Golden Fool (68 page)

“I am not!” she exclaimed indignantly.

I perceived she thought that I had threatened her. “No,” I agreed calmly. “You are not. But if you were, I could destroy your livelihood and perhaps even take your life by making it public. That is what the Piebalds do to other Witted.”

“But that makes no sense. Why would they do that?”

“To make the other Witted do what they want.”

“What do they want them to do?”

“The Piebalds are seeking to gather power to themselves. To gain that, they need money and people willing to do what they tell them.”

“I still don’t understand what they want.”

I sighed. “They want the same things most Witted want. They want to exercise their magic openly, without fear of the noose or flame. They want to be accepted, not to have to live with their talents hidden. Suppose you could be killed, simply for being a hedge-witch. Would not you want to change that?”

“But hedge-witches do no harm to anyone.”

I watched her face carefully as I said, “Neither do Witted.”

“Some do,” she rejoined instantly. “Oh, not all of them, no. But when I was but a child my mother kept two milk goats. They both up and died on the same day. And only the week before that she had refused to sell one to a Witted woman. So you see, Witted are like anyone else. Some of them are vengeful and cruel, and use their magic to that end.”

“The Wit doesn’t work that way, Jinna. That is like me saying a hedge-witch could look in my hand, and put a line there that would make me die sooner. Or blaming you because you looked at my son’s hand, said he had a short lifeline, and then he died. Would that be your fault? For saying what you’d seen there?”

“Well, of course not. But that’s not the same as killing someone’s goats.”

“That is what I’m trying to tell you. I can’t use the Wit to kill anyone.”

She cocked her head at me. “Oh, come, Tom. That great wolf of yours would have killed that man’s pigs if you’d told him to, wouldn’t he?”

I sat a long time silent. Then I had to say, “Yes. I suppose he would have. If I were that sort of a man, I might have used the wolf and my Wit that way. But I’m not.”

Her silence lasted even longer than mine did. At last, very unwillingly, she said, “Tom. You killed three men. And a horse. Wasn’t that the wolf in you? Wasn’t that your Wit?”

After a time, I stood up. “Good-bye, Jinna,” I said. “Thank you for your many kindnesses.” I walked toward the door.

“Don’t go like this,” she begged me.

I halted, miserable. “I don’t know any other way to go. Why did you even let me inside your door today?” I asked bitterly. “Why did you try to see me when I was hurt? It would have been a greater kindness simply to turn away from me than to show me what you truly thought of me.”

“I wanted to give you a chance,” she said dismally. “I wanted . . . I hoped there was some other reason. Something besides your Wit.”

Hand on the latch, I paused. I detested my last lie, but it had to be told. “There was. There was a purse that belonged to Lord Golden.” I did not look back to see if she believed me. She already had more truth than was safe for her to own.

I closed her door softly behind me. The day had clouded over abruptly and the shadows on the snowy ground were dark gray. All had changed in that sudden way that early spring days can. Somehow Fennel had managed to slip out with me. “You should go back inside,” I told him. “It’s getting cold out here.”

Cold isn’t so bad. Cold can only kill you if you stand still. Just keep moving.

Good advice, cat. Good advice. Good-bye, Fennel.

I mounted Myblack and turned her head toward Buckkeep Castle. “Let’s go home,” I told her.

She was willing enough to head for her stall and manger. I let her set her own pace while I sat in the saddle and pondered my life. Yesterday I had felt Dutiful’s worship. Today, Jinna’s fear and rejection. More, today Jinna had shown me how deep and wide the prejudice against the Witted might go. I had thought she had accepted me for who and what I was. But she hadn’t. She had been willing to make an exception for me, but when I killed, I had proved her rule. The Witted were not to be trusted; they used their magic for evil. I felt myself sinking into despair as I realized the depth of it. For there was more than that. I had learned, yet again, that I could not serve the Farseers and still claim a life for myself.

Not this again, Changer. How could the moments of your life belong to anyone but you? You are the Farseers, blood and pack. See the whole of it. It is neither a binding nor a separation. The pack is the whole of you. The wolf’s life is in the pack.

Nighteyes,
I breathed. And yet I knew that he was not there. As Black Rolf had told me it would be, it was. There were moments when my dead companion came back to me as more than a memory, yet less than his living part of me. The part of me that I had given to the wolf lived on. I sat up straighter in the saddle and took charge of my horse. She snorted, but accepted it. And then, because I thought it might be good for both of us, I put heels to her and sent her surging up the snowy road to Buckkeep Castle and home.

