by neetha Napew
“And we have no way to protect Nettle.”
A note of pride crept into my voice as I said, “She has proven herself very capable against the dragon. She has defended herself, and me, better than I could have hoped to do.”
He measured me with his eyes. “And doubtless she will continue to do so. As long as the dragon remains a threat that only comes into her dreams. But we do not know much of this Tintaglia. If, as has been suggested, the black dragon is her only hope of a mate, then she may become very desperate, indeed. Nettle may be able to defend herself in her dreams; how will she fare against a dragon alighting in front of her home? Will Burrich’s home stand against a dragon’s fury?”
That was an image I didn’t want to consider. “She only seems to find Nettle at night in her dreams. It may be that she does not know where Nettle actually is.”
“Or it may only be that she chooses to stay close to the young dragons. For now. And that tomorrow night, or an hour hence, driven by desperation, she may take wing to Nettle’s home.” He set the heels of his hands to his temples and, eyes closed, rubbed them. When he opened his eyes, he shook his head at me. “I cannot believe that you never considered this. What are we to do?” He did not wait for an answer, but turned to Chade. “Have we messenger birds aboard?”
“Of course, my prince.”
“I will send a message to my mother. Nettle must be taken to safety in Buckkeep . . . oh, this is foolish. It would be far swifter to Skill to her, warn her of her danger, and send her to my mother.” He lifted his hands to his eyes, rubbed them, and then gave a heavy sigh as he lowered them. “I’m sorry, FitzChivalry,” he said, softly and sincerely. “If she were not in danger, perhaps I could leave things as they are. But I cannot. I’m shocked that you would consider doing so.”
I bowed my head. I received his words with a strange sensation, not anger or dismay, but a sense of the inevitable at last winning its way. A shiver ran over me, standing up the hair on my hands and arms. An image of the Fool, smiling in satisfaction, came into my mind. I glanced down to see that I was once more tracing his fingerprints on my wrist. I felt like someone who had just been maneuvered into making a fatal move in a game of Stones. Or like a wolf, brought to bay at last. It was too immense a change to regret or fear. One could only stand frozen, awaiting the avalanche of consequences that must follow it.
“FitzChivalry,” Chade said after a moment or two of my silence. I could hear the concern in his voice and the kindly look he gave me almost hurt.
“Burrich knows,” I said awkwardly. “That I’m alive. I sent him a message through Nettle, one only he would understand. Because I had given Nettle my word, and I needed Burrich to know that his son . . . that Swift was safe and with us. Burrich went to Kettricken. And, perhaps he spoke with the Fool, as well. So . . . he knows.” I took a deep breath. “He may even be expecting something like this, a summons to the court. He must suspect that Nettle has the Skill. How else would she have received knowledge of Swift’s safety from me? He was King’s Man to Chivalry. He knows what the Skill is. Would that Chivalry had not sealed him off from it. Would that I could touch minds with him, now. Though I do not think I would have the courage . . .”
“Burrich was King’s Man to Chivalry?” Dutiful rocked back in his chair, balancing it on the two back legs. He looked from one of us to the other in consternation.
“He loaned Prince Chivalry strength for Skilling,” I confirmed.
Dutiful shook his head slowly. “Another thing that has never been mentioned to me.” He crashed his chair back down onto the deck. “What will it take?” he demanded angrily. “What must happen here, to rattle all the secrets out of you two?”
“That wasn’t a secret,” Chade said heavily. “Only a bit of ancient history, long forgotten as it seemed of little import to the present. Fitz, you are sure that Burrich is sealed?”
“Yes. I tried to get through to him any number of times. I’ve even tried to borrow Skill strength from him, that time in the mountains. Nothing. He’s opaque. Even Nettle has tried to get into his dreams, and she cannot. Whatever Chivalry did to Burrich, he did thoroughly.”
“Interesting. We should try to rediscover how Chivalry sealed him. If ever we need to eliminate Thick’s Skill as a threat, that might be one way to do it. Seal him.” Chade spoke the words in his considering way, with no thought that anyone might find them offensive.
