by Robin Hobb
She was tiny. Sleek black hair and dark eyes. Horribly her little body was still warm and lax. I lifted her to my lap and smoothed the hair back from her face. A small face, even baby teeth. Round cheeks. Death had not yet clouded her gaze; the eyes that stared up into mine seemed fixed on a puzzle beyond understanding. Her little hands were fat and soft and streaked with the blood that had run down from the bites on her arms. I sat in the snow with the dead child on my lap. So this was how a child felt in one’s arms. So small, and once so warm. So still. I bowed my head over her smooth hair and wept. Sudden shudders ran over me, uncontrollably. Nighteyes snuffed at my cheek and whined. He pawed roughly at my shoulder and I suddenly realized I had shut him out. I touched him with a quieting hand, but could not open my mind to him or anything else. He whined again, and I finally heard the hoof beats. He gave my cheek an apologetic lick, and then vanished into the woods.
I staggered to my feet, still holding the child. The riders crested the hill above me. Verity in the lead, on his black, with Burrich behind him, and Blade, and half a dozen others. Horribly, there was a woman, roughly dressed, riding behind Blade on his horse. She cried out aloud at the sight of me, and slid quickly from the horse’s back, running toward me with hands reaching for the child. I could not bear the terrible light of hope and joy in her face. Her eyes seized on mine for an instant and I saw everything die in her face. She clawed her little girl from my arms, snatched at the cooling face on the lolling neck, and then began to scream. The desolation of her grief broke over me like a wave, sweeping my walls away and carrying me under with her. The screaming never stopped.
Hours later, sitting in Verity’s study, I could still hear it. I vibrated to the sound, long shudders that ran over me uncontrollably. I was stripped to the waist, sitting on a stool before the fireplace. The healer was building the fire up, while behind me a stonily silent Burrich was swabbing pine needles and dirt out of the gouge on my neck. ‘This, and this aren’t fresh wounds,’ he observed at one point, pointing down to the other injury on my arm. I said nothing. All words had deserted me. In a basin of hot water beside him, dried iris flowers were uncurling with bits of bog myrtle floating beside them. He moistened a cloth in the water and sponged at the bruises on my throat. ‘The smith had big hands,’ he observed aloud.
‘You knew him?’ the healer asked as he turned to look at Burrich.
‘Not to talk to. I’d seen him, a time or two, at Springfest when some of the outlying trade folk come to town with their goods. He used to bring fancy silverwork for harness.’
They fell silent again. Burrich went back to work. The blood tingeing the warm water wasn’t mine, for the most part. Other than a lot of bruises and sore muscles, I’d escaped with mostly scratches and scrapes and one huge lump on my forehead. I was somehow ashamed that I hadn’t been hurt. The little girl had died; I should have at least been injured. I don’t know why that thought made sense to me. I watched Burrich make a neat white bandage snug on my forearm. The healer brought me a mug of tea. Burrich took it from him, sniffed it thoughtfully, then gave it over to me. ‘I would have used less valerian,’ was all he said to the man. The healer stepped back and went to sit by the hearth.
Charim came in with a tray of food. He cleared a small table and began to set it out on it. A moment later Verity strode into the room. He took his cloak off and flung it over a chair back. ‘I found her husband in the market,’ he said. ‘He’s with her now. She had left the child playing on the doorstep while she went to the stream for water. When she got back, the child was gone.’ He glanced toward me but I couldn’t meet his eyes. ‘We found her calling her little girl in the woods. I knew …’ He glanced abruptly at the healer. ‘Thank you, Dem. If you’ve finished with FitzChivalry, you may go.’
‘I haven’t even looked at …’
‘He’s fine.’ Burrich had run a length of bandaging across my chest and under my opposite arm and up again in an effort to keep a dressing in place on my neck. It was useless. The bite was right on the muscle between the tip of my shoulder and my neck. I tried to find something amusing in the irritated look the healer gave Burrich before he left. Burrich didn’t even notice it.