I stabled Myblack and saw to her myself. It took me twice as long as it should have. It shamed me to be out of the habit of caring for my own horse, and shamed me more that she should be so willful that she made it difficult. Then I forced myself to go to the practice courts. I had to borrow a blade. I had gone into Buckkeep Town today unarmed save for the knife at my hip. Foolish, perhaps, but I’d had no alternative. I’d visited my room today, intending to get my ugly sword, only to discover it was missing. Most likely it was lost or adopted by an opportunistic city guardsman. The bright blade the Fool had given me was still hanging on the wall. I’d considered it but I could not bring myself to buckle it on. It was a symbol of an esteem he no longer extended to me. I’d decided I’d no longer wear it save in my role as his bodyguard. For practice, a dummy sword was best anyway. Dulled blade in hand, I went looking for a partner.

Wim was not about but Delleree was. In a very short time, she had killed me so many times I lost count, using either of her weapons at will. I felt it was all I could do to hold my sword up, let alone swing it. Finally, she stopped and said, “I can’t do this anymore. I feel like I’m fighting a stickman. Each time I hit you, I feel my blade clack against your bones.”

“So do I,” I assured her. I managed to laugh and thank her, and then limped away to the steams. The looks of pity I received from the guardsmen there made me wish I had never disrobed. From the steams, I went directly to the kitchens. A cook’s helper named Maisie told me she was glad to see me on my feet again. I am sure it was pity for me that made her cut an outside slice off a joint that was still roasting on the spit. She gave it to me on a slab of bread from the morning’s baking, and then told me that Lord Golden’s serving boy had been looking for me earlier in the day. I thanked her but did not rush to my lord’s summoning. Instead I stood outside, my back to the courtyard wall, and watched the folk of the keep while I wolfed down the food she had given me. It had been a very long time since I had just stood still and watched the folk of Buckkeep. I thought of all the other things I had not seen or done since I had returned to my childhood home. I had not visited the Queen’s Garden atop the tower. Not once had I gone walking in the Women’s Garden. I suddenly hungered to do simple things of that sort. Ride Myblack through the forested hills behind Buckkeep. Sit in the Great Hall of an evening and watch the fletchers work on their arrows and speculate on hunting prospects. To be a part of it all once more rather than a shadow.

My hair was still damp and there was not enough flesh on me to stay warm for long standing still on a wintry afternoon. I heaved a sigh and went inside and up the stairs, both dreading and anticipating an encounter with Lord Golden. It had been days since he had expressed any personal interest in me. His benevolent dismissal of me was worse than if he had maintained a sulky silence. It was as if he truly had ceased caring about the rift between us. As if who we were now, Lord Golden and Tom Badgerlock, were all we had ever been. A tiny flame of anger leapt up in me, and then as swiftly expired. I did not have the energy to maintain it, I realized. And then, with equanimity I had not known I possessed, I suddenly accepted it. Things had changed. All my roles had shifted, not just with Prince Dutiful and Jinna and Lord Golden. Even Chade saw me differently. I could not force Lord Golden to revert to being the Fool. Perhaps he could not, even if he had wished to. Was it so different for me? I was as much Tom Badgerlock as FitzChivalry Farseer now. Time to let it go.

Lord Golden was not in his chambers. I went into my room and put on a shirt that wasn’t sweated through. I took off the charm necklace Jinna had given me. When Dutiful’s cat had attacked me, his teeth had left nicks in two beads. I hadn’t noticed that before. For a short time I looked at it, and found that I was still grateful to Jinna for this gesture of goodwill. Yet that gratitude was not enough to allow me to continue wearing it. She had given it to me because she liked me, despite my Wit. That thought would always taint it now. I dropped it into the corner of my clothing chest.

As I was leaving my chambers, I encountered Lord Golden entering his. He halted at the sight of me. I had neither seen nor spoken to him since the feather incident. Now he looked me up and down as if he had never seen me before. After a moment, he said stiffly, “It is good to see you up and about again, Tom Badgerlock. But from the look of you, I think it will still be some days before you are fit to resume your duties. Take some time to recover yourself.” There seemed something odd in his diction, as if he could not quite get his breath.

