Golden Fool (64 page)

“I didn’t realize that my old scars were gone. I think the coterie started the wheels turning, and after that my healing was like a runaway cart on a steep street. It just kept going on its own. I don’t even really know how it was done.”

He spoke as humbly as I did. “So Lord Golden managed to convey to me.” Then he came closer. When he stood over me, he studied my face, cocking his head to one side. When I looked up at him, he smiled reminiscently. “Oh, my boy. You do look like your father. Far too much for our purposes now. You should not have shaved; the beard at least covered some of the changes in your face. Now you must wait until it grows back enough to disguise how much you’ve changed before you can go about the keep again.”

I shook my head. “It wouldn’t do, Chade. Not even a heavy beard would be enough.” I took a long final look at myself as I might have been. Then I laughed and pushed the mirror away. “Come sit down. We both know what must be done. I’ve read your scrolls, but they don’t seem to apply. In this effort tonight, we are going to have to feel our way.”

We did not work well together. I think by nature we were both Solos, and yet we would have to learn to function together as part of Dutiful’s Coterie. And so we made a number of false starts, and irritably blamed Galen’s fogging of me and my use of elfbark and those shortsighted folk who had not trained Chade when he was a boy. But at length, the Skill flowed hesitantly between us, and as I so often had before, I trusted myself to his long-fingered hands. I fed him strength and the Skill itself, for his ability was as yet only a sporadic trickling of the magic. Chade’s knowledge of how a man’s body was put together combined with my own body’s awareness of itself to guide what we did. In some ways it was a more difficult task than my healing had been, for each piece had to be done separately, and in defiance of what my body felt was correct. But we prevailed.

And when we were finished, I took up the mirror again. My new scar was less noticeable than the old one, and my nose not quite as crooked. But it would suffice. The marks were there. As were the old bite scar on my neck, the star from the arrowhead near my spine, and a new web of scarring where the sword wound should have been. These new scars were easier to tolerate than the old ones, for we involved only the skin and did not anchor them to the muscles underneath. Still, they pulled irritatingly. I knew I’d eventually get used to them. It was Chade who noticed that my “badgerlock” was now growing in dark at the roots. He shook his head over that. “I’ve no idea how to change that. Nothing in the scrolls mentions a change in the color of hair. Dye the whole shock of white hair black is my advice. Let that change be obvious. Folk will think you’ve become vain. Vanity is easy to explain.”

I nodded and set the mirror down. “But later. Not now. Right now, I’m exhausted,” I said, and spoke the simple truth.

He looked at me oddly. “And your headache?”

I frowned and lifted a hand to my brow. “Is no worse than an ordinary headache, despite all the Skilling we’ve done tonight. Perhaps you were right. Perhaps it only took getting used to.”

He shook his head slowly and came around the table to set his hands to my skull. “Here,” he said, tracing the now nonexistent scar that had birthed my badgerlock of white hair. “And here.” He prodded an area near my eye socket.

I winced from habit, then sat still. “It doesn’t hurt. My head always hurt, when I combed my hair, and my face always ached if I was long in the cold. I never thought about it before.”

“I’d date the injury by your eye to when Galen tried to kill you on the tower top. In the Queen’s garden, when you were his student. Burrich said you nearly lost the vision in that eye. Have you forgotten the beating he gave you?”

I shook my head silently.

“Neither had your body. I’ve seen you from the inside out, Fitz. Seen the damage done to your skull in Regal’s dungeons, and other long-healed fractures in your face and spine. The Skill healing seems to have put right a lot of old damage. It interests me that you do not have a headache after Skilling. It will interest me even more if you cease having to fear seizures.”

He left my side and went to his scroll rack. He returned with a copy of that most horrific of books,
Man’s Flesh
by Verdad the Flayer. It was a beautifully made thing, layers of paper bound between carved covers of hinkwood, and still smelled of its inks. Obviously this copy had been recently created. That corrupt and ruthless Jamaillian priest had flayed and dismembered bodies for years in a monastery in that distant land, but when his depravity was discovered, his notoriety spread even as far as the Six Duchies. I had heard of this treatise, but never before seen a copy.

“Where did this come from?” I asked in surprise.

“Some years ago, I sent for it. It took me two years to find one. And the text is obviously corrupted. Verdad never referred to himself as ‘the flayer’ as this manuscript does. And I doubt that he rejoiced in the smell of rotting flesh, as this claims he did. No, I sought it out for the copies of his illustrations, not the words others have added.”

