Fool's Fate ttm-3

by Robin Hobb

  A very odd smile appeared on Dutiful's face. Was he pleased that he had pricked her to jealousy? He spoke more softly than she did, but I could watch his lips form the words. "Lestra? Why would I wait by moonlight for Lestra?"

  "There is no moon tonight," Elliania pointed out sharply. "And as for why Lestra, why, because she would willingly give you her body to use as you wished. More for the sake of spiting me than because she found you handsome."

  He crossed his arms on his chest. I wondered if he did so to hold in his satisfaction or to keep from taking her in his arms. She was slender as a willow, and her night braids fell to her hips. I could almost smell the warmth of her rising up to him. "So. Do you think she finds me handsome?"

  "Who knows? She likes odd things. She has a cat with a crooked tail and too many toes. She thinks it's pretty." She shrugged. "But she would tell you that you were handsome, simply to win you."

  "Would she? But perhaps I don't want Lestra to win me. She is pretty, but perhaps I don't want Lestra at all," he suggested to her.

  All the night held its breath as she looked up at him. I saw the rise and fall of her breasts as she took a deeper breath, daring herself. "Then what do you want?" she asked, soft as a breeze.

  He didn't try to take her in his arms. I think she would have resisted that. Instead, he freed one hand from his crossed arms and, with the tip of one finger, lifted her chin. He leaned forward, bending down to take the kiss he stole from her. Stole? But she did not flee. Instead, she rose on her toes as only their mouths touched in the soft dimness.

  I felt a lecherous old man, sprawled in the darkness of the hedge, spying on them. I knew he plunged himself into danger, that they both took foolish chances, but my heart leaped at the thought that my lad might know love as well as an arranged marriage. When their kiss finally broke, I hoped he would send her back to her bedchamber. I wanted him to have this moment, but I also knew that I'd have to intervene if it looked like their experiment was going to venture past a kiss. I cringed at the thought, but steeled myself to the necessity of it. With dread, I heard her breathless question. "A kiss. That was all you wanted?"

  "It is all I'll take now," he countered. His chest was rising and falling as if he'd run a race. "I'll wait until I've earned more to take more."

  An uncertain smile crossed her face. "You need not earn it if I choose to give myself to you."

  "But… you said you would not be my wife until I brought you the dragon's head."

  "In my land, a woman gives herself where she will. It is different from being married. Or a wife, as you call it. Once a girl is a woman, she can take whatever man she wishes into her bedskins. It does not mean she is wed to each of them." She glanced aside and added carefully, "You would be my first. Some consider that more special than to be vowed to one another. It would not make me your wife, of course. I will not be wife or wedded to you until you have brought the dragon's head here, to my mothershouse."

  "I would like you to be my first, as well," Dutiful said carefully. Then, as if uttering the words were as difficult as dragging a tree up by the roots, he added, "But not now. Not until I've done what I've said I'd do." She was shocked, but not that he would keep his promise. "Your first? Truly? You've known no woman yet?" It took him a long moment to admit it. "It is the custom of my land, though not all follow it. To wait until we are wed." He spoke stiffly, as if fearing she would mock him for his chastity.

  "I would like to be your first," she admitted. She stepped closer to him, and this time his arms settled around her. She melted her body against him as his mouth found hers.

  My Wit made me aware of Peottre before they were. Engrossed as they were, I doubt either of them would have been aware of a herd of sheep passing around them, but I came to my feet as I saw the old warrior step around the corner of the mothershouse. His sword was on his hip and his eyes were dangerous. "Elliania." She leaped back out of Dutiful's embrace. One guilty hand wiped her mouth as if to conceal the kiss she had taken. I give Dutiful full credit that he stood his ground. He swung his head to look steadily at Peottre. There was nothing of remorse or disgrace in his stance, nor anything of boyishness. He looked like a man interrupted while kissing a woman who belonged to him. I held my breath, wondering if I would better or worsen the situation by stepping into plain view.

  The silence was as still and watchful as the night. The gaze held between Peottre and Dutiful. It was a measuring look, not quite a challenge. When Peottre spoke, his words were for Elliania. "You should go back to your bedchamber."

