Cockle pulled off his mitten and let it drop into the snow where he stood, while Civil plunged his staff in and let it stand. Then each made his careful way back to Web. Dutiful and I exchanged a glance, and then, as if simply curious, walked toward the Witmaster. I watched Dutiful's face, but I do not think he was as aware of the sensation as I was. It came and went, flickering like a guttering candle. Even when I stood at my prince's shoulder near Web, my Wit-sense of the dragon was not consistent. But I agreed with Web. When I did sense him, I sensed him more strongly here.
Web and the others of the Wit coterie had kept their eyes down, as if they could see through the snow. Now, one by one, they lifted their gazes. Dutiful waited until Web's eyes met his. I do not know what passed between them in that stare; perhaps they measured one another. But when Web nodded slowly, the Prince dipped his head once in agreement. He turned to Chade.
“This is where we will begin the digging,” he said.
ICE
My lady Queen,
You know I remain your most loyal servant. I do not question the wisdom of your judgment, but ask that you temper that wisdom with the reflection that perhaps what we have endured has pushed us past the bounds of justice into retribution. I assure you that the report of a “massacre of Piebalds” is a gross overstatement. If we of the Old Blood have erred, it is in that we have held back our hands so long from taking the actions that will convince the renegades amongst us that we will no longer tolerate their incursions against their own folk. This is, in a sense, a cleaning of our own house, and the filth that we must scrub out of our blood shames us. Look aside, we beg you, whilst we scour from our bloodlines those who degrade us.
--UNSIGNED LETTER, FOLLOWING THE GRIMSTON BLOODBATH
And so we dug in the ice.
Longwick sent Riddle and Hest down to our camp to bring up the shovels, picks, and pry bars. While they were gone, Longwick asked the Prince solemnly, “How big a hole do you wish, my lord?” Dutiful and Chade drew it out on the snow, an area large enough for four men to work in without getting in one another's way. Riddle, Hest, and I were the diggers. Longwick worked alongside us, to my surprise. I suppose he felt that his reduced company of guardsmen made it essential that he take a hand, as well. The guardsmen worked with a will, but awkwardly. They were fighters, not farmers, and though they knew the essentials of throwing up emergency earthworks, they had never had to work on a glacier before. Neither had I. It was an enlightening experience.
Digging ice is not like digging in soil. Soil is made of particles, and particles give way before the blade of a shovel. Ice forms alliances and holds tight to itself. The top layer of loose snow was the most annoying, for it was like shoveling fine flour. There was little weight to each load, but it was difficult to control where each shovelful landed. The next layer was not so bad. It was like digging old packed snow once we broke through the icy crust. But the deeper we went, the more difficult the digging became. We could not shove a spade in and lift and throw out a shovelful of snow. Instead, we used picks to break the ice into chunks, and in the process sent shards and chunks of it flying at one another. Once the ice was loosened, we could scoop it up and toss it up and out of the hole, where the others loaded it onto one of the sleds and hauled it away from the hole's edge. If I kept on my coat, my back ran sweat. Taking it off meant that frost collected on my shirt.
We did not work alone. A compromise had been reached, for the Prince's Witted coterie were the ones to haul the ice from the hole's edge. After a time, the two groups took turns at the picks, the shovels, and the hauling. By the first nightfall, we had a hole that was shoulder deep with no sign of a dragon in the bottom of it.
As evening fell, the winds rose, sending flurries of loose ice crystals scurrying across the surface of the glacier. As we gathered at our camp below, to eat our lukewarm food as we clustered about the tiny potted fires, I wondered uneasily how much snow the winds would sweep into our excavation.
