by Robin Hobb
‘Listen to what I’m telling you. Galen makes no secret that he has no fondness for you. Of course, he doesn’t know you at all, so it’s not your fault. It’s based solely on … what you are, and what you caused, and El knows that wasn’t your fault. But if Galen admitted that, then he’d have to admit it was Chivalry’s fault, and I’ve never known him to admit that Chivalry had any faults … but you can love a man and know better than that about him.’ Burrich took a brisk turn around the room, then came back to the fire.
‘Just tell me what you want to say,’ I suggested.
‘I’m trying,’ he snapped. ‘It’s not easy to know what to say. I’m not even sure if I should be speaking to you. Is this interference, or counsel? But your lessons haven’t started yet. So I say this now. Do your best for him. Don’t talk back to Galen. Be respectful and courteous. Listen to all he says and learn it as well and quickly as you can.’ He paused again.
‘I hadn’t intended to do otherwise,’ I pointed out a bit tartly, for I could tell that none of this was what Burrich was trying to say.
‘I know that, Fitz!’ He sighed suddenly, and threw himself down at the table opposite me. With the heels of both hands he pressed at his temples as if pained. I had never seen him so agitated. ‘A long time ago, I talked to you about that other … magic. The Wit. The being with the beasts, almost becoming one of them.’ He paused and glanced about the room as if worried someone would hear. He leaned in closer to me and spoke softly but urgently. ‘Stay clear of it. I’ve tried my best to get you to see it’s shameful and wrong. But I’ve never really felt that you agreed. Oh, I know you’ve abided by my rule against it, most of the time. But a few times I’ve sensed, or suspected, that you were tinkering with things no good man touches. I tell you, Fitz, I’d sooner see … I’d sooner see you Forged. Yes, don’t look so shocked, that’s truly how I feel. And for Galen … Look, Fitz, don’t even mention it to him. Don’t speak of it, don’t even think of it near him. It’s little that I know about the Skill and how it works. But sometimes … oh, sometimes when your father touched me with it, it seemed he knew my heart before I did, and saw things that I kept buried even from myself.’
A sudden deep blush suffused Burrich’s dark face, and almost I thought I saw tears stand in his dark eyes. He turned aside from me to the fire, and I sensed we were coming to the heart of what he needed to say. Needed, not wanted. There was a deep fear in him, one he denied himself. A lesser man, a man less stern with himself, would have trembled with it.
‘… fear for you, boy.’ He spoke to the stones above the mantelpiece, and his voice was so deep a rumble that I almost couldn’t understand him.
‘Why?’ A simple question unlocks best, Chade had taught me.
‘I don’t know if he will see it in you. Or what he will do if he does. I’ve heard … no. I know it’s true. There was a woman, actually, little more than a girl. She had a way with birds. She lived in the hills to the west of here, and it was said she could call a wild hawk from the sky. Some folk admired her, and said it was a gift. They took sick poultry to her, or called her in when hens wouldn’t set their eggs. She did aught but good, for all I heard. But Galen spoke out against her. Said she was an abomination, and that it would be the worse for the world if she lived to breed. And one morning she was found beaten to death.’
‘Galen did it?’
Burrich shrugged, a gesture most unlike him. ‘His horse had been out of the stable that night. That much I know. And his hands were bruised, and he had scratches on his face and neck. But not the scratches a woman would have dealt him, boy. Talon marks, as if a hawk had tried to strike him.’
‘And you said nothing?’ I asked incredulously.
He barked a bitter laugh. ‘Another spoke before I could. Galen was accused, by the girl’s cousin, who happened to work here in the stables. Galen would not deny it. They went out to the Witness Stones, and fought one another for El’s justice, which always prevails there. Higher than the King’s court is the answer to a question settled there, and no one may dispute it. The boy died. Everyone said it was El’s justice, that the boy had accused Galen falsely. One said it to Galen. And he replied that El’s justice was that the girl had died before she bred, and her tainted cousin, too.’
Burrich fell silent. I was queasy with what he had told me, and a cold fear snaked through me. A question once decided at the Witness Stones could not be raised again. That was more than law, it was the very will of the gods. So I was to be taught by a man who was a murderer, a man who would try to kill me if he suspected I had the Wit.