Chade opened it reverently and set it before me. As he had bid me, I ignored the ornate Jamaillian lettering and focused instead on the detailed depictions of the interiors of bodies. As a boy, I had seen the sketches that Chade had made, and those he had from his master before him, but they had been crude things compared to these. Charts that show the most swiftly lethal places to thrust a dagger are not to be compared with a map of a man’s exposed vitals. The colors were very true. It was strange to look at them and find myself reminded of the steaming entrails of a gutted deer. How can I explain how vulnerable I suddenly felt? All these soft structures, deep red and glistening gray, gleaming liver and intricately coiled intestines, fit so precisely inside my body. Then Laudwine had thrust a sword blade through my back and into them. Without thinking, I set a hand to the false sword scar on my lower back. No ribs had shielded me there, only overlapping strands of muscle. Chade saw the gesture. “Now you see why I feared so for you. From the start, I suspected that only the Skill could restore you to health.”

“Close it, please,” I said, and turned away from his treasured book, feeling ill. He ignored me, turning a page to yet another drawing. This was of a hand, skin and muscle pulled aside and pinned to show the bone and hinges.

“I studied this before I tried to repair my hands. I do not think his drawings are precisely correct, and yet I feel they were helpful to me. Who would have imagined there were so many individual bones in a man’s hands and fingers?” Then he finally glanced up and, becoming aware of my discomfort, closed the tome. “When you are better recovered, I recommend you study this, Fitz. I think perhaps every Skilled one should.”

“Even Thick?” I asked wryly.

He surprised me by lifting a shoulder. “It would not hurt to show it to him. Sometimes he is capable of very fixed thought, Fitz. Who knows how much he retains in that misshapen skull?”

This brought a new thought to me. “Misshapen. Do you think, then, that the Skill might be used on Thick? To repair what is wrong and make him normal?”

Chade shook his head slowly. “‘Different’ is not ‘wrong,’ Fitz. Thick’s body recognizes itself as correct. His differences are no more to him than . . . well, here I am guessing, but I suspect that just as one man is tall and another is short, so it is with Thick. His body grew to some plan of its own. Thick is what he is. Perhaps we should just be grateful that we have him, even if he is different.”

“You have been investigating this most thoroughly, then.” I tried to keep condemnation from my voice.

“You cannot imagine what this is like for me, Fitz,” he affirmed quietly. “It is like a cell door has opened and I am allowed to walk free in the world. I am dazzled by all that I see. A blade of grass is as wonderful to such a freed prisoner as is the wide spread of a valley. I resent everything that calls me away from this exploration. I do not want to sleep or pause for meals. It is difficult for me to force my mind to the Queen’s business. What do I care of Bingtown Traders and dragons and narcheskas? The Skill has seized my imagination and my heart. Exploring it is all I truly want to do.”

My heart sank. I recognized Chade’s obsession for what it was. Often and often had I seen him go through such fevers of fascination. Once his mind seized on an area of study, he would pursue it until he grasped it thoroughly. Or until another frenzy stole his attention away. “So.” I attempted to speak lightly. “Does this mean you will set aside your explosive experiments for a time?”

For an instant, he looked puzzled, as if he had completely forgotten. Then, “Oh. That. I think I’ve discovered what I was attempting to discern about that. There are ways it may be useful, but it is too difficult to regulate to rely upon it.” He dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “I have set it aside. This is far more important for me to grasp now.”

“Chade.” I spoke quietly. “You must not venture alone into this. Even more, you must not draw Thick in after you. I hope you can see now that I speak for concern for you, not to hold you back from any selfish secret of mine.” I took a breath. “You need a foundation. When I have my strength back, when Dutiful and Thick and I resume studying together, you must come to the tower with us.”

He was silent for a time, studying me. “And Lord Golden?” He cocked his head at me. “You did say, before, that he too was a member of this coterie.”

“Did I?” I feigned confusion for a moment. “Oh. He was there, at my healing. And I thought I felt . . . do you think he truly contributed to my healing?”

Chade looked at me oddly. “Don’t you think you would be a better judge of that than I? You told me he did, but a day ago.”

I looked at my strange but strong reluctance to bring the Fool into our Skill lessons. He would not come anyway, I told myself, and then wondered if I were right. “I could tell he was there, but I could not tell what he was doing,” I amended.

Chade’s manner was grave. “Guiding us, I thought. He said he had been part of something similar once, when Nighteyes was stricken.” He paused, then said without inflection, “He knows you well. I think that was what he contributed most. He knows you well and he seemed to know . . . a way into you.” He sighed. “Fitz, you have already admitted as much.”