“Enough!” the Prince snapped at him, and we both flinched, surprised at his intensity. He crossed his arms on his chest and shook his head. “You two sit here like puppeteers and consider from afar other peoples’ lives and how you will manipulate them.” He swung his gaze slowly from Chade to me, forcing both of us to meet his eyes. He was young and vulnerable, and suddenly wise as prey in facing us. “Do you know how frightening you are sometimes? How can I sit here and look at how you have shaped Nettle’s life, and not wonder what kinks you have knowingly put in mine? You, Chade, speak so calmly of sealing Thick to the Skill. Must not I wonder, would they join their strengths and do that to me, if I somehow became a threat to their plans?”
I was shocked that he grouped us together so, and yet, chilling as his words were, I could not deny them. Here he was, on his way to a quest he did not desire to win a bride he had not chosen. I dared not look at Chade, for how would the Prince interpret our exchanging a private glance just then? I looked at my brandy glass instead and, lifting it between two fingers, rocked the liquid, and then swirled it, as so often I had seen Verity doing when he pondered something. Whatever answers he might have glimpsed in the dancing liquor, they eluded me.
I heard the slow scrape of Chade’s chair as he pushed it back from the table, and ventured a glance that way. He stood, older than he had been ten minutes ago, and slowly walked around the table. As the Prince twisted in his chair to look up at him, puzzled, the old assassin went ponderously down on one knee, and then two, before him. He bowed his head and spoke to the floor.
“My prince,” he said brokenly. And then, “My king you will be. That is my only plan. Never would I lift a hand to harm you, no, nor cause others to do so. Take from me now, if you will, the oath of fealty that others will only formally swear to you when you are fully crowned. For you have had it from me since the moment you were birthed. Nay, from the instant you were conceived.”
Tears stung my eyes.
Dutiful put his hands on his hips and leaned forward. He spoke to the back of Chade’s head. “And you lied to me. ‘I know nothing of this Nettle and dragon.’ ” His mimicry of Chade’s innocence was excellent. “Isn’t that what you said?”
A long silence ensued. I pitied the old man’s knees on the floor. Chade drew a deep breath and spoke grudgingly. “I don’t think it’s fair to count it as a lie when we both know I’m lying. A man in my position is sometimes supposed to lie to his lord. So that his lord can speak truthfully when asked what he was told about a subject.”
“Oh, get up.” There was both disgust and weary amusement in the Prince’s voice. “You convolute the facts until neither of us knows what you are talking about. You could swear fealty a thousand times to me, but if tomorrow you thought a good purging would aid me in some way, you’d slip me an emetic.” He stood up and held out a hand. Chade took it and Dutiful drew him to his feet. The old assassin straightened his back with a groan, and then came around the table to take his seat again. He seemed unchastened by either the Prince’s blunt words or the failure of his own dramatics.
I was left wondering what I had just witnessed. Not for the first time, I realized how different the relationship was between the old assassin and this boy and what it had been like between us when I was growing up. And that, I thought, was the answer in a nutshell. When Chade and I sat and talked, we sat and talked as tradesmen do, unabashed by the dirty secrets of our business. We should not speak like that before the Prince, I decided. He was not an assassin, and should not be included in our more nefarious enterprises. We should not lie about them to h
im, but perhaps we should refrain from rubbing his nose in them.
Perhaps that was what he had been reminding us about. I shook my head in quiet admiration. Kingliness was blossoming in him, as naturally as a hound pup exploring a trail. Already, he knew how to move us and use us. I did not feel demeaned by that, but reassured.
Almost immediately, he took that comfort from me. “FitzChivalry, I expect you to speak to Nettle tonight when she dreams. Tell her it is my command that she go to Buckkeep Castle and seek asylum with my mother. That should convince her I am who I say I am. Will you do that?”
“Must I phrase it like that?” I asked reluctantly.
“Well . . . perhaps you can modify it. Oh, tell her whatever you like, so long as she goes to Buckkeep immediately and understands that the danger to her is real. I will write a brief message to my mother and send it by bird, just to be sure all understand that this is not to be disputed.” He stood, heaving a great sigh. “And now I am going to sleep, in a real bed behind a closed door instead of displayed on a plank in a common room like a choice game trophy. I can’t remember when I’ve been this tired.”