‘Yes,’ Burrich said as if I had spoken aloud. ‘Oh, Fitz, my son, be careful, be wise.’ And for a moment I wondered, for it sounded as if he feared for me. But then he added, ‘Don’t shame me, boy. Or your father. Don’t let Galen say that I’ve let my prince’s son grow up a half-beast. Show him that Chivalry’s blood runs true in you.’
‘I’ll try,’ I muttered. And I went to bed that night wretched and afraid.
The Queen’s Garden was nowhere near the Women’s Garden or the kitchen garden or any other garden in Buckkeep. It was, instead, on top of a circular tower. The garden walls were high on the sides that faced the sea, but to the south and west, the walls were low and had seats along them. The stone walls captured the warmth of the sun and fended off the salt winds from the sea. The air was still there, almost as if hands were cupped over my ears. Yet there was a strange wildness to the garden founded on stone. There were rock basins, perhaps bird-baths or water gardens at one time, and various tubs and pots and troughs of earth, intermingled with statuary. At one time, the tubs and pots had probably overflowed with greenery and flowers. Of the plants, only a few stalks and the mossy earth in the tubs remained. The skeleton of a vine crawled over a half-rotted trellis. It filled me with an old sadness colder than the first chill of winter that was also here. Patience should have had this, I thought. She would bring life here again.
I was the first to arrive. August came soon after. He had Verity’s broad build, much as I had Chivalry’s height, and the dark Farseer colouring. As always, he was distant but polite. He dealt me a nod and then strolled about, looking at the statuary.
Others appeared rapidly after him. I was surprised at how many – over a dozen. Other than August, son of the King’s sister, no one could boast as much Farseer blood as I could. There were cousins and second cousins, of both sexes and both younger and older than I. August was probably the youngest, at two years my junior, and Serene, a woman in her mid-twenties, was probably the oldest. It was an oddly subdued group. A few clustered, talking softly, but most drifted about, poking at the empty gardens or looking at the statues.
Then Galen came.
He let the door of the stairwell slam shut behind him. Several of the others jumped. He stood regarding us, and we in turn looked at him in silence.
There is something I have observed about skinny men. Some, like Chade, seem so preoccupied with their lives that they either forget to eat, or burn every bit of sustenance they take in the fires of their passionate fascination with life. But there is another type, one who goes about the world cadaverously, cheeks sunken, bones jutting, and one senses that he so disapproves of the whole of the world that he begrudges every bit of it that he takes inside himself. At that moment, I would have wagered that Galen had never truly enjoyed one bite of food or one swallow of drink in his life.
His dress puzzled me. It was opulently rich, with fur at his collar and neck, and amber beading so thick on his tunic it would have turned a sword. But the rich fabrics strained over him, the clothing tailored so snugly to him that one wondered if the maker had lacked sufficient fabric to finish the suit. At a time when full sleeves slashed with colours were the mark of a wealthy man, he wore his shirt as tight as a cat’s skin. His boots were high and fitted to his calves, and he carried a little quirt, as if come straight from riding. His clothing looked uncomfortable and combined with his thinness to give an impression of stingines
s.
His pale eyes swept the Queen’s Garden dispassionately. He considered us, and immediately dismissed us as wanting. He breathed out through his hawk’s nose, as does a man facing an unpleasant chore. ‘Clear a space,’ he directed us. ‘Push all this rubbish to one side. Stack it there, against that wall. Quickly, now. I have no patience with sluggards.’
And so the last lines of the garden were destroyed. The arrangements of the pots and beds that had been shadows of the little walks and arbours that had once existed here were swept aside. The pots were moved to one side, the lovely little statues stacked crookedly on top of them. Galen spoke only once, to me. ‘Hurry up, bastard,’ he ordered me as I struggled with a heavy pot of earth, and he brought down his riding crop across my shoulders. It was not much of a blow, more a tap, but it seemed so contrived that I stopped in my efforts and looked at him. ‘Didn’t you hear me?’ he demanded. I nodded, and went back to moving the pot. From the corner of my eye, I saw his odd look of satisfaction. The blow, I felt, had been a test, but I was not sure if I had passed or failed it.