“He was there when I used both the Wit and the Skill to heal the wolf. But he did not help with the healing. He helped me recover myself afterward.” Then I stopped. After a time, I said, “The reticence and secrecy. Does it become a habit? I swear, Chade, I don’t know why . . . Damn this. Yes. The Fool and I have a Skill bond. Thin but there, a remnant from when he first got the Skill on his fingers when he touched Verity and then me. And when he used it to pull me back to my body, it grew stronger. I suspect that if I considered it, I would find it stronger still since this healing. I rather doubt that he has any true Skill of his own. Only what is on his fingers, and perhaps his bond can only be with me.”

Chade smiled almost guiltily. “Well. A double relief. To hear you speak truth to me, and to let me know that . . . well. I’ve known the Fool a long time. I value him. But there is still about him a strangeness, even when he masquerades as Lord Golden, that can make me uneasy at times. He knows too much, it sometimes seems, and at other times, I wonder if the things that matter to us concern him at all. Now that I have experienced the Skill a bit, and realized how open it makes us to one another . . . well. As you say, reticence and secrecy become a habit. A habit we both must preserve if we are to live. I am as reluctant to make the Fool privy to all my secrets as I am to share his.”

His honesty jolted me, and his opinion confounded me. And yet, he was right. It felt good to know there was honesty between us. “I will speak to Lord Golden myself about what place he holds in our coterie,” I said. “Much depends on what he is willing to do. No one can be forced to aid us.”

“Yes. And patch this foolish quarrel between you at the same time. Being in the same room with you two is as comfortable as standing between two snarling dogs. Who knows who will get bitten when they finally decide to rush one another?”

I ignored that. “And you will join us in the Skill tower for our lessons?”

“I will.”

I waited, then decided that this too was a thing that must be spoken openly. “And your private Skill experiments?”

“They will go on,” he said quietly. “As they must. Fitz, you know me. And you know the pattern of my years. Always I have learned alone and quietly, and always when I discovered a thread of learning that I felt I must possess, I pursued it ardently. Do not ask me to change that now. I cannot.”

And I truly believe he spoke the truth there, also. I sighed heavily, but did not dare try to forbid it to him. “Go carefully then, my friend. Go very carefully. The currents are strong and the footing treacherous. If you are ever swept away . . .”

“I’ll be careful,” he said. And then he left me, and I crawled into the bed that was now more mine than his, and dropped into a deep, dreamless sleep.

chapter
XXII

CONNECTIONS

Your estimation of the funds needed for this journey has fallen far short of the reality; nor would I have undertaken this inquiry if I had fully known about the foul weather, foul food, and fouler people who inhabit these islands. I shall expect exceptional remuneration when I return.

I succeeded at last in visiting your demon-blasted island. Securing passage to visit that piece of ice and rock took the last of my insufficient funds, plus a day’s labor of my stacking salt cod for a foul-tempered sea-bitch. The boat offered was leaky and unwieldy, of a kind I have never before seen and without proper oars. It was a miracle that I was able to navigate the icy waters to reach Aslevjal. Once there, I landed on a black and rocky shore. The glacier that once covered the entire island right down to the tide line seems to have retreated. An abandoned dock and pilings are visible, but all pieces that were easily scavenged are gone. The beach gives onto a wasteland of black stone. Tiny pockets of soil support little more than moss and scrubby grasses. There may have been crude buildings here at some time, but like the docks, anything usable was taken. Stone quarrying has evidently taken place here in the past, but from the look of the place, the efforts have been abandoned for at least a decade. Immense blocks of stone were cut and lined up end to end as for an immense wall, but it is a wall that begins and ends with a single run of blocks. Apparently efforts were made to chisel this run of stone into some sort of a horizontal statue, but the attempt was abandoned before it was even a quarter finished. It was impossible for me to discern what it was meant to be.

I walked as much of the beach as was bared and ventured briefly onto the glacial ice before nightfall caught me there. I saw no dragon, neither alive nor trapped in ice, nor anything even remotely resembling a live creature. I groped my way back to the beach and spent an icy night sheltered behind the stone blocks. Not a scrap of driftwood could I find for a fire. I slept poorly, being troubled by horrendous dreams in which I was one of a mob of Six Duchies folk trapped in a dreadful stone prison. When dawn came, I was thankful to leave. Any others who venture here should take care to bring with them everything to supply their needs, for this island certainly offers nothing to a man.

