by Robin Hobb
She stood, and then descended the dais of her throne, treading on the dragon’s head in passing. She strolled over to the soiled throne and the squalid monarch upon it and considered her prisoner. ‘Nonetheless, he failed me.’ She stretched out a slender hand to him. His nostrils flared and he bared his teeth as if to snap at her. She shook her head, almost fondly, as a man might over a stallion too spirited to be trusted. Her voice was sweet as she asked him, ‘Shall I give a bit more of you to the dragon, my pet? Would you like that?’
The muscles around the mad king’s deep-set eyes twitched as if he desperately tried to recall something. Then he cringed away from her, raising one shoulder as if that could shelter him. A low moan of ‘Nooooooo!’ oozed from him.
‘Not now, perhaps. Eventually, of course, he will have all of you. When there is nothing else to wring from you, I shall fling you on top of him and watch you melt into him. That is how it happens, is it not?’ She turned suddenly to confront me. ‘At the final quickening, are not the sacrifices to the dragon completely absorbed? When your Skill-coteries are given to a dragon, do not they vanish completely into its body?’
I held my tongue, as much from shock as from a desire to withhold the information from her. She spoke as if coteries were forced into a dragon, rather than entering one willingly. I would not take her ignorance from her. One of my guards growled and lifted a fist to menace me, but she shook her head and flicked her fingers at him, dismissing my silence as inconsequential.
Instead, she transferred her gaze to the Fool, dangling insensible between his captors, and for the first time, a frown marred her sculpted face. ‘You have not damaged him, have you? I warned you that I wished him brought to me intact. He is the greatest curiosity in the world, that most rare creature, a false White Prophet. Though he scarcely deserves such a title now. Look at him, gone all brown as a withered flower. Is he dead?’
‘No, Lady Most High. He has but fainted.’ The guard who spoke sounded nervous.
‘I don’t believe it. Shake him a bit. He has the tenacity of a cat, and I’ll wager he’d be just as hard to kill as one. Open your eyes, Beloved. Greet me again, with a smile and a little bow, as you did once when you were a pale wisp of a child. Oh, how sweet a creature he was, as if made all of whipped egg white and milk and sugar crystal, a confection of a child. With the tongue of a viper!’ She leaned forward suddenly, venom in her voice. As if her hatred warned him of its poison, the Fool gave a sudden gasp and stirred. He wobbled his head upright, and stared blindly about. Then comprehension crashed down around him. I thought he would scream as every muscle in his face went taut. Then he went suddenly still. He looked at me and spoke to me only. ‘I am so very sorry. So very sorry.’
The Pale Woman turned abruptly away from us and remounted her throne. She took her time settling herself into her throne, snuggling into her furs. When she was comfortable, she issued her orders. ‘This day has been long in coming. I see no point in either hurrying or delaying my enjoyment of it. Truth to tell, I had expected that you both would stand before me almost a year ago. The Piebalds had been promised much gold, but only if they delivered both of you, intact. And that they could not seem to do. Some silly personal scheme of vengeance overturned all our arrangements with them. They were unreliable allies, with all their dirty little animals traipsing around after them, tainting their minds with animal thoughts like men fornicating with sheep! No wonder they failed me. I should never have wasted my time with them. Well. It matters not now. I have you here, by my own manoeuvring, and that makes it all the sweeter.’ She leaned back, steepling her slender hands as she regarded us with satisfaction.
‘I have long had quarters prepared for you. Guards, escort each of my guests to his proper accommodations, and see that they take full advantage of them. Rest and relax, FitzChivalry. I shall come to call upon you soon. Until then, do you have any questions for me? No? A pity. I do not often offer to answer questions, but for you, I would have. For I think that, the more you know, the more you will see how you have been deceived and misled by our darling little pretender. Take them off, but gently, gently. Harm not a hair of their heads.’
At the door of her grand hall they parted us, the Fool’s captors taking him in one direction and mine jostling me along in the other. ‘Fitz!’ His sudden shout startled me and made me strain against my guards’ grip. One gently twisted my arm higher behind my back. I set my heels to the ice and skidded as they dragged me relentlessly on. The Fool’s shout came faint to my ears. ‘I knew my fate! I chose to meet it! Stay your course and do not doubt! All will be as –’ His shout ended in a muffled cry, and then they staggered me around a corner and down yet another icy hall.
