by Robin Hobb
I silently thanked Eda and any other god that might be listening. To Nighteyes I said, ‘Stay and guard, there’s a good fellow.’
Enjoy it while you can, little brother. He flung himself down by the cart. I doubted that he’d stay there for more than a few heartbeats. I followed Starling and Nik inside. Nik shut the door firmly behind us and dropped the bolt in place. I pulled off my boots and shook out my snow-laden cloak before I wrapped myself in my blankets. Sleep was suddenly very close as I grasped the full relief I felt. Nighteyes was back. I felt whole. Safe, with the wolf at the door.
Nighteyes. I’m glad you’re here.
You’ve an odd way of showing it, he replied, but I could sense he was more amused than upset.
Black Rolf sent me a message. Regal seeks to turn those of Old Blood against us. He offers them gold to hunt us down for him. We should not speak overly much.
Gold. What is gold to us, or those like us? Do not fear, little brother. I am here to take care of you again.
I closed my eyes and sank into sleep, hoping he was right. For an instant, as I teetered on the edge of wakefulness, I noticed that Starling had not spread her blankets by mine. She sat on her blankets on the other side of the room. By Nik. Heads together, they spoke softly about something. She laughed. I could not hear the words she next said, but the tone was a teasing challenge.
I almost felt a pang of jealousy. I rebuked myself for it. She was a companion, no more. What was it to me how she spent her nights? Last night she had slept against my back. This night she would not. I decided it was the wolf. She couldn’t accept it. She was not the first. Knowing I was Witted was not the same thing as confronting my bond-animal. Well. That was how that was.
I slept.
Sometime in the night I felt a gentle groping. It was the barest brushing of the Skill across my senses. I came alert, but still, waiting. I felt nothing. Had I imagined it, dreamed it? A more chilling thought came to me. Perhaps it was Verity, too weakened to do more than reach for me. Perhaps it was Will. I lay still, longing to reach out, and fearing to. I wanted so badly to know that Verity was all right; since he had blasted Regal’s coterie that night, I had felt nothing of him. Come to me, he had said. What if that had been his dying wish? What if all my seeking would yield me were bones? I pushed the fear away and tried to be open.
The mind I felt brush mine was Regal’s.
I had never Skilled to Regal, had only suspected he was able to Skill. Even now, I doubted what I sensed. The strength of the Skill seemed Will’s, but the feel of the thoughts was Regal’s. And you have not found the woman either? The Skilling was not meant for me. He reached for someone else. I grew bolder, venturing closer. I tried to be open to his thoughts without reaching for them.
Not as of yet, my king. Burl. Hiding his trembling behind formality and courtesy. I knew Regal could sense it as clearly as I could. I even knew that he enjoyed it. Regal had never been able to grasp the difference between fear and respect. He had no belief in a man’s respect for him unless it was tainted with fear. I had not thought he would extend that to his own coterie. I wondered what the threat was that he held over them.
And nothing of the Bastard? Regal demanded. There was no mistaking it now. Regal Skilled, using Will’s strength. Did that mean he could not Skill by himself?
Burl steeled himself. My king, I have found no sign of him. I believe he is dead. Truly dead, this time. He cut himself with a poisoned blade; the despair he felt at that moment of decision was absolute. No man could have pretended it.
Then there should be a body, should there not?
Somewhere, my king, I am sure there is. Your guards have simply not found it yet. This from Carrod, who did not tremble with fear. He hid his fear even from himself, pretending it was anger. I understood how he might need to do that, but doubted the wisdom of it. It forced him to stand up to Regal. Regal did not appreciate a man who spoke his mind.
Perhaps I should put you in charge of riding the roads, looking for it, Regal suggested pleasantly. At the same time, you might find the man who killed Bolt and his patrol.
My lord king … Carrod began, but SILENCE! Regal overrode him. He drew freely on Will’s strength to do it. The effort cost him nothing.
