Assassin's Quest (92 page)

I turned back to Kettle. It was an effort to look only through my eyes. I still gripped her hand. “Kestrel?” I said quietly. She lifted her gaze to mine. I looked at her and tried to see her as she had once been. I do not think she even knew then of that tiny hair of Skill between us. In the moment of her shock at the Fool touching me, I had pressed past her guard. It was too fine a line to be called a thread. But I now knew what choked it. “All this guilt and shame and remorse you carry, Kestrel. Don’t you see? That is what they burned you with. And you have added to it, all these years. The wall is of your own making. Take it down. Forgive yourself. Come out.”

I caught at the Fool’s wrist and held him beside me. Somewhere I felt Nighteyes as well. They were back within their own minds, but I could reach them easily. I drew strength from them, carefully, slowly. I drew their strength and love and turned it against Kettle, trying to force it into her through that tiny chink in her armor.

Tears began to trickle down her seamed cheeks. “I can’t. That is the hardest part. I can’t. They burned me to punish me. But it was not enough. It would never be enough. I can never forgive myself.”

Skill was starting to seep from her as she reached to me, trying to make me understand. She reached, to clasp my hand between both of hers. Her pain flowed through that clasp to me. “Who could forgive you then?” I found myself asking.

“Gull. My sister Gull!” The name was torn from her, and I sensed she had refused to think of it, let alone utter it, for years. Her sister, not just her coterie-mate, but her sister. And she had killed her in a fury when she had found her with Stanchion. The leader of the coterie?

“Yes,” she whispered, though no words were needed between us now. I was past the burn wall. Strong, handsome Stanchion. Making love to him, body and Skill, an experience of oneness like no other. But then she had come upon them, him and Gull, together, and she had . . .

“He should have known better,” I cried out indignantly. “You were sisters and members of his own coterie. How could he have done that to you? How could he?”

“Gull!” she cried out loud, and for an instant I saw her. She was behind a second wall. Both of them were. Kestrel and Gull. Two little girls, running barefoot down a sandy shore, just out of reach of the icy waves licking up the sand. Two little girls, as like as apple pips, their father’s joy, twins, racing to meet the little boat coming in to shore, hurrying to see what Papa had caught in his nets today. I smelled the salt wind, the iodine of the tangled, squidgy kelp as they dashed through it squealing. Two little girls, Gull and Kestrel, locked and hidden behind a wall inside her. But I could see them even if she could not.

I see her, I know her. And she knew you, through and through. Lightning and thunder, your mother called you, for while your temper flashed and was gone, Gull could carry a grudge for weeks. But not against you, Kestrel. Never against you, and not for years. She loved you, more than either of you loved Stanchion. As you loved her. And she would have forgiven you. She would never have wished this on you.

I . . . don’t know.

Yes, you do. Look at her. Look at you. Forgive yourself. And let the part of her within you live again. Let yourself live again.

She is within me?

Most certainly. I see her, I feel her. It must be so.

What do you feel?
Cautiously.

Only love. See for yourself.
I took her deep inside her mind, to the places and memories she had denied to herself. It was not the burn-walls her coterie had imposed on her that had hurt her most. It was the ones she had put up between herself and the memory of what she had lost in a moment of fury. Two girls, older now, wading out to seize the line their father threw to them, and helping to pull his laden boat up onto the beach. Two Buck girls, still as alike as apple pips, wanting to be the first ones to tell their Papa they had been chosen for Skill-training.

Papa said we were one soul in two bodies.

Open, then, and let her out. Let both of you out to live.

I fell silent, waiting. Kestrel was in a part of her memories she had denied for longer than other folk lived. A place of fresh wind and girlish laughter, and a sister so like yourself you scarcely needed to speak to one another. The Skill had been between them from the moment they were born.

I see what I must do now.
I felt her overwhelming surge of joy and determination.
I must let her out, I must put her into the dragon. She will live forever in the dragon, just as we planned it. The two of us, together again.

Kettle stood up, letting go of my hands so suddenly that I cried out at the shock. I found myself back in my body. I felt I had fallen there from a very great distance. The Fool and Nighteyes were still near me, but no longer a part of a circle. I could scarcely feel them for all else I felt. Skill. Racing through me like a riptide. Skill. Emanating from Kettle like heat from a smith’s furnace. She glowed with it. She wrung her hands, smiled at the straightened fingers.