  At his suggestion, she spun and fled. Her bare feet were silent on the dust of the courtyard. Even after she was gone, Dutiful and Peottre continued to regard one another. At last Peottre spoke. "The dragon's head. You promised. As a man, you gave your word."

  Dutiful inclined his head once, gravely. "I did. As a man, I promised." Peottre started to turn away. Dutiful spoke again.

  "What Elliania offered me, she offered as a woman, not as the Narcheska. Is she free to offer that, by your customs?"

  Peottre's spine stiffened. He turned slowly and spoke unwillingly. "Who else can offer that to you, save a woman? Her body belongs to her. She can share that with you. But she will not truly be your wife until you bring her the head of Icefyre"

  "Ah."

  Again, Peottre slowly turned to go, and again Dutiful's voice stopped him.

  "Then she is more free than I am. My body and my seed belong to the Six Duchies. I am not free to share it where I would choose, but only with my wife. That is our custom." I almost heard him swallow. "I would that she knew that. That, by our customs, I cannot accept what she offers, except dishonorably." His voice dropped, and his next words were a request. "I would ask that she not tempt or taunt me with what I cannot honorably take. I am a man but… I am a man." His explanation was both awkward and honest.

  So was Peottre's response. There was grudging respect in his voice as he said, "I will see that she knows that."

  "Will she… will she think less of me? Will she think me less of a man?"

  "I do not. And I will see that she understands what it costs a man to hold back from such an offer." He stood looking at Dutiful as if seeing him for the first time. When he spoke, there was great sadness in his words. "You are a man. You would be a good match for my sister-daughter. The granddaughters of your mother would enrich my line." He spoke the last as if it were a proverb rather than something that he could truly hope for. Then he turned and silently left.

  I saw Dutiful draw a deep breath and sigh it out again. I dreaded that he would reach for me with the Skill, but he did not. Instead, head bowed, he walked back into Elliania's mothershouse.

  Thick had fallen asleep sitting on the ground, his head bowed heavily onto his chest. He moaned lightly as I gently shook him to wakefulness and helped him to his feet. "I want to go home," he muttered as he tottered down the road beside me.

  "Me, too," I told him. And yet it was not Buckkeep that came to my mind, but a meadow overlooking the sea, and a girl in bright red skirts who beckoned me. A time, rather than a place. No road led there anymore.

  Chapter 12

  Cousins

  The toothy spires of the dragon's isle cup the glacier in its maw As the gaping mouth of a dying man wells blood. Young man, will you go there?

  Will you climb the ice to win the regard of your fellow warriors?

  Dare you cross the crevasses, seen and unseen?

  Dare you brave the winds that sing of Icefyre, asleep within the ice?

  He will burn your bones with cold, he will. The icy wind is his fiery breath.

  With it he will blacken the skin of your face until it peels from the sore pink flesh beneath it.

  Young man, will you venture there?

  To win the favor of a woman, will you walk beneath the ice on the wet black stones that see no sky? Will you find the secret cavern that gapes only when the tide retreats?

  Will you count your own heartbeats to mark the passing of time un
til the sea waves return to grind you to a smear of blood against the deep blue ice above you?

  "The Dragon's Welcome," Outislander song, translation by Badgerlock

  The very next day, we were told that all the issues regarding the Prince's killing Icefyre had been resolved. We would return to Zylig to accept the Hetgurd's terms, and then depart for Aslevjal and our dragon hunt. I wondered briefly if the sudden plans for sailing had anything to do with the night scene I had witnessed, but then watched the releasing of a bird that carried tidings of our departure, and decided that the news had doubtless been borne to us on the same wings.

  The ensuing bustle spared me an uncomfortable interview with the Prince, but plunged me into misery of a different sort. Thick was completely opposed to getting back onto a ship. It was useless to tell him that this was the only way he would eventually get home. In moments like that, I glimpsed the limits of his mind and logic.