I believed him dead once before, and my trust in the word of others nearly got me killed. This time I will see him, see him hacked in pieces before I rest. Will’s feeble attempt to trap the Bastard into betraying himself failed miserably.
Perhaps because he is already dead, Carrod ventured foolishly.
Then I witnessed a thing I wished I had not. A needle of pain, hot and piercing, he sent to Carrod with Will’s Skill. In that sending, I finally glimpsed the whole of what they had become. Regal rode Will, not like a man rides a horse, to be thrown by the horse in anger, but as a tick or a leech bites into its victim and clings and sucks life from him. Waking or asleep, Regal was with him always, had access always to his strength. And now he spent it viciously, caring nothing for what it would cost Will. I had not known pain could be inflicted with Skill alone. A numbing blast of strength such as Verity had spent upon them, that I knew. But this was different. This was no show of force or temper. This was a display of purest vindictiveness. Somewhere, I knew, Carrod fell to the floor and thrashed in wordless agony. Linked as they were, Burl and Will must have shared a shadow of that pain. It surprised me that a member of a coterie was even capable of doing that to another. But then, it was not Will who sent the pain. It was Regal.
It passed, after a time. Perhaps in reality it only lasted an instant. For Carrod, it certainly lasted long enough. I sensed from him a faint mental whimpering. He was capable of no more than that just now.
I do not believe the Bastard died. I dare not believe it until I’ve seen his body. Someone killed Bolt and his men. So find his body and bring it to me, whether alive or dead. Burl. Remain where you are, and redouble your efforts. I am certain he is bound that way. Let no traveller pass you unchallenged. Carrod, I think perhaps you should join Burl. An indolent life does not seem to agree with your temperament. Be on your way tomorrow. And as you travel, do not be lazy. Keep your minds upon your task. We know that Verity lives; he proved that to all of you most effectively. The Bastard will try to get to him. He must be stopped before he does so, and then my brother must be eliminated as a threat. These are the only tasks I have given you; why cannot you do them? Have you no thought for what will become of us should Verity succeed? Search for him, with Skill and men. Do not let folk forget what I have offered for his capture. Do not let them forget the punishment for aiding him. Am I understood?
Of course, my lord king. I shall spare no effort. Burl was quick to reply.
Carrod? I hear nothing from you Carrod. The threat of punishment hung over them all.
Please, my lord King. I shall do all, everything. Alive or dead, I shall find him for you. I shall.
Without even an acknowledgement, Will and Regal’s presence vanished. I felt Carrod collapse. Burl lingered a moment longer. Did he listen, did he grope back toward my presence? I let my thoughts float free, my concentration dissipate. Then I opened my eyes and lay staring at the ceiling, thinking. The Skilling had left me queasy and trembling.
I am with you, my brother, Nighteyes assured me.
And I am glad that you are. I rolled over and tried to find sleep.
SIXTEEN
Bolthole
In many of the old legends and tales of the Wit, it is insisted that a Wit user eventually takes on many traits of his bond-animal. Some of the most frightening tales say that eventually a Witted one becomes capable of assuming the guise of that animal. Those who know intimately of such magic have assured me it is not so. It is true that a Witted one may, without realizing it, assume some of the physical mannerisms of his bond-animal, but one bonded to an eagle will not sprout wings, nor will one bonded to a horse begin to neigh. As time goes by, a Witted one grows in understanding of the bond-beast, and the longer a human and an animal are bo
nded, the greater will be the similarity of their mannerisms. The bond-animal is as likely to assume the mannerisms and traits of the human as the human is to adopt those of his beast. But this only happens over a long period of intense contact.
Nik agreed with Burrich’s idea of when mornings began. I awoke to the sound of his men leading the horses out. A cold wind blew in the open door. Around me in the darkness the others were stirring. One of the children was crying at being awakened so early. Her mother shushed her. Molly, I thought with sudden longing. Somewhere hushing my child.
What’s this?
My mate bore a cub. Far away.
Immediate concern. But who will hunt meat to feed them? Should not we return to her?