The tower roof became a bare space, with only the green lines of moss and old runnels of dirt to indicate the garden that had been. He directed us to form ourselves into two lines. He ordered us by age and size, and then separated us by sex, putting the girls behind the boys and off to the right. ‘I will tolerate no distractions or disruptive behaviour. You are here to learn, not dally,’ he warned us. He then spaced us out, having us stretch our arms in all directions to show that there we could not touch one another, not even so much as a fingertip. From this, I expected physical exercises would follow, but instead he directed us to stand still, hands at our sides, and attend to him. So as we stood on the cold tower-top he lectured us.
‘For seventeen years, I have been Skillmaster of this keep. Before this, my lessons were given to small groups, discreetly. Those who failed to show promise were turned away quietly. During that time the Six Duchies had no need for more than a handful to be trained. I trained only the most promising, wasting no time on those without talent or discipline. And, for the last fifteen years, I have not initiated any into the Skill.
‘But evil times are upon us. The Outislanders ravage our shores and Forge our people. King Shrewd and Prince Verity turn their Skills to protecting us. Great are their efforts and many their successes, though the common folk never even guess at what they do. I assure you, against the minds I have trained, the Outislanders stand small chance. A few paltry victories they may have won, coming upon us unprepared, but the forces I have created to oppose them will prevail!’
His pale eyes burned and he lifted his hands to the heavens as he spoke. He held a long silence, staring upward, his arms stretched out above his head, as if he clawed down power from the sky itself. Then he let his arms slowly fall.
‘This I know,’ he went on in a calmer voice. ‘This I know. The forces I have created will prevail. But our king, may all gods honour and bless him, doubts me. And as he is my king, I bow to his will. He requires that I seek amongst you of lesser blood, to see if there are any with the talent and will, the purity of purpose and sternness of soul, to be trained in the Skill. This I will do, for my king has commanded. Legends say in days of old there were many trained in the Skill, who worked alongside their kings to avert dangers from the land. Perhaps it was truly so; perhaps the old legends exaggerate. In any case, my king has commanded me to attempt to create such a surplus of Skilled ones, and so I will try.’
He totally ignored the five or so women of our group. Not once did his eyes turn toward them. The exclusion was so obvious that I wondered how they had offended him. I knew Serene slightly, for she also had been an apt pupil of Fedwren. I could almost feel the warmth of her displeasure. In the row beside me, one of the boys shifted. In a flash Galen had leaped in front of him.
‘Bored, are we? Restless with an old man’s talk?’
‘Just a cramp in my calf, sir,’ the boy rejoined, foolishly.
Galen slapped him, a backhand that rocked the boy’s head. ‘Be quiet, and stand still. Or leave. It’s all one to me. It’s already obvious that you lack the stamina to achieve the Skill. But the King has found you worthy to be here, and so I will attempt to teach you.’
I trembled inside. For when Galen spoke to the boy, it was me he stared at. As if the boy’s movement had been my fault, somehow. A strong distaste for Galen flooded through me. I had taken blows from Hod in the course of my instruction in staves and swords, and endured discomfort even from Chade as he demonstrated touch-spots and strangling techniques, and ways to silence a man without disabling him. I’d had my share of cuffs, boots and swats from Burrich, some justified, some the vented frustration of a busy man. But I’d never seen a man strike a boy with such apparent relish as Galen had. I strove to keep my face impassive, and to look at him without appearing to stare. For I knew that if I glanced away I’d be accused of not paying attention.
Satisfied, Galen nodded to himself, and then resumed his lecture. To master the Skill, he must first teach us to master ourselves. Physical deprivation was his key. Tomorrow, we were to arrive before the sun was over the horizon. We were not to wear shoes, socks, cloaks, nor any woollen garment. Heads were to be uncovered. The body must be scrupulously clean. He exhorted us to imitate him in his eating and living habits. We would avoid meat, sweet fruit, seasoned dishes, milk, and ‘frivolous foods’. He advocated porridges and cold water, plain breads and stewed root vegetables. We would avoid all unnecessary conversation, especially with those of the other sex. He counselled us long against any sort of ‘sensual’ longings, in which he included desiring food, sleep or warmth. And he advised us that he had arranged for a separate table to be set for us in the hall, where we might eat appropriate food and not be distracted by idle talk. Or questions. The last phrase he added almost like a threat.
