Skill. All of this was annoying, but worst was during the day when we walked together. I was not allowed to speak of Verity, or the coterie, or anything that might touch upon them. Instead, we worked at game problems, or gathered wayside herbs for the evening meal, or I recited Starling’s stories for her. At any time when she suspected my mind was not fully with her, she might give me a sharp rap with her walking stick. The few times I tried to direct our talk with questions about her past, she loftily informed me that it might lead to the very topics we must avoid.
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There is no more slippery task than to refrain from thinking of something. In the midst of my busywork, the fragrance of a wayside flower would bring Molly to my mind, and from thence to Verity who had called me away from her was but a skip of thought. Or some chance nattering of the Fool would call to my thoughts King Shrewd’s tolerance for his mockery, and recall to me how my king had died and at whose hands. Worst of all was Kettricken’s silence. She could no longer speak to me of her anxiety over Verity. I could not see her without feeling how she longed to find him, and then rebuking myself for thinking of him. And so the long days of ou
r traveling passed for me.
Gradually the countryside around us changed. We found ourselves descending deeper and deeper into valley after winding valley. For a time our road paralleled that of a milky gray river. In places its rising and fallings had gnawed the road at its side to no more than a footpath. We came at length to an immense bridge. When we first glimpsed it from a distance, the spiderweb delicacy of its span reminded me of bones, and I feared that we would find it reduced to splintered fragments of reaching timbers. Instead we crossed on a creation that arched over the river needlessly high, as if in joy that it could. The road we crossed on shone black and shining, while the archwork that graced above and below the span was a powdery gray. I could not identify what it was wrought from, whether true metal or strange stone, for it had more the look of a spun thread than hammered metal or chiseled rock. The elegance and grace of it stilled even the Fool for a time.
After the bridge, we climbed a series of small hills, only to begin another descent. This time the valley was narrow and deep, a steeply sided cleft in the earth as if some giant had long ago cleaved it with a war-axe. The road clung to one side of it and followed it inexorably down. We could see little of where we were going, for the valley itself seemed full of clouds and greenery. This puzzled me until the first rivulet of warm water cut our pathway. It bubbled up steamily from a spring right beside the road, but had long ago disdained the ornately carved stone walls and drainage channel some vanished engineer had placed to contain it. The Fool made great show of considering its stench and whether it should be attributed to rotten eggs or some flatulence of the earth itself. For once not even his rudeness could make me smile. It was for me as if his knavery had gone on too long, the merriment fled and only the crudity and cruelty left.
We came in early afternoon to a region of steaming pools. The lure of hot water was too much to resist, and Kettricken let us make camp early. We had the long-missed comfort of hot water for soaking our weary bodies in, though the Fool disdained it because of its smell. To me it smelled no worse than the steaming waters that rose to feed the baths in Jhaampe, but for once I was just as glad to forgo his company. He went off in search of more potable water, while the women took over the largest pool and I sought out the relative privacy of a smaller one at some distance. I soaked for a time, and then decided to pound some of the dirt from my clothing. The mineral stink of the water was far less than the odor my own body had left on them. That done, I spread my garments on the grass to dry and went to lie once more in the water. Nighteyes came to sit on the bank and watch me in puzzlement, his tail tucked neatly around his feet.
It feels good, I told him needlessly, for I knew he could sense my pleasure.
It must have something to do with your lack of fur, he decided at last.
Come in and I’ll scrub you off. It would help you shed off your winter undercoat, I offered him.
He gave a disdainful sniff. I think I’d prefer to scratch it off a bit at a time.
Well, you needn’t sit and watch me and be bored. Go hunting if you wish.
I would, but the high bitch has asked me to watch you. So I shall.
Kettricken?
So you name her.
How asked you?
He gave me a puzzled glance. As you would. She looked at me and I knew her mind. She worried that you were alone.
Does she know you hear her? Does she hear you?
Almost, at times. He lay down abruptly on the sward and stretched, curling his pink tongue. Perhaps when your mate bids you set me aside, I shall bond to her.
Not funny.
He made no reply to me, but rolled over onto his back and proceeded to roll about scratching his back. The topic of Molly was now an edge of uneasiness between us, a rift I dared not approach and one he obsessively peered into. I wished abruptly that we were as we once had been, joined and whole, living only in the now. I leaned back, resting my head on the bank, half in and half out of the water. I closed my eyes and thought of nothing.
When I opened them again, the Fool was standing looking down on me. I startled visibly. So did Nighteyes, springing to his feet with a growl. “Some guardian,” I observed to the Fool.