“You should go and rest now, Fitz,” she told me gently. “Go on. Go to sleep.”

A gentle suggestion. She did not know her own Skill-strength. I lay back and knew no more.

When I awoke, it was full dark. The weight and warmth of the wolf’s body were comfortable against me. The Fool had tucked a blanket around me and was sitting by me, staring raptly into the fire. When I stirred, he clutched at my shoulder with a sharp intake of breath.

“What?” I demanded. I could make no sense of anything I heard or saw. Fires had been kindled up on the stone dais beside the dragon. I heard the clash of metal against stone, and voices lifted in conversation. In the tent behind me, I heard Starling trying notes on her harp.

“The last time I saw you sleep like that, we had just taken an arrow out of your back and I thought you were dying of infection.”

“I must have been very tired,” I smiled at him, able to trust he understood. “Are not you wearied? I took strength from you and Nighteyes.”

“Tired? No. I feel healed.” He did not hesitate, but added, “I think it is as much that the false coterie has fled my body, as knowing that you do not hate me. And the wolf. Now, he is a wonder. Almost, I can still sense him.” A very strange smile touched his face. I felt him groping out for Nighteyes. He had not the strength to truly use the Skill or the Wit on his own. But it was unnerving to feel him try. Nighteyes let his tail rise and fall in one slow wag.

I’m sleepy.

Rest then, my brother.
I set my hand to the thick fur of his shoulder. He was life and strength and friendship I could trust. He gave one more slow wag to his tail and lowered his head again. I looked back to the Fool and gave a nod toward Verity’s dragon.

“What goes on, up there?”

“Madness. And joy. I think. Save for Kettricken. I think her heart eats itself hollow with jealousy, but she will not leave.”

“What goes on up there?” I repeated patiently.

“You know more of it than I do,” he retorted. “You did something to Kettle. I could understand part of it, but not all. Then you fell asleep. And Kettle went up there and did something to Verity. I know not what, but Kettricken said it left them both weeping and shaking. Then Verity did something to Kettle. And they both began to laugh and to shout and to cry out it would work. I stayed long enough to watch both of them start attacking the stone around the dragon with chisels and mallets and swords and anything else that was to hand. While Kettricken sits silent as a shadow and watches them mournfully. They will not let her help. Then I came down here and found you unconscious. Or asleep. Whichever you prefer. And I have sat here a long time, watching over you and making tea or taking meat to anyone who yells at me for some. And now you are awake.”

I recognized his parody of me reporting to Verity, and had to smile. I decided that Kettle had helped Verity unlock his Skill and that work was proceeding on the dragon. But Kettricken. “What makes Kettricken sad?” I asked.

“She wishes she were Kettle,” the Fool explained, in a tone that said any moron would have known that. He handed me a plate of meat and a mug of tea. “How would you feel, to have come this long and weary way, only to have your spouse choose another to help him in his work? He and Kettle chatter back and forth like magpies. All sorts of inconsequential talk. They work and chip, or sometimes, Verity just stands still, his hands pressed to the dragon. And he tells her of his mother’s cat, Hisspit, and of thyme that grew in the garden on the tower. And all the while, Kettle speaks to him, with no break, of Gull who did this, and Gull who did that, and all she and Gull did together. I thought they would cease when the sun went down, but that was the only time that Verity seemed to recall Kettricken was alive. He asked her to bring firewood and make fires for light. Oh, and I think he has allowed her to sharpen a chisel or two for him.”

“And Starling,” I said stupidly. I did not like to think of what Kettricken must be feeling. I reined my thoughts away from it.

“She works on a song about Verity’s dragon. I think she has given up on you and me ever doing anything of note.”

I smiled to myself. “She is never about when I do anything of significance. What we wrought today, Fool, was better than any battle I have ever fought. But she will never understand all of that.” I cocked my head toward the yurt. “Her harp sounds mellower than I recall it,” I said to myself.

In answer, he lifted his eyebrows and waggled his fingers at me.

My eyes widened. “What have you been doing?” I demanded.

“Experimenting. I think that if I survive all this, my puppets shall be the stuff of legend. I have always been able to look at wood and see what I wished to call forth. These,” and again he waggled his fingers at me, “make it so much easier.”