Although our earlier division had been forgotten in the day's labor, camp that night recalled it. We all huddled in the scanty protection of the circled tents, which broke the wind somewhat and gave an illusion of shelter on the bare and windswept ice. It was not a large space, yet within it we assorted ourselves. The Hetgurd warriors were friendlier toward the Witted and the Fool than they had been, trading rations and conversation with one another. Their skinny bard, Owl, sat next to Cockle while he performed for us. Cockle sang two songs without accompaniment, for he was not willing to risk either his hands or his instruments by exposure to the chilling wind. One was about a dragon who so charmed a man that he left his family and home and never more was seen. If there was some great truth hidden in it, I did not find it. As Web had mentioned, it spoke of the man breathing of the dragon's breath, and in that moment giving his heart to the creature. The other song had an even more obscure reference to dragons, yet all kept silent and listened to them thoughtfully as Cockle's solo voice battled with the sweeping winds. The only competing voice was Thick's. He sat near Dutiful, humming and rocking to himself. Although Chade tried several times to shush him, a few minutes later, the little man would take up his music again. It worried me, but there was nothing I could do.
I had glimpsed Peottre and the Narcheska earlier in the day, looking down on our work. Both of their faces seemed very still, caught between hope and dread. Dutiful had gone to speak to them, but I had not heard his words nor any reply from them. The Narcheska had stared at him as if he were a stranger accosting her when her mind was full of other matters. Tonight, they did not join us for the evening food and fire, but went directly to their tent. The dim light of a candle glowing within it was the only reminder of their presence.
When Cockle's song was finished and we had thanked him, I was full ready for bed. As much as I wanted private talk with Chade, Dutiful, and the Fool, I longed for sleep more. My body had not fully recovered from my elfbark excess, and the afternoon of heavy work in the cold had exhausted me.
I rose, stretching, and Chade beckoned me to his side. When I went to him, he asked me to bring Thick to the Prince's tent and help him prepare for bed. I thought at first it was an excuse to have quiet time to speak to me, but when I stood over Thick, my concern deepened. Thick rocked from side to side, humming continuously. His eyes were closed. I hesitated to touch him, just as a burned child hesitates to reach again toward the fire. Then the deadness of my Skill persuaded me that any leap of his mind to mine would actually be a relief rather than a shock. So I set my hand to his shoulder and shook him gently. Not only was there no jolt of Skill, but Thick gave no sign of rousing. I shook him again, more firmly, and finally had to drag him to his feet before he showed any sort of wakefulness. Then he blubbered like a suddenly wakened babe, and I felt like a beast as I steered him toward the Prince's tent. As I tugged off his snow-caked boots and outer garments, all he did was mutter semicoherent complaints about the cold. Without prompting, he crawled into his blankets and I tucked them down around him.
I had just finished when Chade and the Prince came into the tent. “I'm worried about him,” I said quietly, tipping my head toward Thick. From beneath the mounded blankets, a soft humming had already commenced.
“It's the dragon,” Chade said darkly.
“We think,” Dutiful amended wearily. He sat down on the edge of his pallet and bent over to drag off his boots. “We can't be sure. We try to Skill to Thick, and it seems as if he is there, but he just ignores us.”
I delivered the news I had carried all day like a stone. “I've had no indication that I'm recovering. My Skill is gone.”
The Prince nodded heavily, unsurprised. “I reach for you, and it's like you are not there at all. It's a strange sensation.” He lifted his eyes to meet mine. “It makes me realize that for most of my life, you have been there. A tiny presence in the corner of my mind. Did you know that?”
“I feared that,” I admitted. “Chade and I discussed it. He said that you had had strange dreams when you were small, dreams of a wolf and a man.”
For an instant, Dutiful looked startled. Then a slow smile dawned on his face. “Was that you? And Nighteyes?” He suddenly took a deep breath and looked aside from me. “They were some of the best dreams I ever had. Sometimes at night, when I was young, I would try to have the same dreams when I was falling asleep. I never had the same dream twice, but sometimes I'd have a new one. Hm. Even then, you were teaching me to Skill, how to reach out and find you. And Nighteyes. Oh, Eda, Fitz, how you must miss him! In those dreams, you were one creature. Did you know that?”
Sudden tears ambushed me. I turned and brushed at my face before they could fall. “I suspected so. Nettle sees me so, still, as a wolf-man.”
“Then you went into her dreams, too?”
Was there a note of jealousy in the Prince's voice? “Not intentionally. For either of you. I never imagined that I was teaching either of you to Skill. Nettle, I sometimes deliberately looked in on, trying to see Burrich and Molly. Because I loved them, and I missed them. And because Nettle was my daughter.”