Verity dragged up a chair to face me. I began to lift the mug to my lips, but Burrich casually reached over and took it from my hand. ‘After you’ve talked. There’s enough valerian in here to drop you in your tracks.’ He took it and himself out of the way. Over by the hearth, I watched him dump out half of the tea and dilute what was left with more hot water. That done, he crossed his arms on his chest and leaned against the mantelpiece, watching us.
I shifted my gaze to Verity’s eyes, and waited for him to speak.
He sighed. ‘I saw the child with you. Saw them fighting over her. Then you were suddenly gone. We lost our joining, and I couldn’t find you again, not even with all my strength. I knew you were in trouble and set out to reach you as soon as I could. I’m sorry I wasn’t faster.’
I longed to open myself up and tell Verity everything. But it might be too revealing. To possess a prince’s secrets does not give one the right to divulge them. I glanced at Burrich. He was studying the wall. I spoke formally. ‘Thank you, my prince. You could not have come faster. And even if you had, it would have been too late. She died at almost the same instant I saw her.’
Verity looked down at his hands. ‘I knew that. Knew it better than you did. My concern was for you.’ He looked up at me and tried for a smile. ‘The most distinctive part of your fighting style is the incredible way you have of surviving it.’
From the corner of my eye, I saw Burrich shift, open his mouth to speak, then close it again. Cold dread uncoiled me. He had seen the bodies of the Forged ones, seen the tracks. He knew I hadn’t fought alone against them. It was the only thing that could have made the day worse. I felt as if my heart were suddenly caught in a cold stillness. That Burrich had not spoken of it yet, that he was reserving his accusations for a private time only made it worse.
‘FitzChivalry?’ Verity called my attention back to him.
I started. ‘I beg your pardon, my prince.’
He laughed, almost, a brief snort. ‘Enough of “my prince”. Rest assured that I do not expect it of you just now, and neither does Burrich. He and I know each other well enough; he did not “my prince” my brother at moments like this. Recall that he was King’s Man to my brother. Chivalry drew on his strength, and oftentimes not gently. I am sure Burrich knows that I have used you likewise. And knows also that I rode with your eyes today, at least as far as the top of that ridge.’
I looked to Burrich, who nodded slowly. Neither of us were certain why he was being included here.
‘I lost touch with you when you went into a battle frenzy. If I am to use you as I wish, that cannot happen.’ Verity drummed his fingers lightly on his thighs for a moment, in thought. ‘The only way I can see for you to learn this thing is to practise it. Burrich. Chivalry once told me that in a tight spot, you were better with an axe than a sword.’
Burrich looked startled. Plainly he had not expected Verity to know this about him. He nodded again, slowly. ‘He used to mock me about it. Said it was a brawler’s tool, not a gentleman’s weapon.’
Verity permitted himself a tight smile. ‘Appropriate for Fitz’s style, then. You will teach him to use one. I don’t believe it’s something Hod teaches as a general rule. Though no doubt she could if I asked her. But I’d rather it was you. Because I want Fitz to practise keeping me with him while he learns it. If we can tie the two lessons together, perhaps he can master them both at once. And if you are teaching him, then he’ll not be too dis
tracted about keeping my presence a secret. Can you do it?’
Burrich could not completely disguise the dismay that crept over him. ‘I can, my prince.’
‘Then do so, please. Beginning tomorrow. Earlier is better for me. I know you have other duties as well, and few enough hours to yourself. Don’t hesitate to pass some of your duties on to Hands while you are busy with this. He seems a very capable man.’
‘He is,’ Burrich agreed. Guardedly. Another titbit of information that Verity had at his fingertips.
‘Fine, then.’ Verity leaned back in his chair. He surveyed us both as if he were briefing a whole roomful of men. ‘Does anyone have any difficulties with any of this?’
I saw the question as a polite closing.