“Be cautious,” I pleaded with him.

“Me? I have no caution within me. I cannot be what I am not. Where are you going?”

“Up to see the dragon,” I replied. “If Kettle can work on it, so can I. I may not be as strongly Skilled, but I’ve been linked with Verity for far longer.”

36

The Wit
and the Sword

T
HE OUTISLANDERS HAVE
always raided the coastline of the Six Duchies. The founder of the Farseer monarchy was, in fact, no more than a raider grown weary of the sea life. Taker’s crew overwhelmed the original builders of the wooden fort at the mouth of the Buck River and made it their own. Over a number of generations, the black stone walls of Buckkeep Castle replaced it, and the OutIslander raiders became residents and monarch.

Trade and raiding and piracy have all existed simultaneously between the Six Duchies and the OutIslands. But the commencement of the Red Ship raids marked a change in this abrasive and profitable interchange. Both the savagery and destruction of the raids were unprecedented. Some attributed it to the rise to power in the OutIslands of a ferocious chieftain who espoused a bloody religion of vengeance. The most savage of his followers became Raiders and crew for his Red Ships. Other OutIslanders, never before united under one leader, were coerced into swearing fealty to him, under threat of Forging for those and their families who refused him. He and his raiders brought their vicious hatred to the shores of the Six Duchies. If he ever had any intent beyond killing, raping, and destroying, he never made it known. His name was Kebal Rawbread.

“I don’t understand why you deny me,” I said stiffly.

Verity stopped his endless chopping at the dragon. I had expected him to turn and face me, but instead he only crouched lower, to brush away rock chips and dust. I could scarcely believe the progress he had made. The entire clawed right foot of the dragon now rested upon the stone. True, it lacked the fine detail of the rest of the dragon, but the leg itself was now complete. Verity wrapped a careful hand over the top of one of its toes. He sat motionless beside his creation, patient and still. I could not see any movement of his hand, but I could sense Skill at work. If I reached toward it at all, I could feel the tiny fissuring of stone as it flaked away. It truly seemed as if the dragon had been hidden in the stone, and that Verity’s task was to reveal it, one gleaming scale at a time.

“Fitz. Stop it.” I could hear annoyance in his voice. Annoyance that I was Skill-sharing with him, and annoyance that I was distracting him from his work.

“Let me help you,” I begged again. Something about the work drew me. Before, when Verity had been scraping at the stone with his sword, the dragon had seemed an admirable work of stone-carving. But now there was a shimmering of Skill to him as both Verity and Kettle employed their powers. It was immensely attractive, in the way that a sparkling creek glimpsed through trees draws the eye, or the smell of fresh-baked bread wakes hunger. I longed to put hands on, and help shape this powerful creature. The sight of their working awakened a Skill hunger in me such as I had never known. “I have been Skill-linked with you more than anyone has. In the days when I pulled an oar on the
Rurisk,
you told me I was your coterie. Why do you turn me away now, when I could help, and you need help so badly?”

Verity sighed and rocked back on his heels. The toe was not done, but I could see the faint outline of scales upon it now, and the beginning of the sheath for the wickedly curved talon. I could feel how the claw would be, striated like a hawk’s talon. I longed to reach down and draw forth those lines from the stone.

“Stop thinking about it,” Verity bade me firmly. “Fitz. Fitz, look at me. Listen to me. Do you remember the first time I took strength from you?”

I did. I had fainted. “I know my own strength better now,” I replied.

He ignored that. “You didn’t know what you were offering me, when you told me you were a King’s Man. I took you at your word that you knew what you were doing. You didn’t. I tell you plainly right now that you don’t know what you are asking me for. I do know what I am refusing you. And that is all.”

“But Verity . . .”

“In this, King Verity will hear no buts, FitzChivalry.” He drew that line with me as he had so seldom before.

I took a breath and refused to let my frustration become anger. He placed his hand carefully on the dragon’s toe again. I listened a moment to the clack, clack, clack of Kettle’s chisel working the dragon’s tail free of the stone. She was singing as she worked, some old love ballad.

“My lord, King Verity, if you would tell me what it is I don’t know about helping you, then I could decide for myself, perhaps, if . . .”

“It is not your decision, boy. If you truly wish to help, go get some boughs and make a broom. Sweep the rock chips and dust away. It is damnable stuff to kneel in.”