I was glad to leave the cabin. I took a turn about the deck. The wind was fresh, Risk swept the sky ahead of our ship, and the day was fine. I could not tell if I dreaded or anticipated the task before me. Dutiful had not said that I must tell Nettle she was my daughter. Yet sending her to Buckkeep Castle was setting her on the path to that knowledge. I shook my head. I no longer knew what I hoped for. I knew one thing I dreaded, however. The Prince’s words about Tintaglia had shaken me. Had I been too serene about Nettle’s ability to foil the dragon? Could the beast know where she lived?
The day passed slowly for me. I checked on Thick twice. He remained in his bunk, his face turned to the wall, insisting he was sick. In truth, I suspected he was becoming accustomed to sea voyages despite himself. When I told him he didn’t seem sick to me and perhaps he’d enjoy coming out on deck, he nearly succeeded in making himself puke on my feet with his wild retching. Instead, he went off in a fit of genuine coughing, throaty and deep, and I decided I was wiser to leave the little man in peace. On my way out, I “accidentally” clipped my shoulder on the doorframe. Thick laughed.
Nursing my new bruise, I went out on the deck. Out on the foredeck, I found Riddle with a square of canvas and a handful of beach pebbles, trying to teach the Stone game to two of the crewmen. I left that unsettling sight, and found Swift with Civil. His cat had climbed one of the masts and they were trying to persuade him to come down, much to the annoyance of our captain and the amusement of several Outislanders.
Risk lighted in the rigging just out of the cat’s reach and teased him, with partially uplifted wings and squawks, until Web came to order her to cease and aid in getting the cat down.
And so the day went, and the dreaded and longed-for nightfall came. I returned to the cabin I shared with Thick. Swift had brought him his dinner, and the empty dishes on the floor seemed to indicate his appetite was intact. I stacked them and set them aside, only to stumble over them a moment later. A low chuckle from Thick was the only sign he had witnessed my clumsiness. When I offered him good night, he ignored me.
He had the sole bunk. I lay down in my blankets on the floor and spent a good amount of time trying to find enough calmness to approach sleep and that suspended place between sleep and wakefulness where I could dream-walk. It was wasted time. No matter how I sought Nettle, I could not find her. It worried me enough that I could not sleep, but made fruitless forays into dream-walks for most of the night. But the more I looked for her, the more she wasn’t there.
In the darkness of the stuffy little cabin, I told myself that if something had befallen Nettle, surely I would know of it. We were Skill-linked. Surely she would have cried out to me if she had been in danger. I consoled myself that my daughter had blocked me from her dreams before; and she had been irritated with me for “allowing” the Prince into our shared place the last time we had visited. Perhaps this was my punishment from her. But, as I lay in the darkness and stared at black, it came to me that the last time I had seen Tintaglia, the dragon had claimed she could block me from Nettle if she chose to. What had the dragon said to Nettle? “You are quite alone, if I decide you are.” Where was my daughter right now? Trapped in a nightmare, tormented by a dragon? No, I promised myself. Nettle had shown she could competently defend herself there. I cursed the logic Chade had taught me, for it said that then the dragon, to gain what she wanted, would shift the battlefield to one more to her liking. Such as physically hunting down my daughter.
How fast could a dragon fly? Fast enough to get from the Rain Wild River to Buck in a single night? Surely not. But I did not know, I could not be sure. I shifted on the wooden floor and struggled with the short blankets.
When morning came at last, I rose, sandy-eyed, and lurched to my feet. Somehow I tangled my feet in the blankets and slipped, banging my shins. Thick appeared to sleep through my cursing. I left the cabin and went directly to report to the Prince. He listened in grim silence. Neither he nor Chade told me how foolish I had been to leave my daughter defenseless against a dragon in the name of protecting her. The Prince merely said, “Let us hope she is only angry with you. The bird flew yesterday. And as soon as he reaches Buckkeep, my mother will not be slow in sending for Nettle. I told her the danger was great, and not to waste time. We have done all we can, FitzChivalry.”
It was a pale comfort. When I was not imagining the dragon feasting on Nettle’s tender flesh, I was imagining Burrich’s reaction to a company of Queen’s Guard sent to his home to fetch Nettle back to Buckkeep Castle. I passed the voyage in a misery of suspense with little to distract me save Thick’s sullen and subtle revenges on me. The second time I scraped my knuckles reaching for the doorknob, I turned on him.
