Fools Quest

  It was not the Fool who waited there, but the crow. She looked up at me, turning her head to regard me with one bright eye. Then, as if she were the queen herself, she hopped gravely down the remaining steps and into the center of the room.

  It is common for folk who are not Witted to think that those of us with Old Blood can talk to any animal. We can’t. The Wit is a mutual exchange, a sharing of thoughts. Some creatures are more open than others; some cats not only will talk to anyone, but will natter on or nag or pester with absolutely no restraint. Even folks with but the tiniest shred of the Wit will find themselves standing to open the door before the cat has scratched at it, or calling the cat from across the room to share the best morsel of fish. Having been bonded to a wolf for so many years set my thoughts in a pattern that, I believed, made all creatures of that family more open to me. Dogs, wolves, and even foxes have communicated with me from time to time. One hawk I have spoken with, at the bidding of her mistress. One small ferret, ever a hero in my heart. But no Witted one can simply arrow thoughts at a creature and expect to be understood. I considered trying, but the Wit swiftly becomes an intimate sharing. And I had little desire to develop such a bond with this bird. So I did not use the Wit, but only words, as I said to her, “Well, you look much better than the last time I saw you. Would you like me to open the window for you?”

  “Dark,” she said, and I was astonished at the clarity of the word, and how appropriate it was. I had heard birds trained to speak, but usually the human words they uttered were simple repetitions bereft of sense or context. The crow walked rather than hopped across the room and studied the window before fluttering to the top of my clothing chest. I did not stare at her. Few wild creatures are comfortable with that. Instead, I stepped carefully past her and opened the window.

  Wind and chill came in: The storms of the past few days had paused but clouds promised more snow tonight. For a moment I stood and stared out over the castle walls. It had been years since I had studied this view. The forest had retreated. I could see farm cottages where once there had been only sheep pastures, pastures where there had been forest, and stumplands beyond that. My heart sank; once we had hunted there, my wolf and I, where now sheep pastured. The world had to change and for some reason the prosperity of men always results in them taking ever more from wild creatures and places. Foolish, perhaps, to feel that pang of regret for what was gone, and perhaps it was only felt by those who straddled the worlds of humans and beasts.

  The crow fluttered to the windowsill. I stepped back carefully to give her room. “Farewell,” I wished her and waited for her to go.

  She cocked her head and looked at me. In that quick way birds have, she twisted her head again and looked out over the world. Then she opened her wings and with a flutter crossed the room and landed with a rattle of crockery on my breakfast tray. Wings spread wide, as if to remind me, she said, “White! White!” Then without hesitation she snatched up and swallowed a shred of bacon. She stabbed at a bit of leftover bread and with a shake scattered it over the floor. She eyed it for a moment, and then disregarded it as she clattered her bill in a dish that had held apple compote.

  While she dismembered my breakfast, I went to Lord Feldspar’s trunk. Yes, Chade had supplied him well. I found the bottle of ink and a quill pen. I thought for a bit, then cleared the correspondence from the table. I reversed the quill, dipped the feathered end into the ink bottle, and studied it. It would do. “Crow. Come here. I’ll paint you black. ”

  She dropped the piece of bacon she’d been trying to shred. “White! White!”

  “No white,” I told her. I focused my Wit. No white.

  She cocked her head and pointed one bright eye at me. I waited. With a clatter that sent my spoon to the floor, she lifted from my tray and hopped to the table.

  “Open your wings. ” She stared. I slowly lifted my arms wide. “Open. Show me the white. ”

  To understand what someone wants is not the same as trusting. She tried. She opened her wings. I tried to dab black on, but she fluttered her wings and spattered ink all over us. I tried again. I talked to her as I worked. “I’ve no idea if this will stand up to rain. Or wind. Or if your feathers will stick together. Open them. No, leave them open. So the ink dries. That’s it!”