‘Sir?’ Burrich asked. His deep voice had gone very soft and uncertain. ‘If I may … I have … I do not intend to question my prince’s judgment, but …’
I held my breath. Here it came. The Wit.
‘Speak it out, Burrich. I thought I had made it clear that the “my princing” was to be suspended here. What worries you?’
Burrich stood up straight, and met the King-in-Waiting’s eyes. ‘Is this … fitting? Bastard or no, he is Chivalry’s son. What I saw up there, today …’ Once started, the words spilled out of Burrich. He was fighting to keep anger from his voice. ‘You sent him … He went into a slaughterhouse situation, alone. Most any other boy of his age would be dead now. I … try not to pry into what is not my area. I know there are many ways to serve my king, and that some are not as pretty as others. But up in the mountains … and then what I saw today. Could not you find someone besides your brother’s child for this?’
I glanced back to Verity. For the first time in my life, I saw full anger on his face. Not expressed in a sneer or a frown, but simply as two hot sparks deep in his dark eyes. The line of his lips was flat. But he spoke evenly. ‘Look again, Burrich. That’s no child sitting there. And think again. I did not send him alone. I went with him, into a situation that we expected to be a stalk and a hunt, not a direct confrontation. It didn’t turn out that way. But he survived it. As he has survived similar things before. And likely will again.’ Verity stood suddenly. The whole air of the room was abruptly charged to my senses, boiling with emotion. Even Burrich seemed to feel it, for he gave me a glance, then forced himself to stand still, like a soldier at attention while Verity stalked about the room.
‘No. This isn’t what I would choose for him. This isn’t what I would choose for myself. Would that he had been born in better times! Would that he had been born in a marriage bed, and my brother still upon the throne! But I was not given that situation, nor was he. Nor you! And so he serves, as I do. Damn me, but Kettricken has had it right all along. The King is the sacrifice of the people. And so is his nephew. That was carnage up there today. I know of what you speak: I saw Blade go aside to puke after he saw that body, I saw him walk well clear of Fitz. I know not how the boy … this man survived it. By doing whatever he had to, I suppose. So what can I do, man? What can I do? I need him. I need him for this ugly, secret battling, for he is the only one equipped and trained to do it. Just as my father sets me in that tower, and bids me burn my mind out with sneaking, filthy killing. Whatever Fitz must do, whatever skills he must call upon –’
(My heart stood still, my breath was ice in my lungs.)
‘– them let him use. Because that is what we are about now. Survival. Because …’
‘They are my people.’ I did not realize I had spoken until they both swung to stare at me. Sudden silence in the room. I took a breath. ‘A long time ago, an old man told me that I would some day understand something. He said that the Six Duchies people were my people, that it was in my blood to care about them, to feel their hurts as my own.’ I blinked my eyes, to clear Chade and that day at Forge from my vision. ‘He was right,’ I managed to say after a moment. ‘They killed my child today, Burrich. And my smith, and two other men. Not the Forged ones. The Red Ship Raiders. And I must have their blood in return, I must drive them from my coast. It is as simple now as eating or breathing. It is a thing I must do.’
Their eyes met over my head. ‘Blood will tell,’ Verity observed quietly. But there was a fierceness in his voice, and a pride that stilled the day-long trembling of my body. A deep calm rose in me. I had done the right thing today. I suddenly knew it as a physical fact. Ugly, demeaning work, but it was mine, and I had done it well. For my people. I turned to Burrich, and he was looking at me with that considering gaze usually reserved for when the runt of a litter showed unusual promise.
‘I’ll teach him,’ he promised Verity. ‘What few tricks I know with an axe. And a few other things. Shall we begin tomorrow, before first light?’
‘Fine,’ Verity agreed before I could object. ‘Now let us eat.’
I was suddenly famished. I rose to go to the table, but Burrich was suddenly beside me. ‘Wash your face and hands, Fitz,’ he reminded me gently.