“And me?”
For that solitary instant, I was glad my Skill was gone. I never wanted the Prince to know the role I had played in his conception. Verity might have used my body to get him, but he was still my king's son. Not mine. Not mine in any way, save the way his mind had called to mine. Aloud, I said, “You were Verity's son. I did not consciously seek you out, and I was not aware of your sharing my dreams. Not until much later.”
I glanced at Chade and was surprised to see that he was barely following our conversation. He seemed to be looking into a distance and not seeing what was before his eyes. “Chade?” I asked him worriedly. “Are you all right?”
He drew a sudden breath, as if I'd wakened him. “I think it is the dragon that is fascinating Thick. I was trying to get his attention, but his music is strong and all-consuming. Neither the Prince nor I can sense the dragon with the Skill. Yet, when I reach after Thick with the Skill, I can sense something there. But it's odd...it's like seeing the shadow of a man, but not the man himself. I cannot tell anything about him, other than that he's there. Dutiful says that from time to time his Wit catches a whiff of Icefyre, only to have him vanish like a scent when the wind changes.”
I stood still for a moment and sent my Wit questing. After a time, I came back to them. “He's there. And then he isn't. I can't tell if it's something that he is doing deliberately, some sort of Wit-camouflage, or if, as Web suggested, he's very close to death.”
I glanced at Dutiful, but his thoughts had followed a different track. I wondered if he had heard what Chade and I had said at all. “I'm going to try to Skill to Nettle tonight,” he announced suddenly. “We need a real link with Buckkeep and she's our only hope of one. I also think that if any one of us can distract Thick from the dragon, if that is what is fascinating him, then she can. Even if it isn't the dragon, she may be our best chance of reaching him.”
I was stunned. I didn't want him to try this. I did. “Do you think you can reach her?”
“Perhaps. It would be a lot easier to do if I actually knew her.” The emphasis he placed on those last words made it plain it was my fault that he didn't. I think he had heard my reluctance in my question, and been stung by it. I swallowed that, and let him speak on. “I only brushed minds with her that one time, and that was through you. Reaching her on my own is going to be difficult.”
Anxiety gnawed at me. I knew I should not ask the question of him, but I did. “If you do, what will you tell her?”
He stared at me bleakly before replying, “The truth. I know it's a novel idea, but I thought that at least one Farseer should try it.”
I knew he was trying to provoke me. The events of the day had been difficult for him, and my prince was abruptly behaving like a petulant fifteen-year-old, trying to find someone to put the blame on. I tried again to let it go past me. “The truth is a large thing. Which part of the truth do you plan to tell her?” I asked, and tried to smile as I awaited his answer.
“For now, only the parts that belong to me. That I am Prince Dutiful and I desperately need her to pass on tidings to my mother, and then convey to me her advice. I want my mother to know about Sydel and her parents. As much to be wary of them as to rescue Sydel, I'll admit. And if she will listen to that message and accept it, then I will tell her my fears for Thick: that a dragon is stealing what little mind he has. Then I'll ask her to distract him from it, if she can reach him.” He sighed suddenly. “I suppose I shall be lucky if I get that far in a conversation with her.” He gave me another doleful look.
I think at that instant I felt most keenly the loss of my Skill. I did not want Dutiful to speak to my daughter out of my hearing and awareness. I feared what he might accidentally reveal. He might influence how she thought of me before I had a chance to let her know me on her own. He answered my thought as if he had heard it.
“You'll have to trust me, won't you?”
I took a breath. “I do trust you,” I said, and tried to make that statement not a lie.
“I'll be with the lad,” Chade told me, and then laughed aloud at the dismay on my face. “No, don't say you trust me. I don't think I could stand it.”
“But I have to trust you,” I pointed out, and Chade nodded. I asked, “What did you think of what went on today? Do you think that the Hetgurd folk will turn on us and attack if the dragon is unearthed alive and we attempt to take his head?”
“Yes,” Dutiful replied. “Without doubt. I think that the absence of the Black Man's approval has inflamed every superstitious fear that they have.”