“I would rather be of real help to you,” I muttered disconsolately as I turned away.

“FitzChivalry!” There was a sharp note to Verity’s voice, one I had not heard since I was a boy. I turned back to it with dread.

“You overstep yourself,” he told me bluntly. “My queen keeps these fires going and sharpens my chisels for me. Do you put yourself above such work?”

At such times, a brief answer suffices best. “No, sir.”

“Then you shall make me a broom. Tomorrow. For now, much as I hate to say it, we all should rest, at least for a time.” He stood slowly, swayed, then righted himself. He placed a silver hand affectionately on the dragon’s immense shoulder. “With the dawn,” he promised it.

I had expected him to call to Kettle, but she was already standing and stretching. Skill-linked, I thought to myself. Words were no longer necessary. But they were for his queen. He walked around his dragon to where Kettricken sat near one of the fires. She was grinding at a chisel’s edge. The rough rasping of her work hid our soft footsteps from her. For a time, Verity looked down at his queen as she crouched at this chore. “My lady, shall we sleep awhile?” he asked her quietly.

She turned. With a gray-dusted hand she wiped the straggling hair from her eyes. “As you wish, my lord,” she replied. She was able to keep almost all her pain from her voice.

“I am not that tired, my lord king. I would continue working, if you will it.” Kettle’s cheerful voice was almost jarring. I marked that Kettricken did not turn to look at her at all. Verity only said, “Sometimes it is better to rest before you are tired. If we sleep while it is dark, we will work better by the day’s light.”

Kettricken winced as if criticized. “I could build the fires larger, my lord, if that is what you wish,” she said carefully.

“No. I wish to rest, with you beside me. If you would, my queen.”

It was no more than the bones of his affection, but she seized on it. “I would, my lord.” It hurt me to see her content with so little.

She is not content, Fitz, nor am I unaware of her pain. I give her what I can. What it is safe for me to give her.

My king still read me so easily. Chastened, I bid them good night and went off to the tent. As we drew near, Nighteyes rose up, stretching and yawning.

Did you hunt?

With all this meat left, why would I hunt?
I noticed then the tumble of pig bones all round him. He lay down amongst them again, nose to tail, rich as any wolf could ever be. I knew a moment’s envy of his satisfaction.

Starling sat watch outside the tent by the fire, her harp nestled in her lap. I started to go past her with a nod, then halted to peer at her harp. With a delighted smile, she held it up for my inspection.

The Fool had outdone himself. There were no gilt or curlicues, no inlays of ivory or ebony such as some would say set a harp apart. Instead there was only the silken gleam of curving wood, and that subtle carving that highlighted the best of the wood’s grain. I could not look at it without wanting to touch it and hold it. The wood drew the hand to it. The firelight danced upon it.

Kettle stopped to stare also. She folded her lips tightly. “No caution. It will be the death of him someday,” she said ominously. She then preceded me into the tent.

Despite my long nap earlier, I sank into sleep almost as soon as I lay down. I do not think I had slept long before I became aware of a stealthy noise outside. I Wit-quested toward it. Men. Four. No, five of them, moving softly up the hillside toward the hut. I could know little more about them than that they came in stealth, like hunters. Somewhere in a dim room, Burrich sat up soundlessly. He rose barefoot and crossed the hut to Molly’s bed. He knelt by the side of it, then touched her arm softly.

“Burrich?” She caught her breath on his name, then waited in wonder.

“Make no sound,” he breathed. “Get up. Put on your shoes and wrap Nettle well, but try not to wake her. Someone is outside, and I do not think they mean us well.”

I was proud of her. She asked no questions, but sat up immediately. She pulled her dress on over her nightgown and thrust her feet into her shoes. She folded up the bedding around Nettle until she looked like little more than a bundle of blankets. The baby did not wake.

Meanwhile Burrich had drawn on his own boots and taken up a shortsword. He motioned Molly toward the shuttered window. “If I tell you to, go out that window with Nettle. But not unless I say to. I think there are five of them.”

Molly nodded in the firelight. She drew her belt knife and stood between her child and danger.

Burrich stood to one side of the door. The entire night seemed to pass as they waited silently for their attackers to come.