  Thick had developed since he had come to us, becoming not only more free with his words but more sophisticated in how he used them. He was like a plant finally granted sunlight as he revealed more understanding and potential than I had suspected from the shuffling half-wit servant in Chade's tower. And yet, he would always carry his differences with him. Sometimes he became a frightened and rebellious child, and at such times, reasoning with him did us no good. In the end, Chade resorted to a strong soporific the night before we were to sail, which required me to keep a vigil on his dreams all that night. They were uneasy ones that I soothed as best I could. It filled me with misgivings that Nettle did not come to help me, even though in another sense I was glad she did not.

  Thick was still soddenly asleep when we loaded him into a handcart to transport him to the ship the next day. I felt a fool trundling him over the bumpy roads and down to the docks, but Web walked alongside me and talked as casually as if this were an everyday occurrence.

  Our departure seemed to be more of an event than our arrival. Two ships awaited us. I noticed that the entire Six Duchies contingent was loaded on the Boar ship as before. The Narcheska and Peottre and the few folk accompanying them embarked onto a smaller, older vessel, flying a banner with a narwhal on it. The Great Mother came down to see her off and to offer a blessing to her. I understand there was other ceremony as well but I saw little of it, for Thick began to stir restlessly in his bunk and I judged it best to stay close by him lest he awake and decide to get off the ship.

  I sat by his bunk in the tiny cabin allotted to us and tried to Skill peace and security into his dreams. The movement of the waves and the sound of the ship leaked in despite my best efforts. With a start and a cry he came awake and sat up, staring around the cabin with eyes both wild and groggy. "It's a bad dream!" he wailed. "No," I had to tell him. "It's real. But I promise I'll keep you safe, Thick. I promise."

  "You can't promise that! No one can promise that on a boat!" he accused me. I had put my arm around him comfortingly when he first sat up. Now he flung himself away from me. He huddled back into his blankets, rolled to face the wall, and began to sob uncontrollably.

  "Thick," I began helplessly. Never had I felt so cruel, never so wrong in anything I had ever done. "Go away!" Despite my walls, the Skill-command in his words snapped my head back on my spine. I found myself on my feet, groping toward the door of the minuscule cabin we'd share with the Wit coterie. I forced myself to halt.

  "Is there anyone you want to be with you?" I asked hopelessly.

  "No! You all hate me! You all trick me and poison me and make me go on the ocean to kill me. Go away!" I was glad enough to do so, for his Skill pushed at me like a strong, cold wind. As I went out of the low cabin door, I stood upright too soon and slammed the top of my head into the doorjamb. The jolt was enough to dizzy me as I staggered the rest of the way onto the deck. Thick's cruel laugh was like a second blow. I soon learned it was not an accident. Perhaps the first one had been, but in the days of our journey, Thick managed enough Skill-stumbles for me that any thought of coincidence soon vanished. If I was aware of him, I could sometimes counter it, but if he saw me first, I'd only know of it when I felt the boat seem to lurch under me. I'd try to catch my balance, and instead stumble to the deck or walk into a railing. But at that time, I dismissed it as my own clumsiness.

  I went to find Chade and Dutiful. We had a greater degree of privacy on that journey than we had previously had on all our travels. Peottre and the Narcheska and her guards were on the other vessel. The Boar clansmen who operated our vessel seemed little interested in how we socialized, and fewer pretenses were needed. So it was that I went directly to the Prince's cabin and knocked. Chade admitted me. I found them both well settled, including a meal set out on a table. It was Outislander fare, but at least there was plenty of it. The wine with it was of a decent quality, and I was pleased when a nod from Dutiful invited me to join them. "How is Thick?" he asked without preamble. It was a relief, almost, to give a detailed report on that, for I had dreaded that he would immediately demand that I explain Nettle. I detailed the small man's discomfort and unhappiness and ended up with "Regardless of his Skill-strength, I do not see how we can force him to continue. With every ship we embark on, he dislikes me more and becomes more intractable. We risk stirring an enmity in him that we can never quell, one that will make him set his Skill against all our endeavors. If it can safely be done, I propose that we leave him on Zylig while we go on to Aslevjal."

  Chade set his glass down with a thud. "You know it can't be done, so why ask it?" I knew his irritation masked his own guilt and regret when he added, "I swear, I never thought it would be so hard on him. Is there no way to make him understand the importance of what we do?"