‘Where are they taking him?’ I demanded, and received another example of the Pale Woman’s guard’s idea of gentleness as a gauntleted fist doubled me over. I could almost take a full breath again when they paused at one of the icy doors. One of the guards produced a long tool and thrust it into a small opening in the ice. He jigged it until I heard a catch give, and then pulled the door open with it. They threw me inside and I landed face down on some patchy deerskins on the floor. One followed me, and I rolled, trying to escape the punishment sure to come, but he only caught at my bound wrists, pulled them up high and screamingly tight, and then suddenly released them. The knife he had used to cut the bindings nicked my hand in passing. He was not concerned. ‘Don’t make noise!’ he warned me. ‘She doesn’t like it, and I don’t like having to come and make you be quiet.’
The icy door closed behind him before I could think of a reply. The earlier blow to my head had left me woozy. I lifted my head just enough to be sure I was alone in the chamber. As soon as I was reassured that no Forged ones lurked there, I let my head drop, closed my eyes and tried to think.
I opened them again. A minute, a day, a week had passed. The light in the chamber remained the same. I had had no useful thoughts, and perhaps I had slept. I got up slowly, feeling various aches. They were washed from my awareness by the tide of anxiety I felt for the Fool. Where had they taken him and what was his fate? It suddenly seemed incomprehensible to me that we had not struggled harder to keep from being separated.
My cell was quickly explored. The bed was a wooden box of straw with several blankets over it. A bucket in the corner for waste. Another bucket held water, skimmed over with ice. A rag by it suggested that perhaps it was for washing. The deer hides on the floor. I patted my clothes. My guards must have taken the dragon-tools while I was unconscious. I had no weapons, not even the Fool’s little knife. No windows except the low slit in the unyielding door. A light globe stuck to the ceiling, far out of my reach. No food. No way to measure the passage of time. I moved from the floor to the bed, such as it was. I considered Nighteyes’ old advice: when sleep is the only comfort you can take, take it. It will leave you better prepared for whatever might come next.
I closed my eyes and tried to sleep. It didn’t work. I tried to Skill. Nothing. I quested out with my Wit. I could vaguely sense other humans nearby, but the prevailing presence was that of the dragon. And then Icefyre was gone again. I sat up and leaned the bruised back of my head against the icy wall of my chamber. It eased the throbbing. I must have dozed, for I woke with my hair frosted to the wall. I pulled free slowly, groaning irritably at myself.
I had explored the slit in the door and the crack that outlined the edges of the door several times when the guard came back. I was sitting on the floor, peering out of my cell. I wondered if I should be flattered that she sent three guards for me. They were different men from the ones that had captured us. ‘Lie face down on the floor!’ one of them ordered me through the door slit.
I obeyed. Fighting three men would not improve my physical condition. I heard them come in, and one of them matter-of-factly dropped a knee into my back to hold me still while he roped my wrists behind me again. They used the rope and my hair to haul me to my feet. They were a practised team, with no need to speak as they marched me out
of my cell and down the corridor.
‘Where is my companion? The tawny man that was with me?’
A punch to my left side, just below my ribs answered me. They marched on, dragging me until I got my feet under me again. We passed no one else, and I realized that I had lost my bearings. The icy corridors were all too much the same. Even if I had been released that instant, I would not have known where to begin searching for either the Fool or a way out. For now, my only option seemed to be to go with them.
Then we came to an arched portal of ice with doors of polished wood. One of my guards knocked. A woman’s voice bade them bring me in. The doors opened and we entered the Pale Woman’s bedchamber.