The scented water in Verity’s basin was dark with the smith’s blood when I was through.
FOURTEEN
Winterfest
Winterfest is as much a celebration of the darkest part of the year as a festival of the returning light. For the first three days of Winterfest, we pay homage to the darkness. The tales told and puppet shows presented are those that tell of resting times and happy endings. The foods are salt fish and smoked flesh, harvested roots and fruit from last summer. Then, on the mid-day of the festival, there is a hunt. New blood is shed to celebrate the breaking point of the year, and new meat is brought fresh to the table, to be eaten with grain harvested from the year before. The next three days are days that look toward the coming summer. The looms are threaded with gayer thread, and the weavers take over an end of the Great Hall to vie amongst themselves for the brightest patterns and lightest weave. The tales told are ones that tell of beginnings of things, and of how things came to be.
I tried to see the King that afternoon. Despite all that had transpired, I had not forgotten my promise to myself. Wallace turned me away, saying that King Shrewd felt poorly and was seeing no one. I longed to hammer on the door and shout for the Fool to make Wallace admit me. But I did not. I was not so sure of the Fool’s friendship as I had once been. We’d had no contact since that last mocking song of his. Thinking of him put me in mind of his words, and when I went back to my room, I once more rooted through Verity’s manuscripts.
Reading made me sleepy. Even the diluted valerian had been a strong dose. Lethargy took over my limbs. I pushed the scrolls aside, no wiser than when I had begun. I pondered other avenues. Perhaps a public trumpeting at Winterfest that those trained in the Skill, no matter how old or how weak, were being sought? Would that make targets of any who responded? I thought again of the obvious candidates. Those who had trained alongside me. None of them had any fondness for me, but that did not mean they were not still faithful to Verity. Tainted perhaps by Galen’s attitudes, but could not that be cured? I ruled August out immediately. His final experience of the Skill at Jhaampe had burned his abilities out of him. He had retired quietly to some town on the Vin River, old before his time it was said. But there had been others. Eight of us had survived the training. Seven of us had come back from the testing. I had failed it, August had been burned clean of it. That left five.
Not much of a coterie. I wondered if they all hated me as much as Serene did. She blamed me for Galen’s death and made no secret of it to me. Were the others as knowledgeable as to what had happened? I tried to reca
ll them all. Justin. Very taken with himself and too proud of his Skilling. Carrod. He had once been a sleepy, likable boy. The few times I had seen him since he had become a coterie member, his eyes had seemed almost empty, as if nothing was left of who he had been. Burl had let his physical strength run to fat once he could Skill instead of carpenter for a living. Will had always been unremarkable. Skilling had not improved him. Still, they were all proven to have Skill ability. Could not Verity retrain them? Perhaps. But when? When did he have time for such an undertaking?
Someone comes.
I came awake. I was sprawled face-down on my bed, scrolls tumbled around me. I hadn’t meant to sleep, and seldom slept so deeply. Had Nighteyes not been using my own senses to watch over me, I would have been taken completely unaware. I watched the door of my room ease open. The fire had burned low and there was little other light in the room. I had not latched the door; I had not expected to sleep. I lay very quiet, wondering who came so softly, hoping to take me unawares. Or was it someone hoping to find my room empty, someone after the scrolls perhaps? I eased my hand to my belt knife, gathered my muscles for a spring. A figure came slipping around the door, pushed it quietly shut. I eased the knife out of its sheath.
It’s your female. Somewhere, Nighteyes yawned and stretched. His tail gave a lazy wag. I found myself taking a deep breath through my nose. Molly, I confirmed to myself with satisfaction as I took in her sweet scent, and then felt an amazing physical quickening. I lay still, eyes closed, and let her come to the bed. I heard her softly chiding exclamation, and then the rustling as she gathered up the scattered scrolls and set them safely upon the table. Hesitantly, she touched my cheek. ‘Newboy?’