“I know you’re doing this, Thick. I don’t think it’s fair. It’s not my fault you are on this voyage.”
He sat up slowly, swinging his bare legs over the side of his bunk. “Then whose fault is it, huh? Who made me come on this boat, when I’m going to die from it?”
I saw my error. I could not tell him I was only doing the Prince’s bidding. Chade was right. In this, I had to take the blame. I sighed. “I brought you onto the ship, Thick. Because we need your help if we are going to slay the dragon.” I put all the warmth and excitement into my voice that I could muster. “Don’t you want to help the Prince? Don’t you want to be part of the adventure we’re having?”
He squinted at me as if I were crazy. “Adventure? Puking and eating fishy food? Going up and down, up and down, all the time? Going around people who wonder why I’m not dead?” He crossed his stubby arms on his chest. “I heard adventures in stories. Adventures have golden coins and magic and beautiful girls to kiss. Adventures aren’t puking!”
At the moment I was inclined to agree with him. As I left the cabin, I stumbled over the doorstep. “Thick!” I remonstrated.
“I didn’t do it!” he claimed, but he laughed all the same.
The little ships flew over the white-tipped waves, and the winds favored us. Even so, the voyage seemed interminable to me. By day I tried to oversee Swift’s lessons and be sure that Thick was not neglected without too many minor injuries to myself. By night, I struggled to reach my daughter, and found nothing. By the time we put into port at Zylig, I felt a tottering wreck and possibly looked as bad. Web came to stand beside me at the railing as I watched our approach to the town.
“I won’t ask you your secrets,” he said quietly. “But I’ll offer to help you bear whatever it is you’re bearing, in any way I can.”
“Thank you, but you’ve already eased much of it. I know I’ve been impatient with Swift these last few days, and that you’ve been helping him with his lessons. And I know too that you’ve visited Thick often and kept boredom away from him. That’s as much help as anyone can give me right now. Thank you.”
“Very well, then,” he said regretfully, and patted me on the
shoulder and left.
Our stay in Zylig dragged for me. We spent our nights in the stronghouse there, and I spent many of my days there also. Thick’s cough lingered still, but I do not think he was as sick as he claimed to be. Tedious as it was for me to linger near his sickroom, I still judged it to be for the best, for on the two occasions I did persuade him to venture outside, the looks he received were not kindly. Thick was like a crippled chick in a flock of healthy birds; any excuse would have sufficed to peck him to bits. He did not feel kindly toward me, and yet I was not comfortable leaving him alone. Although he did not ever ask me to stay with him, whenever I left the chamber he was in, he would find an excuse to follow me, or to call for me a few minutes later.
The first time that Web came at Chade’s suggestion to spend time with Thick, I thought it was the old man deliberately throwing us together. But then Chade summoned me and sent me out in the evening, garbed as an Outislander, right down to the owl tattoo he hastily marked on my cheek. With paint and pitch he put a twisting scar in my lower lip to explain my taciturn ways and guttural speech. He gave me enough Outislander coin to sit and drink their miserable beer in their overheated taverns for an evening. After that, I went out several more times, each time dressed as a trader from another clan. Zylig was a major trading town; no one remarked on an unfamiliar face in a noisy inn. My function was to sit and listen to gossip and tales. The negotiations with the Hetgurd had stirred all sorts of interests. Outislander bards were tipped well to sing every song they knew of Aslevjal and Icefyre, and many a family tale was traded to impress cronies around the inn fire. I listened well, and distilled gossip and legend down to common factors likely to be true.
There was definitely something frozen in the ice of Aslevjal Island, but it had been almost a generation since anyone had seen it clearly. Men told their fathers’ stories of visiting the island. Some had camped on the beach and trekked over the glacier for a glimpse. Others had visited at the lowest tides of the years, when the retreating waters bared an under-ice passage on the south side of the island. By all accounts it was treacherous, for once one was in channels walled with blue ice, it was easy to become lost or to miscalculate the time and tides and stay too long. Then the returning sea trapped the unwary, never to release his bones. For those wise and strong and sly enough, the under-ice tunnel led to a huge cavern, where one might speak with the trapped dragon and beg a boon of him. Some had received prowess as hunters, others luck with women, and others had won fecundity for their mothershouses. So the tales went.