The bar was in place, but it had little meaning on such an old doorframe. Burrich let them slam into it twice, then, as it started to give, he kicked it out of its brackets, so that on their next onslaught the door was flung wide. Two men came staggering in, surprised at the sudden lack of resistance. One fell, the other fell over the first, and Burrich had put his sword in and out of both of them before the third man was in the door.

The third man was a big man, redheaded and red-bearded. He came in the door with a roar, trampling right over the two injured men who squirmed under his boots. He carried a long sword, a lovely weapon. His size and blade gave him almost twice Burrich’s reach. Behind him, a stout man bellowed, “In the name of the King, we’ve come for the Wit-Bastard’s whore! Put down your weapon and stand aside.”

He’d have been wiser not to rouse Burrich’s anger any brighter than it was. Almost casually, Burrich dropped his blade to finish one of the men on the floor, and then brought the blade back up inside Red-beard’s guard. Red-beard retreated, trying to get space for the advantage of his blade. Burrich had no choice but to follow him, for if the man reached a place where he could swing freely, Burrich would have small chance. The stout man and a woman immediately surged into the door. Burrich spared a glance for them. “Molly! As I told you!”

Molly was already by the window, clutching Nettle, who had begun to wail in fear. She leaped to a chair, snatched the shutters open, and got one leg out the window. Burrich was busying Red-beard when the woman dashed behind him and sank her knife into his lower back. Burrich cried out hoarsely, and frantically parried the longer blade. As Molly got her other leg over the windowsill and began to drop outside, the stout man leaped across the room and snatched Nettle from her arms. I heard Molly’s shriek of terror and fury.

Then she ran away into the darkness.

Disbelief. I could feel Burrich’s disbelief as plainly as my own. The woman pulled her knife from his back and lifted it to strike again. He banished his pain with anger, spun to cut her a slash across her chest, and then turned back to Red-beard. But Red-Beard had stepped back. His sword was still at the ready but he stood motionless as the stout man said, “We’ve got the child. Drop your sword or the baby dies here and now.” He darted his eyes at the woman clutching at her chest. “Get after the woman. Now!”

She glared at him, but went without a murmur. Burrich did not even watch her go. He had eyes only for the wailing babe in the stout man’s arms. Red-beard grinned as the tip of Burrich’s weapon slowly dropped toward the floor. “Why?” Burrich asked in consternation. “What have we ever done, that you attack us and threaten to kill my daughter?”

The stout man looked down at the red-faced baby screaming in his arms. “She’s not yours,” he sneered. “She’s the Wit-Bastard’s bastard. We have it on the best authority.” He lifted Nettle high as if he would dash her against the floor. He stared at Burrich. Burrich made an incoherent sound, half-fury, half-plea. He dropped his sword. By the door, the injured man groaned and tried to sit up.

“She’s only a tiny baby,” Burrich said hoarsely. As if it were my own, I knew the warmth of the blood running down Burrich’s back and hip. “Let us go. You are mistaken. She’s my own blood, I tell you, and no threat to your king. Please. I have gold. I’ll take you to it. But let us go.”

Burrich, who would have stood and spit and fought to the death, dropped his sword and pleaded for the sake of my child. Red-beard roared out his laughter, but Burrich did not even turn to it. Still laughing, the man stepped to the table and casually lit the branch of candles there. He lifted the light to survey the disheveled room. Burrich could not take his eyes off Nettle. “She’s mine,” he said quietly, almost desperately.

“Stop your lies,” the stout man said disdainfully. “She’s the Wit-Bastard’s get. As tainted as he was.”

“That’s right. She is.”

All eyes turned to the door. Molly stood there, very pale, breathing hard. Her right hand was reddened with blood. She clutched to her chest a large wooden box. An ominous humming came from it. “The bitch you sent after me is dead,” Molly said harshly. “As you will soon be, if you don’t put down your weapons and free my child and man.” The stout man grinned incredulously. Red-beard lifted his sword.

Her voice shook only slightly as she added. “The child is Witted, of course. As am I. My bees will not harm us. But injure one of us, and they will rise up and follow you and give you no quarter. You shall die of a million burning stings. Think your swords will be of much use against my Wit-bees?” She looked from face to face, her eyes flashing with anger and her threat as she clutched the heavy wooden hive box to her. One bee escaped it, to buzz angrily about the room. Red-beard’s eyes followed it, even as he exclaimed, “I don’t believe it!”