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He has no scent, and walks lighter than falling snow! the wolf complained.
“He is always with you, isn’t he?” the Fool observed.
“One way or another,” I agreed, and lay back in the water. I would have to get out soon. The late afternoon was becoming evening. The additional chill in the air only made the hot water more soothing. After a moment, I glanced over at the Fool. He was still just standing and staring at me. “Is something wrong?” I asked him.
He made an inconclusive gesture, and then sat down awkwardly on the bank. “I’ve been thinking about your candlemaker girl,” he said suddenly.
“Have you?” I asked quietly. “I’ve been doing my best not to. ”
He thought about this for a bit. “If you die, what will become of her?”
I rolled over on my belly and propped myself on my elbows to stare at the Fool. I half expected this was the lead line to some new mockery of his, but his face was grave. “Burrich will take care of her,” I said quietly. “For as long as she needs help. She’s a capable woman, Fool. ” After a moment’s consideration, I added, “She took care of herself for years before . . . Fool, I’ve never really taken care of her. I was near her, but she always stood on her own. ” I felt both shamed and proud as I said that. Shamed that I had given her so little besides trouble, and proud that such a woman had cared for me.
“But you would at least want me to take word to her, would you not?”
I shook my head slowly. “She believes me dead. They both do. If in fact I die, I’d just as soon let her believe I died in Regal’s dungeons. For her to learn otherwise would only tar me blacker in her eyes. How could you explain to her that I did not come to her immediately? No. If something happens to me, I wish no tales told her. ” Bleakness gripped me once more. And if I survived and went back to her? That was almost worse to consider. I tried to imagine standing before her and explaining to her that once more, I had put my king ahead of her. I clenched my eyes tight shut at the thought of it.
“Still, when all this is done and gone, I should like to see her again,” the Fool observed.
I opened my eyes. “You? I did not know that you had even spoken to one another. ”
The Fool seemed a bit taken aback at this. “But, that is, I meant for your sake. To see for myself that she is well provided for. ”
I felt oddly touched. “I don’t know what to say,” I told him.
“Say nothing, then. Tell me only where I may find her,” he suggested with a smile.
“I don’t precisely know that myself,” I admitted to him. “Chade knows. If . . . if I do not live through what we must do, ask it of him. ” It felt unlucky to speak of my own death, so I added, “Of course, we both know we shall survive. It is foretold, is it not?”
He gave me an odd look. “By whom?”
My heart sank. “By some White Prophet or other, I had hoped,” I muttered. It occurred to me that I had never asked the Fool if my survival was foretold. Not every man survives winning a battle. I found my courage. “Is it foretold that the Catalyst lives?”
He appeared to be thinking hard. He suddenly observed, “Chade leads a dangerous life. There is no assurance that he will survive either. And if he does not, well, surely you must have some idea of where the girl is. Will not you tell me?”
That he had not answered my question seemed suddenly answer enough. The Catalyst did not survive. It was like being hit by a wave of cold salt water. I felt tumbled in that cold knowledge, drowning in it. I’d never hold my daughter, never feel Molly’s warmth again. It was almost a physical pain, and it dizzied me.
“FitzChivalry?” the Fool pressed me. He lifted a hand to suddenly cover his mouth tightly, as if
he could speak no more. His other hand rose to grip his wrist suddenly. He looked sickened.
“It’s all right,” I said faintly. “Perhaps it’s better that I know what is to come. ” I sighed and racked my brain. “I’ve heard them speak of a village. Burrich goes there to buy things. It cannot be far. You could start there. ”
The Fool gave a tiny nod of encouragement to me. Tears stood in his eyes.
“Capelin Beach,” I said quietly.
A moment longer he sat staring at me. Then he suddenly toppled over sideways.
“Fool?”
There was no response. I stood, the warm water running off me and looked over at him. He sprawled on his side as if asleep. “Fool!” I called irritably. When there was still no response, I waded out of the pond and over to him. He lay on the grassy bank, miming the deep, even breathing of sleep. “Fool?” I asked again, half expecting him to come leaping up in my face. Instead he made a vague motion as if I disturbed his dreaming. It irritated me beyond words that he could go so abruptly from serious words to some kind of knavery. Yet it was typical of his behavior over the past few days. There was suddenly no relaxation or peace left in the hot water. Still dripping, I began to gather my clothes. I refused to look at him as I brushed and shook most of the water from my body. The clothing I pulled on was slightly damp anyway. The Fool slept on as I turned away from him and walked back to camp. Nighteyes trailed at my heels.