—
REPORT TO CHADE FALLSTAR, UNSIGNED

Restoring my scars had delayed the recovery of my strength. For the next three days, I withdrew into myself and focused solely on regaining my health. I slept and ate and slept again. I remained in the workroom. Chade himself brought meals to me. They followed no regular schedule, but he brought ample quantities of food when he did come, and I had the hearth for making tea or heating soup so it mattered little to me.

There were no windows in the workroom, and time lost all meaning for me. I returned to the wolfish habits I had shared for years. At dawn and at twilight I was most alert, and during those times I studied the scrolls. Then I ate, and dozed before the fire, or slept in the bed for the rest of the day’s circle. Not all my waking hours were spent in reading. I amused myself and Gilly by hiding bits of meat when he was not in the room and then watching him ferret them out when he returned. I did simple projects such as suited my fancy. I made a board for playing the Stone game, burning the lines into it, and then carved the markers for it from a whale tusk that Chade had said I might use. I dyed them red and black, and left an equal quantity unmarked. I hoped for a game with Chade in vain, however. He spoke little to me of his Skill studies, and when he came and went, he seemed always in a hurry. Likely it was for the best. I slept more deeply when I was left alone.

He was very closemouthed about the other news of the keep. What little I squeezed out of him worried me. The Queen was still in negotiations with the Bingtown Traders, but had graciously given the Dukes of Shoaks and Farrow permission to pressure Chalced along their borders as they wished. There would be no formal declaration of warfare, but the normal harrying and raiding that went on along the boundary between Chalced and the Six Duchies would be increased, with her tacit blessings. There was little new in that. The slaves of Chalced had known for generations that they could claim freedom if they could manage to escape to the Six Duchies. Once free, they often turned against their old masters, raiding across the border the flocks and herds that once they had tended. For all that, trade between Chalced and those Six Duchies remained lively and prosperous. For the Six Duchies to openly side with Bingtown could put an end to that.

The Bingtown war with Chalced had disrupted horribly Chade’s flow of spy information from that area. He had to rely on second- and third-hand accounts, and as with all such heavily handled information, there were contradictions. We were both skeptical of the “facts” we received. Yes, the Bingtown Traders had a dragon-breeding plantation far up the Rain Wild River. One, or perhaps two, full-grown dragons had been seen in flight. They were variously described as blue, silver, or blue and silver. The Bingtown Traders fed the dragons, and in return, the dragons guarded Bingtown Harbor. But they would not fly out of sight of shore; that was why the Chalcedean ships still were able to menace and plunder Bingtown’s trading fleet. The dragon-breeding farm was tended by a race of changelings, half-dragon and half-human. It was in the midst of a beautiful city, where wondrous gems glowed from the walls at night. The humans who also dwelt there preferred to live in lofty timber castles high in the tops of immense trees.

Such information more frustrated than enlightened us. “Do you think they lied to us when they told us about the dragons?” I asked him.

“They likely told us their truth,” Chade replied tersely. “That is the whole purpose of spies: to give us the other truths of the story, so that from all of them, we can cobble together our own truth. There is not enough meat here to make a meal from, only enough to torment us. What can we deduce for certain from these rumors? Only that a dragon has been seen, and that something peculiar is going on somewhere on the Rain Wild River.”

And that was as much as he would say on that subject. But I suspected he knew far more than he admitted, and that he had other irons in the fire than the ones he discussed with me. So my days passed in sleep, study, and rest. Once, when rustling through Chade’s scrolls for one I recalled on the history of Jamaillia, I found the feathers from the treasure beach. I stood looking at them in the dimness, and then carried them over to Chade’s worktable. I examined them there in a better light. Just touching them was unsettling. They stirred to life my memories of my days on that desolate beach, and awoke a hundred questions in me.

There were five feathers in all, about the size of the curving feathers in a cockerel’s tail. They were carved in extreme detail, so that each separate rib of the feather lay against the next. They seemed to be made from a gray wood, though they weighed oddly heavy in my hands. I tried several blades against them; the sharpest one made only a fine silvery scratch. If this was wood, it was near as hard as metal. Some trick of their carving seemed to catch the light strangely. They were plain and gray, and yet, seen from the tail of my eye, color seemed to run over them. They had no discernible smell. Setting my tongue to one gave me a faint taste of brine followed by bitterness. That was all.