The white orbs that gave off light were placed oddly, on the floor and on a low table, illuminating only the centre of the room. An iron brazier burned smokelessly adding a slight note of warmth. The rest of the chamber softened off into shadow. I glimpsed a large bed crouching at the edge of the light, and a row of servants standing silently, waiting to be summoned. I could not tell how large the chamber was. The Pale Woman had just emerged from a tub of steaming water. The tub itself seemed to be made of very thick glass. The water within it was a cloudy white, and the fragrance of summer flowers rose with its steam. She stood naked on a lush white bearskin, calmly regarding us as two dispassionate maids patted and rubbed her dry. She seemed to feel no discomfort at baring herself to our gaze. She was an even white all over, a woman of snow or marble. Her white hair was painted flat to her skull with water that dripped off the pointed tips of her tresses. The faintest hint of rose showed in the standing nipples on her globular breasts. The tuft of hair at her loins was as white as that on her head. Like the Fool, she was long-limbed and limber-waisted, but lush of hip and breast. No man could have looked at her and not felt a stirring of lust. She knew that. Yet she showed herself to us, captive and guards alike, as if her ability to flaunt her body and yet remain safe from undesired attentions emphasized her power over us all. Her stony-faced guards made no reaction to seeing their mistress thus. They stood, one on each side of me and one behind me, and waited.
Her handmaidens brought her soft fur boots and draped her in a robe of fine silk, followed by a second, heavier pelisse of wool trimmed with white fur. She took her time seating herself in a low-backed throne of dark wood. A third Outislander woman entered, and I recognized her suddenly as Henja. She carried a fresh towel and brushes and pins. She moved behind the Pale Woman and began to dress her damp hair for her. And all this while, the lady had not spoken a word. She leaned back in the chair, and gave herself over to Henja’s attentions with evident pleasure, for her eyes closed to narrow slits as Henja’s ivory brush moved slowly through her white mane. When her long hair had been combed out and then braided in a multitude of long plaits and pinned to her head, she opened her eyes and looked about the room. She gazed at me as if noticing for the first time and gave a small frown.
‘He is unwashed! Did not I tell you to provide washwater for him before you brought him to me?’
The guards cowered and one said hastily, ‘We did, my lady. He ignored it.’
‘I am not pleased.’ These simple words to my guards made them pale.
She shifted her gaze to me. ‘You reek like Kebal Rawbread. I had thought Six Duchies men were cleaner.’ Her eyes flicked toward the tub. ‘Remedy it now. There is water in the tub.’ She lounged back in her throne, challenging me. ‘Wash, FitzChivalry. You will dine with me, and I desire to smell the food, not you.’
I did not move nor allow my expression to change. She smiled lazily.
‘Do you fear to lose your dignity by undressing and washing? I assure you, most of my servants do not remember what “human dignity” means, let alone care for yours. You cling to your stench as if it were your pride. I promise you this: you will lose far more than your dignity if you must be forced to bathe. Choose swiftly. I am not patient, and I will not smell such a smell at my table.’ In an aside to her servants, she observed, ‘You would think that a king’s son, even a bastard, would have more pride in himself.’
‘My hands are bound,’ I pointed out stiffly. My mind searched for escape, for advantage in the situation and found none. Her words had made me aware that I did stink. I felt a moment of shame and then recognized her tactic. Chade had long ago explained the usefulness of breaking a man’s pride and self worth before interrogating him. For some men, it was more effective than torture. Take a man’s dignity, imprison him like a beast, and when you offer him back the small comforts of civilization, his gratitude is often disproportionate. Sometimes a man can be won over simply by a small display of kindness. Kept in a cold cell in the dark with no food, a man will perceive a candle and a hot bowl of soup as an offer of amnesty. It is far less work to break a man that way than with torture.
She smiled at me. ‘Ah, yes. Bound hands would make your task more difficult.’ She gestured to the guard. ‘Take him to the tub and cut him free.’
I was propelled to the tub in a way that left no doubt that they would force me to do anything she desired. Refusing would give the guards further excuse to beat me. Complying might yield me some advantage, if only that of having my hands free. I gritted my teeth and surrendered my dignity. Once my hands were free, I turned my back to her and stripped. I managed to palm my fox pin from inside my shirt as I did so. I entered the water. I washed quickly, refusing to let the warm water offer me too much comfort. One of her women brought me soft soap in a bowl. Somehow I found myself gravely thanking her. She made no reply. The water was grey when I stood up from it. Two women advanced on me with towels. I took both towels and turned away from them to dry myself. A moment later, they were back, offering soft shoes of felted wool and a clean white wool robe. My weary Buck garb had vanished. I put on what they offered, concealing my pin inside the collar of the robe as I did so, and turned back to my audience. The Pale Woman had had her chair turned so that she could watch me. She smiled a cat’s smile now, and observed, ‘You have some interesting scars. And the body of a warrior. Shave him, Henja. I would see the full face of the man who was almost a king.’