I offered him a servant’s bow. “Thank you, my lord, and thank you for the additional time. I shall put it to good use. I’ve already been down to the practice courts today. As you observed, it may be some days before I am effectively able to serve as a bodyguard again.” I paused, then added, “I was told in the kitchens that you had sent a boy to seek for me earlier today?”

“A boy? Oh. Yes. Yes, I did. Actually, I sent him at Lord Chade’s behest. In truth, I near forgot. Lord Chade came here seeking you, and when you were not in your room, I set a boy running to see if you were in the kitchens. I think he wanted you to come to him. I didn’t . . . in truth, we had some talk that has . . .” Lord Golden’s voice tottered to an uncertain halt. A silence fell. Then, in a voice that was almost the Fool’s, he said, “Chade came here to talk to me about something that he’d asked you to discuss with . . . There’s something I want you to look at. Have you a moment to spare?”

“I am at your service, my lord,” I reminded him.

I expected some response to that little jab. Instead, looking distracted, he said, “Of course you are. A moment, then.” His Jamaillian accent had faded from his words. He went into his bedchamber, shutting the door behind him.

I waited. I walked over to the fire, poked it up a bit, and added a log. Then I waited some more. I sat down in a chair, noticed that my fingernails had grown, and pared them back with my belt knife. I continued to wait. Finally, I rose and, with a sigh of exasperation, went to tap on the door. Perhaps I had misunderstood. “Lord Golden. Did you wish me to wait here?”

“Yes. No.” Then, in a very uncertain voice, “Would you come in here, please? But first make sure the corridor door is well bolted.”

It was. I rattled it to be sure and then opened the door of his room. The room was dim, the windows shuttered. Several candles illuminated Lord Golden standing with his back to me. He wore a sheet from his bed like a cape. He glanced at me over his shoulder and someone I had never met looked out of those golden eyes. When I was three steps into the room, he said quietly, “Stand there, please.”

With one hand, he lifted his hair up and out of the way to bare the nape of his neck. The sheet fell away from his naked back, but his free hand continued to clutch it to his chest. I gasped and took an inadvertent step closer. He flinched away but then stood his ground. In a small shaky voice, he asked, “The Narcheska’s tattoos. Were they like these?”

“May I come closer?” I managed to say. I didn’t really need to. If his tattoos were not identical to hers, then they were at least extremely similar. He nodded jerkily, and I took another step into the room. He did not look at me but stared off into a dim corner. The room was not cold, but he was shivering. The exotic needling began at the nape of his neck and covered every part of his back before vanishing beneath the waistband of his leggings. The twining serpents and wingspread dragons sprawled in exquisite detail over his smooth golden back. The shining colors had a metallic gleam to them, as if gold and silver had been forced under his skin to illuminate them. Every claw and scale, every shining tooth and flashing eye, was perfect. “They are very alike,” I managed to say at last. “Save that yours lie flat to your skin. One of hers, the largest serpent, stood swollen from her back as if inflamed. And it seemed to cause her great pain.”

He drew in a shuddering breath. His teeth were near to chattering as he observed bitterly, “Well. Just when I thought there was no way she could increase her cruelty, she finds one. That poor, poor child.”

“Do yours hurt?” I asked cautiously.

He shook his head, still without looking at me. Some of his hair fell free of his grasp to brush across his shoulders. “No. Not now. But the application of them was extremely painful. And of great duration. They held me very still, for hours at a time. They apologized and tried to comfort me as they did it. That only made it worse, that people who otherwise treated me with such love and regard could do that to me. They were meticulously careful to needle them in just as she instructed them. It is a horrible thing to do to a child. Hold him still and hurt him. Any child.” He rocked slightly, his shoulders hunched. His voice was distant.

“They?” I asked very softly.

His voice was tight, all melody gone from it. He shuddered out his words. “I was at a place rather like a school. Teachers and learned folk. I told you about it before. I ran away from it. My parents sent me there, parting from me with both pride and sorrow, because I was a White. It was a long way from our home. They knew they would probably never see me again, but they knew it was the correct thing to do. I had a destiny to fulfill. But my teachers insisted there already was a White Prophet for this time. She had already studied with them, and already set forth to fulfill her destiny in the far north.” He suddenly turned his head and met my eyes. “Do you guess of whom I speak?”