And having tested all of my senses against them, I surrendered to the mystery. I suspected they would fit the Fool’s Rooster Crown. I wondered again whence that strange artifact had come. He had unwrapped it from a length of fabric so wondrous that it could only have come from Bingtown. Yet the old wooden circlet seemed too humble to have come from a city of marvels and magic. When he had shown the ancient crown to me, I had recognized it immediately. I had seen it once before, in a dream. In my vision, it had been colorfully painted and bright feathers had stood up above the circlet to nod in the breeze. A woman had worn it, pale even as the Fool had been pale then, and the folk of some ancient Elderling city had paused in their celebration to listen and laugh at her mocking words. I had interpreted her status as jester to the folk. Now I wonder if I had missed a subtler meaning. I looked at them, spread like a fan, and a sudden shiver ran over me. They linked us, I knew with a sudden chill. They linked the Fool and me, not only to one another, but also to another life. Hastily I wrapped them in a cloth. I hid them under my pillow.

I could not decide what it meant that the feathers had come to me, and I still did not want to discuss them with Chade. The Fool might have the answers, I suspected, and yet I felt a shamed reluctance to take them to him. There was not only the gulf of our present quarrel between us, but the fact that I had had them for so long and hadn’t spoken of them to him. I knew that neither of those things would be improved by waiting longer, yet I truly felt too weak to present them to him. So I slept with them under my pillow each night.

In the deeps of my third night in the workroom, Nettle invaded my sleep. She came as a weeping woman. In my dream, a statue stood in a stream of the tears she had shed. Her tears were a silvery gown that she wore, and her mourning was a fog around her. I stood for a time, watching her cry. Each silver tear that ran down her cheeks splashed into a thread of gossamer that became part of her raiment before it turned into the stream that flowed past her. “What is wrong?” I asked the apparition at last.

But she only continued to weep. I approached her, and finally put my hand on her shoulder, expecting to encounter cold stone. Instead she turned to me with eyes that were gray as fog. Her eyes were made of tears. “Please,” I said. “Please talk to me. Tell me why you weep?”

And suddenly she was Nettle. She leaned her brow on my shoulder and wept on. Always before, when I had encountered her in dreams, I had had the feeling she was seeking for me. This time I sensed that I had come to her, drawn by her sorrow into some other place that was usually private to her. I think my coming surprised her. Yet I was not unwelcome, only unlooked for.

What is it?
Even in my sleep, I knew I Skilled to her.

“They quarrel. Even when they do not speak, their quarrel hangs like cobwebs in the room. Every word anyone says gets tangled in the quarrel. They act as if I cannot love them both, as if I must choose between them. And I cannot.”

Who quarrels?

“My father and my brother. They came home safely, as you said they would. But as soon as they got down from the horse, I felt the storm hanging between them. I don’t know what it is about. My father refuses to speak of it, and he has forbidden my brother to tell me. It is something shameful and dark and horrid. Yet my brother wishes to do it. He desires it with all his heart. I cannot imagine why. Swift has always been such a good boy; quiet and meek and obedient. What can he have discovered that he longs to do and my father so abhors?”

I could almost feel her mind groping toward dark suspicions of her gentle brother. She longed to know what had so disgraced him in her father’s eyes. Her imagination could not conjure anything sufficiently evil that a boy of his years could possibly do. That led her toward the idea that her father was being irrational. Yet that idea too was untenable for her. And so her speculation wobbled between two unacceptable ideas. And all the while the tension in the household grew heavier and heavier.

“He does not allow my brother to go outside by himself. All day long, he must accompany my father as he goes about his chores. Yet he is not allowed to help him exercise or groom the horses. Instead, he must simply stand and watch. It makes no sense to me, or to my brothers. But if we ask about it, my father becomes very strict and silent. It is making all of us miserable and I do not know how much longer my brother can stand it. I fear he will do something desperate.”

What do you fear he might do?

“I don’t know. If I knew it, I could prevent it.”

I do not know of any way I can help you with this.
I framed the thought very carefully, fencing it off from all I knew. What would she think of Swift if she knew he was Witted? How did Burrich and Molly speak of that magic in their home, if they spoke of it at all? She had not mentioned how her mother had reacted to the situation. I could not find the courage within me to ask.

“I did not think you could, Shadow Wolf. That was why I did not come to you. But I am grateful you came to me, even if you cannot help me.” A sigh. “When you wall me out, I feel more isolated than I can explain, even to myself. For so long, you were always there, at the edges of my dreams, watching them through me. Then, you took yourself away. And I do not know why. Nor do I know who or what you truly are. Will not you explain yourself to me?”

I cannot
. I heard the harshness of my own refusal and felt in a Skill echo her hurt at my words. Against my will, I felt myself try.
I cannot explain. In some ways, I am a danger to you, and so I seek to stay away from you. You do not truly need me. Yet, in all ways that I can, I will watch over you and protect you. And come to you when I think you need me.