  By the time I began work on the second wing, she was more cooperative. My arms and my correspondence were freckled with ink. I finished her second wing and went over the first one again. Then I had to make her understand that I had to paint the undersides of her wings as well. “Now dry!” I warned her, and she stood, wings outstretched. She rattled her pinions to put them in order and I was glad to see little spatter of ink. And when she folded them, she looked to me like an ordinary black crow.

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  “No white!” I told her. She turned her head and preened her feathers to smoothness. She seemed satisfied with my work, for she hopped abruptly back into the middle of my plate.

  “I’ll leave the window open for you,” I told her, and left her there, making a mess of my unfinished breakfast.

  I pulled the door shut behind me, for what Chade had told me once was true. That open window and this opened door together created a terrific draft in the apartments.

  I climbed the steep steps wondering how I could convey to the Fool all that had happened in one night. A foolish grin took command of my face. For the first time, I allowed myself to admit that part of me rejoiced. So long, so long, I had stood at the edge of the forest, looking at the lit windows in the distance. Buckkeep Castle was my home, had always been my home. Despite all my misgivings and fears, I allowed myself to imagine, for one delicious moment, that I could stand to my king’s left side during his judgments or be seated at the high table during a banquet. I imagined my small daughter dancing with me in the Great Hall. I would tell the Fool and he would understand my torn feelings. Then, with a rush of regret, I wished again that the Fool had been there last night, to see and hear Starling singing of my courage and brave and selfless deeds.

  But he would have seen nothing of it. And like a hunted stag run off a cliff over a frozen lake, my mood plummeted into dark and cold. My exultation vanished and I almost dreaded telling him. Yesterday I had not mentioned Nettle’s pregnancy. Today I feared to tell him of King Dutiful’s public recognition of me.

  My steps had slowed and by the time I reached the top of the stairs, I was plodding. So I was not prepared to see the Fool seated at Chade’s table, six candles burning bright in a tight circle before him. I was even less prepared for the lopsided smile with which he greeted me. “Fitz!” he exclaimed, almost merrily, the scars on his face contorting his smile to a puppet’s grin. “I’ve news to share!”

  “And I,” I rejoined, my spirits daring to lift a bit.

  “It’s good news,” he told me, as if I could not have guessed that. I wondered if he was going to tell me my own tidings, and immediately resolved that if he wished to do so and take pleasure in it, then I would let him.

  “So I see,” I told him, taking a seat at the table opposite him.

  “No, you don’t!” he rejoined, his laughter bubbling up at a jest I didn’t share yet. “But I do!”

  I sat for a long moment in silence, waiting for him to add words to that. Then, as often had happened in our youths, I suddenly grasped the meaning he intended. “Fool! You can see?”

  “I just told you that,” he responded, and burst into hearty laughter.

  “Look at me!” I commanded him, and he lifted his eyes but they did not meet my gaze. To my deep disappointment, they were still clouded and gray.

  The smile on his face faded a little. “I can see light,” he admitted. “I can tell light from darkness. Well, that’s not it exactly. Being blind isn’t darkness as you know darkness. Oh, it doesn’t matter, so I won’t try to explain it except to say, I know there are candles burning on the table before me. And when I turn my face away, I know there are no
t candles over there. Fitz, I think my eyesight is coming back. When you used the Skill on me that night … I knew that the sores on my back began to heal. But this is so much more than that. ”

  “I did nothing to your eyes that night. It may simply be that a natural healing process has begun. ” I bit back the warning that nearly burst from me. Don’t hope too much. I knew how tenuous his health was. And yet, he could now perceive light. That had to mean he was starting to rally. “I’m glad for you. And we must keep you on the path. Have you eaten today?”

  “Oh, yes. I’ve eaten. Chade’s boy brought food, and seemed less fearful of me. Or perhaps more fascinated by the bird. And then Chade himself came by, with a parcel of things for you. Fitz! He told me all. And I am … befuddled. And happy for you. And frightened. How can such a time be, such a world where things happen that I never foresaw! And he told me that Starling played your story and sang it beautifully! Is it truly so? Did I dream it?”