  "The Prince might be able to convey it to him. Thick is so angry with me right now, I don't think he'll truly hear anything I say."

  "He isn't the only one who is angry with you," Dutiful observed coolly. The calmness with which he addressed me warned me that his anger had gone very deep indeed. He controlled it now as a man controls his blade. Waiting for an opening.

  "Shall I leave you two alone to discuss this?" Chade rose a shade too hastily.

  "Oh, no. As you know nothing of Nettle and her dragon, I'm sure this will be as enlightening to you as it is to me."

  Chade sank slowly back into his chair, his retreat severed by the Prince's sarcasm. I knew abruptly that the old man was not going to help me at all. That, if anything, Chade relished my being cornered this way.

  "Who is Nettle?" Dutiful's question was blunt.

  So was my answer. "My daughter. Though she does not know it."

  He leaned back in his chair as if I'd doused him with cold water. There was a long moment of silence. Chade, damn him, lifted his hand to cover his mouth, but not before I'd seen his smile. I shot him a look of pure fury. He dropped his hand and grinned openly.

  "I see," Dutiful said after a time. Then, as if it were the most important conclusion he could reach, "I have a cousin. A girl cousin! How old is she? How is it that I've never met her? Or have I? When was she last at court? Who is her lady mother?"

  I could not find my tongue, but I hated Chade speaking for me. "She has never been to court, my prince. Her mother is a candlemaker. Her father… the man she thinks is her father is Burrich, formerly the Stablemaster at Buckkeep Castle. She is sixteen now, I believe." He halted there, as if to give the Prince time to puzzle it out. "Swift's father? Then… is Swift your son? You spoke of having a foster son, but—"

  "Swift is Burrich's son. And Nettle's half-brother." I took a long breath, and heard myself ask, "Have you any brandy? Wine isn't enough for this tale."

  "I can see that." He stood up and fetched it for me, more nephew than prince in that moment, and ready to be enraptured by ancient family history. It was hard for me to tell that old tale, and somehow Chade nodding sympathetically made it worse. When the convoluted connections were finally all traced for him, Dutiful sat shaking his head.

  "What a mare's nest you made of it, FitzChivalry. W
ith this piece in place, the tale my mother told me of your life makes much more sense. And how you must hate Molly and Burrich, that they could both set you aside and faithlessly forget you and find comfort in one another."

  It shocked me that he could speak of it that way. "No," I said firmly. "That isn't how it was. They believed me dead. There was nothing faithless about them going on living. And, if she had to give herself to someone, then… then I am glad that she chose a man worthy of her. And that he finally found a bit of happiness for himself. And that together they protected my child." It was getting harder to speak as my throat tightened. I loosened it with a slug of brandy, and then wheezed in a breath.

  "He was the better man for her," I managed to add. I had told myself that so often, through the years. "I wonder if she would have thought so," the Prince mused, and then, at the look on my face, added hastily, "I beg your pardon. It's not my place to wonder such things. But… but I am still shocked that my mother allowed this. Often she has spoken with me, forcefully, about how much rests on me as the sole heir to the throne."

  "She gave way to Fitz's feelings in that. Against my counsel," Chade explained. I could hear the satisfaction he took in finally vindicating himself.

  "I see. Well, actually, I don't see, but for now the question is, how have you been teaching her to Skill? Did you live near her before or…?"

  "I haven't been teaching her. What she knows of it, she has mastered on her own."

  "But I was told that was horribly dangerous!" Dutiful's shock seemed to deepen. "How could you allow her to be risked this way, knowing all she means to the Farseer throne?" That question was for me, and then he accusingly demanded of Chade, "Did you prevent her coming to court? Was this your doing, some silly effort at protecting the Farseer name?"

  "Not at all, my prince," he denied smoothly. He turned his calm gaze on me and told Dutiful, "Many times, I have asked Fitz to allow Nettle to be brought to Buckkeep, so that she could both learn her own importance to the Farseer line and be instructed in the Skill. But, again, this was an area in which FitzChivalry's feelings had their way. Against the counsel of both the Queen and myself."