He then put us through a series of exercises. Close the eyes and roll your eyeballs up as far as they would go. Strive to roll them all the way around to look into the back of one’s own skull. Feel the pressure this created. Imagine what you might see if you could roll your eyes that far. Was what you saw worthy and correct? Eyes still closed, stand on one leg. Strive to remain perfectly still. Find a balance, not just of body, but of spirit. Drive from the mind all unworthy thoughts, and you could remain like this indefinitely.
As we stood, eyes always closed, going through these various exercises, he moved amongst us. I could track him by the sound of the riding crop. ‘Concentrate!’ he would command us, or ‘Try, at least try!’ I myself felt the crop at least four times that day. It was a trifling thing, little more than a tap, but it was unnerving to be touched with a lash, even without pain. Then the last time it fell, it was high on my shoulder, and the lash of it coiled against my bare neck while the tip caught me on the chin. I winced, but managed to keep my eyes closed and my precarious balance on one aching knee. As he walked away, I felt a slow drip of warm blood form on my chin.
He kept us all day, releasing us when the sun was a half-copper on the horizon and the winds of night were rising. Not once had he excused us for food, water, or any other necessity. He watched us file past him, a grim smile on his face, and only when we were through the door did we feel free to stagger and flee down the staircase.
I was famished, my hands swollen red with the chill, and my mouth so dry I couldn’t have spoken if I had wished to. The others seemed much the same, though some had suffered more acutely than I. I at least was used to long hours, many of them outdoors. Merry, a year or so older than I, was accustomed to helping Mistress Hasty with the weaving. Her round face was more white than red with the cold, and I heard her whisper something to Serene, who took her hand as we went down the stairs. ‘It wouldn’t have been so bad, if he had paid any attention to us at all,’ Serene whispered back. And then I had the unpleasant experience of seeing them both glance back fearfully, to see if Galen had seen them speak to one another.
Dinner that night was the mos
t cheerless meal I had ever endured at Buckkeep. There was a cold porridge of boiled grain, bread, water and boiled, mashed turnips. Galen, uneating, presided over our meal. There was no conversation; I don’t think we even looked at one another. I ate my allotted portions, and left the table almost as hungry as I had arrived.
Halfway up the stairs I remembered Smithy. I returned to the kitchen to get the bones and scraps Cook saved for me, and a pitcher of water to refill his dish. They seemed an awful weight as I climbed the stairs. It struck me as strange that a day of relative inactivity out in the cold had wearied me as much as a day of strenuous work.
Once inside my room, Smithy’s warm greeting and eager consumption of the meat was like a healing balm. As soon as he had finished eating, we snuggled into bed. He wanted to bite and tussle, but soon gave up on me. I let sleep claim me.
And woke with a jolt to darkness, fearing that I had slept too long. A glance at the sky told me I could beat the sun to the rooftop, but just barely. No time to wash myself or eat or clean up after Smithy, and it was just as well Galen had forbidden shoes and socks, for I had no time to put mine on. I was too tired even to feel a fool as I raced through the keep and up the stairs of the tower. I could see others hurrying before me by wavering torchlight, and when I emerged from the stairwell, Galen’s quirt fell on my back.
It bit unexpectedly sharp through my thin shirt. I cried out in surprise as much as pain. ‘Stand like a man and master yourself, bastard,’ Galen told me harshly, and the quirt fell again. Everyone else had resumed their places of the day before. They looked as weary as I, and most, too, looked as shocked as I felt by Galen’s treatment of me. To this day I don’t know why, but I went silently to my place and stood there facing Galen.
‘Whoever comes last, is late, and will be treated so,’ he warned us. It struck me as a cruel rule, for the only way to avoid his quirt tomorrow was to arrive early enough to see it fall on one of my fellows.