  A lurch of disappointment. I had not known how much I wished to tell him myself until I found he already knew. But his smile at my good fortune was everything I could have wished for.

  “No. It was all true. It was wonderful. ” And with him, I shared the moments that few others would have understood. I told him how Celerity, the Duchess of Bearns, heir to her sister Lady Hope, had set her hands on my shoulders. I had stared into her clear eyes. There were lines at the corners of her eyes and framing her mouth, but still a determined girl met my gaze. “I never doubted you. You should not have doubted me,” she had said, and kissed my mouth softly before turning and walking quickly away, her husband shooting me a puzzled glare before he hastened after her. I recounted how Queen Elliania had cut a silver narwhal button from her cuff and given it to me, bidding me wear it always. He smiled to that, and then his face grew thoughtful when I told him that people I scarcely recalled had taken my hand and pressed it, or slapped my shoulder. Some had smiled incredulously, a few had wept. Very disconcerting were those who tipped me a wink or leaned in to whisper, “Remember well that I kept your secret,” and messages of that ilk. Worst of all was a young guardsman who strode boldly past the waiting nobility. Sparks of anger had danced in his eyes as he said, “My grandfather died thinking he had sent you to your death. To the end of his days, Blade believed he had betrayed you. He, I think, you might have trusted. ” Then he had turned on his heel and was been engulfed by the crowd before I could speak a word to him.

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  I found myself speaking softly as if I were telling an old tale to a young child. And giving it a happy ending, when all know that tales never end, and the happy ending is but a moment to catch one’s breath before the next disaster. But I didn’t want to think about that. I didn’t want to wonder what would happen next.

  “Did Chade say why he had done it?” he asked me.

  I gave a shrug he could not see. “He said it was time. That both Shrewd and Verity would have wanted it to happen. Having emerged from the shadows himself, he said he could not leave me there. ” I rummaged on one of Chade’s shelves and then another before I found what I sought. Spirits of wine. I lit my own candle at the fire and found a rag. I dampened the rag and began to remove my ink freckles. They were hard to get off. Good for the crow, annoying for me. I moved to Chade’s mirror, scrubbing at the spots on my face.

  “What is that smell? What are you doing?”

  “Getting ink off my face. I was painting the crow’s white feathers black so she could go out without being pecked and chased. ”

  “Painting a crow. Prince FitzChivalry amuses himself painting crows the day after his acknowledgment by the throne. ” He laughed. A very good sound.

  “Chade left a package for me?”

  “At the end of the table,” he said. He had fixed his gaze once more on the candles, reveling in whatever trace of their brilliance he could perceive. And so I did not take any of them, but moved the parcel to their vicinity and began to unfasten it. It smelled of earth. It was wrapped in leather, and tied with leather straps. The knots were green with disuse, and the white-edged stains on the leather were from damp. The ties had not been undone in a very long time, and I suspected that at some point it had been stored outdoors, perhaps for a winter. Possibly buried somewhere. As I worked on the knots, the Fool observed, “He left you a note as well. What does it say?”

  “I haven’t read it yet. ”

  “Shouldn’t you read it before you open the parcel?”

  “Did he say I should?”

  “He seemed to take a very long time to think about it, and then he wrote only a few words. I heard the scratching of his pen, and many sighs. ”

  I stopped working on the straps. I tried to decide which made me more curious, the letter or the parcel. I lifted one candle and saw the single sheet of paper on the table. I’d missed it in the dimness. I reached, trapped it, and slid it toward me. Like most of Chade’s missives there was no date, no greeting, and no signature. Only a few lines of writing.

  “What does it say?” the Fool demanded.

  “ ‘I did as he bade me. The conditions were never met. I trust you to understand. I think you should have it now. ’ ”

  “Oh. Better and better,” the Fool exclaimed. And added, “I think you should just cut the straps. You’ll never get those old knots out. ”

  “You already tried, didn’t you?”