Heart of the Pack watches over her.
Of course. I should have known that. That one knows the meaning of pack, no matter how he denies it. All is well, then.
As I rose and bundled my blankets together, I wished I could accept it as blithely as he did. I knew Burrich would care for them. It was his nature. I recalled all the years he had watched over me as I had grown. Often I had hated him then; now I could not think of anyone else I would prefer to care for Molly and my baby. Save myself. I would much rather it was I watching over them, even rocking a crying babe in the middle of the night. Though I rather wished, just now, that the pilgrim woman would find a way to quiet her child. I was paying for my Skill-spying of the night before with a savage headache.
Food seemed to be the answer, for when the girl had a piece of bread and some honeycomb, she soon quieted. It was a hasty meal we shared, the only hot item being tea. I noticed Kettle was moving very stiffly and took pity on her. I fetched her a cup of hot tea to wrap her twisted fingers around while I rolled up her blankets for her. I had never seen hands so distorted by rheumatism; they reminded me of bird claws.
‘An old friend of mine said that sometimes the sting of nettles actually relieved his hands when they ached,’ I suggested to her as I tied her bundle.
‘You find me nettles growing under the snow and I’ll try them, boy,’ she replied peevishly. But a few moments later she was offering me a dried apple from her small store. I accepted it with thanks. I loaded our things onto the cart and harnessed the mare while she finished her tea. I glanced about but saw nothing of Nighteyes.
Hunting, came the reply.
Wish I was with you. Good luck.
Aren’t we supposed to speak but little, lest Regal hear us?
I didn’t reply. It was a clear cold morning, almost shockingly bright after yesterday’s snow. It was colder than it had been the day before; the wind off the river seemed to cut right through my garments, finding the gaps at cuffs and collars to poke its cold fingers through. I helped Kettle mount the cart, and then tucked one of her blankets around her in addition to her wraps. ‘Your mother trained you well, Tom,’ she said with genuine kindness.
I still winced at the remark. Starling and Nik stood talking together until everyone else was ready to go. Then she mounted her Mountain pony and took a place beside Nik at the head of our procession. I told myself that it was likely Nik Holdfast would make a better ballad than FitzChivalry anyway. If he could persuade her to go back with him at the Mountain border, my life would only be simpler.
I gave my mind to my task. There was really little to it, other than to keep the mare from lagging too far behind the pilgrims’ wagon. I had time to see the country we traversed. We regained the little-used road we had been on the day before and continued to follow the river upstream. Along the river, it was sparsely treed, but a short distance away from the riverbank, it became a rolling, treeless terrain of brush and scrub. Gullies and washes cut our road on their way to the river. It seemed that at some time water had been plentiful here, perhaps in spring. But now the land was dry save for the crystal snow that blew loosely across it like sand and the river in its bed.
‘Yesterday the minstrel made you smile to yourself. For whom is the frown today?’ Kettle asked quietly.
‘I was thinking it a shame, to see what this rich land has come to.’
‘Were you?’ she asked drily.
‘Tell me of this seer of yours,’ I said, mostly to change the subject.
‘He is not mine,’ she said with asperity. Then she relented. ‘It is probably a fool’s errand I go on. He whom I seek may not even be there. And yet what better use do I have for these years, than to chase a chimera?’
I kept silence. I was beginning to find it was the question she answered best. ‘Do you know what’s in this cart, Tom? Books. Scrolls and writings. Ones I’ve collected for years. I have gathered them in many lands, learned to read many tongues and letterings. In so many places, I found mention, over and over again, of the White Prophets. They appear at the junctures of history and shape it. Some say they come to set history on its proper course. There are those who believe, Tom, that all of time is a circle. All of history, a great wheel, turning inexorably. Just as seasons come and go, just as the moon moves endlessly through her cycle, so does time. The same wars are fought, the same plagues descend, the same folk, good or evil, rise to power. Humanity is trapped on that wheel, doomed endlessly to repeat the mistakes we have already made. Unless someone comes to change it. Far to the south, there is a land where they believe that for every generation, somewhere in the world there is a White Prophet. He or she comes, and if what is taught is heeded, the cycle of time moves into a better course. If it is ignored, all time is pushed into a darker path.’