It shocked me to hear such words. I had never thought of myself that way. For a moment, the title almost seemed true. Then I rejected it as another tactic of hers. The two women were back, bearing a chair and Henja appeared with a bowl, soap and shaving blade. ‘I’ll do it myself,’ I said hastily. The idea of that woman flourishing a knife near my throat was unbearable.
‘That you will not,’ the Pale Woman informed me, smiling faintly. ‘I do not underestimate you, FitzChivalry. I know what you were trained to be. Your family made you a killer, not a prince. They never let you see what they cheated you out of. But I will. I will show you the rightful heritage they stole from you. Yet, until I know that you perceive all that I offer you, no weapon will I put in your hand. Sit still now. Henja is a skilled body-servant, but I shall not hold her responsible if you twitch.’
I do not think I have ever been more uncomfortable in my life. While Henja shaved my face and then combed back my damp hair, the other women inspected my hands, cleaned my nails and trimmed them. And all the while, the Pale Woman watched me like a cat watches a bird. No one had ever administered to me in such a way before, yet I found this luxury humiliating rather than comforting. I opened my mouth once, to ask, ‘Where is the Fool?’ Henja’s blade immediately nicked me. I felt the trickle of blood start from the side of my neck. Henja placed a towel firmly against the cut to staunch it while the Pale Woman replied, ‘I do believe we are looking at him, are we not?’
At that point, I could scarcely argue with her evaluation. Her guards chuckled dutifully, but a glance from her restored their composure. As her maids fussed over me and her guards stood and stared coldly, other servants brought in a table. They set it with a white cloth and heavy silver implements and dishes. They placed a candelabrum upon it and lit the six tall white candles. Then they brought in covered plates and tureens. Steams and rich odours of food esca
ped to taunt me. Wine and glasses were brought as well, and finally two cushioned chairs were set at either end of the table. Henja wiped my face and stepped aside to bow to her mistress. The Pale Woman came closer to me, but remained out of arm’s reach. She cocked her head and studied me coldly, from head to foot, as if I were a horse she was considering buying. ‘You are not ill-made,’ she offered me. ‘Before your family allowed you to be abused, you might have been handsome. Well. Shall we dine?’
She walked to her chair, which one of her guards drew out for her. I rose and followed her to the table, aware that one of her guards shadowed me. A wave of her hand indicated that I should seat myself opposite her. Once I was seated, she waved again. The guard at my back retreated to the shadowed depths of the room. At her command, the pale globes in the room suddenly dimmed. Only the candlelight remained, isolating us in an island of yellow light. It gave a false air of intimacy to the setting, yet I knew that her guards and maids lingered unseen in the dimness, watching us from outside the circle of the candlelight.
The table was small. She ladled soup into a bowl and placed it before me before serving herself from the same tureen. ‘So you do not think I will poison or drug you,’ she explained as she took up her spoon. ‘Eat, FitzChivalry. You will find it very good, and I know you must be hungry. I shall not trouble you with talk just yet.’ Nonetheless, I waited until I had seen her take two mouthfuls before I picked up my own spoon.
It was very good, a rich and creamy white soup with bobbing chunks of root vegetables and tender meat. It was the best thing I had tasted since I’d left Buckkeep, and I would have wolfed it down if my manners had not stayed me. My self-control seemed to be the only shield I had left, and so I forced myself to eat slowly, to take bread from the basket she offered and butter from the plate. She poured white wine for us, and when the soup was gone, offered me slices of tender pale fowl from a platter. It was delicious, and the food comforted my body despite my desire to stay on guard against her. There was a white pudding for desert, redolent of vanilla and speckled with warm spices. We spooned it away, and all the while she watched me, silent and speculative. The wine hummed in my blood, relaxing me. I struggled against it, then recognized what I was feeling. I took a deep breath and relaxed into it. Now was not the time to struggle.