  He shrugged and tipped a grin at me. “It would have saved you the trouble of struggling with them. ”

  I tormented both of us by working at the stubborn knots for some little time. Leather that has been knotted, wet, and then left to dry can seem as hard as iron. In the end, I drew my belt-knife and sawed through the straps. I tugged them off the parcel and then struggled to unfold the leather that surrounded whatever it was. It was not soft leather, but heavy, the sort one would use for a saddle. It creaked as I pried it open and brought out something wrapped in a still-greasy cloth. I set it with a thunk on the table.

  “What is it?” the Fool demanded, and reached to send his fingers dancing over the concealed item.

  “Let’s find out. ” The greasy cloth proved to be a heavy canvas sack. I found the opening, reached in, and pulled out …

  “It’s a crown,” the Fool exclaimed, his fingers touching it almost as soon as my eyes saw it.

  “Not exactly. ” Crowns are not usually made of steel. And Hod had not been a maker of crowns but a maker of swords. She had been an excellent weaponsmaster. I turned the plain circlet of steel in my hands, knowing this was her work, though I could not have explained to anyone how I recognized it. And there, there was her maker’s mark, unobtrusive but proud inside the circlet.

  “There’s something else here. ” The Fool’s hands had gone questing like ferrets into the opened leather parcel, and now he held out a wooden tube to me. I took it silently. We both knew it would contain a scroll. The ends of the tube were plugged with red wax. I studied it in the candlelight.

  “Verity’s seal,” I told him softly. I hated to mar the imprint, but nonetheless I dug the wax out with my belt-knife, and then tipped the tube and shook it. The scroll was stubborn. It had been in there a long time. When it finally emerged I just looked at it. Water had not touched it.

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  “Read it,” the Fool’s whisper urged me.

  I unrolled the vellum carefully. This was Verity’s hand, the careful lettering of a man who loved to draw, to make maps and chart terrain, to sketch fortifications and draw battle plans. He had written large, dark, and plain. My king’s hand. My throat tightened. It was a moment before I could speak. My voice was higher as I spoke past tightness.

  “Be it known by my seal on this document and by the testimony of the trusted bearer, Chade Fallstar, that this scroll is the true desire of King-in-Waiting Verity Farseer. In plain words let me say, I leave today on a quest from which I may not return. I leave my queen, Kettricken o
f the Mountains, with child. If in my absence my father, King Shrewd, should die, I commend my lady to the protection of my nephew FitzChivalry Farseer. If word of my death be returned, then I desire that he be recognized formally as protector of my heir. If my queen perish and my heir survive, then I stipulate that FitzChivalry Farseer is to reign as regent until such time as my heir is able to assume the throne. And if none survive me, neither father, nor queen, nor heir, then it is my will that FitzChivalry Farseer be recognized as my heir. It is not my wish that my younger brother, Regal Farseer, inherit my crown. I do most ardently urge that my dukes recognize and affirm my will in this matter. ” I paused to catch my breath. “And his signature is below it. ”

  “And this would have been your crown. ” The Fool’s scarred fingertips traced the rim of the simple circlet. “Not a jewel to be touched. And sword-steel, by the feel of it. Wait, wait! Not so plain, perhaps. Here. What is this?”

  I took the crown from him and tilted it to the candlelight. It was engraved into the plain circlet. “A charging buck. ”

  “He gave you that emblem. ”

  “Verity did,” I said quietly. My voice tightened up a notch as I observed, “It’s just the charging buck. There is no slash across it to mark me a bastard. ”

  There was a very long silence. The candles burned and at the other end of the room a log slumped on the hearth. “Do you wish it had come to pass?” the Fool asked me.

  “No! Of course not!” That would have been like wishing death on Shrewd and Kettricken and her then-unborn child. “But … I do wish I had known. There were times when it would have meant a great deal to me. ” A tear tracked down my cheek. I let it fall.

  “And not now?”

  “Oh, and still now. To know he thought me worthy to guard his queen, and his child. And to step up and claim the throne after him. ”

  “Then you never wished to be king?”

  “No. ” Liar. But the lie was so old and so oft repeated that most of the time I believed it.