She paused, as if waiting for me to say something. ‘I know nothing of such teachings,’ I admitted.
‘I would not expect you to. It was in a far place I first studied such things. There they held that if such prophets fail, again and again, the repeating history of the world will grow more and more evil, until the entire cycle of time, hundreds of thousands of years, becomes a history of misery and wrong.’
‘And if the prophet is heeded?’
‘Each time one succeeds, it is easier for the next one. And when an entire cycle passes in which every prophet succeeds, time itself will finally stop.’
‘So they work for the end of the world to come?’
‘Not the end of the world, Tom. The end of time. To free humanity of time. For time is the great enslaver of us all. Time that ages us, time that limits us. Think how often you have wished to have more time for something, or wished you could go back a day and do something differently. When humanity is freed of time, old wrongs can be corrected before they are done.’ She sighed. ‘I believe this is the time for such a prophet to come. And my readings lead me to believe that this generation’s White Prophet shall arise in the Mountains.’
‘But you are alone on your quest. Do no others agree with you?’
‘Many others. But few, very few, go to seek a White Prophet. It is the folk the Prophet is sent to who must heed him. Others should not interfere, lest they set all time awry forever.’
I was still puzzling over what she had said about time. It seemed to make a knot in my thinking. Her voice fell silent. I stared forward between the mare’s ears and pondered. Time to go back and be honest with Molly. Time to follow Fedwren the scribe instead of being an assassin’s apprentice. She had given me much to think about.
Our talk lapsed for some time.
Nighteyes reappeared shortly after noon. He came trotting purposefully out of the trees, to fall into place trotting beside our wagon. The mare gave him several nervous glances as she tried to puzzle out wolf smell and dog behaviour. I quested toward her and reassured her. He had been for some time on my side of the cart before Kettle caught sight of him. She leaned forward to look past me, then sat back again. ‘There’s a wolf beside our cart,’ she observed.
‘He’s my dog. Though he has some wolf blood in him,’ I admitted casually.
Kettle leaned forward to look at him again. She glanced up at my placid expression. Then she sat back. ‘So they herd sheep with wolves in Buck these days.’ She nodded, and said no more ab
out him.
We pushed on steadily for the rest of the day. We saw no folk save ourselves, and only one small cabin sending up a trail of smoke in the distance. The cold and the blowing wind were a constant, but not one that became easier to ignore as the day went on. The faces of the pilgrims in the wagon in front of us became paler, noses redder, lips almost blue on one woman. They were packed together like fish in brine but all their closeness seemed to be no protection against the cold.
I moved my feet inside my boots to keep my toes awake, and shifted the reins from one hand to the other as I took turns warming my fingers under my arm. My shoulder ached, and the ache ran down my arm until even my fingers throbbed with it. My lips were dry but I dared not wet them lest they crack. Few things are as miserable to confront as constant cold. As for Kettle, I did not doubt it tortured her. She did not complain, but as the day went by she seemed to get smaller within her blanket as she curled closer on herself. Her silence seemed but further evidence of her misery.
We were still short of darkness when Nik turned our wagons away from the road and up a long trail nearly obscured by the blown snow. The only sign of it I could make out was that less grass stuck up above the snow, but Nik seemed to know it well. The mounted smugglers broke trail for the wagons. It was still heavy going for Kettle’s little mare. I looked back behind us once to see the sweeping hand of the wind smoothing our trail out to no more than a ripple in the snowy landscape.
The land we crossed seemed featureless, but it undulated gently. We eventually crested the long rise we had ascended, and looked down onto a huddle of buildings that had been invisible from the road. Evening was drawing on. A single light shone in a window. As we wended our way down toward it, other candles were lit, and Nighteyes caught a trace of woodsmoke on the wind. We were expected.