“How are you feeling?” she demanded.
“Better, somewhat,” I told her.
I glanced about for any chores that needed doing, but camp had been set without me. Kettricken was inside the tent, poring over the map by candlelight. Kettle stirred porridge by the fire while, strange to say, the Fool and Starling conversed quietly. I stood still, trying to recall something I’d meant to do, something I’d been in the middle of doing. The road. I wanted another look at the road. I turned and walked toward it.
“FitzChivalry!”
I turned, startled at the sharpness in Kettle’s call. “What is it?”
“Where are you going?” she asked. She paused, as if surprised by her own question. “I mean, is Nighteyes about? I haven’t seen him for a bit.”
“He went to hunt. He’ll be back.” I started toward the road again.
“Usually he’s made his kill and come back by now,” she continued.
I paused. “There’s not much game near the road, he said. So he’s had to go farther.” I turned away again.
“Now, there’s a thing that seems odd,” she went on. “There’s no sign of human traffic on the road. And yet the animals avoid it still. Doesn’t game usually follow whatever path is easiest?”
I called back to her, “Some animals do. Others prefer to keep to cover.”
“Go and get him, girl!” I heard Kettle tell someone sharply.
“Fitz!” I heard Starling call, but it was the Fool who caught up with me and took me by the arm.
“Come back to the tent,” he urged me, tugging at my arm.
“I just want to have another look at the road.”
“It’s dark. You’ll see nothing now. Wait until morning, when we’re traveling on it again. For now, come back to the tent.”
I went with him, but told him irritably, “You’re the one who is acting strange, Fool.”
“You’d not say that, had you seen the look on your face but a moment ago.”
The rations that night were much the same as they had been since we left Jhaampe: thick grain porridge with some chopped dried apple in it, some dried meat, and tea. It was filling, but not exciting. It did nothing to distract me from the intent way the others watched me. I finally set down my tea mug and demanded, “What?”
No one said anything at first. Then Kettricken said, bluntly, “Fitz, you don’t have a watch tonight. I want you to stay in the tent and sleep.”
“I’m fine, I can stand a watch,” I began to object, but it was my queen who ordered, “I tell you to stay within the tent tonight.”
For a moment I fought my tongue. Then I bowed my head. “As you command. I am, perhaps, overly tired.”
“No. It is more than that, FitzChivalry. You scarcely ate tonight, and unless one of us forces you to speak you do nothing save gaze off into the distance. What distracts you?”
I tried to find an answer to Kettricken’s blunt question. “I do not know. Exactly. At least, it is a difficult thing to explain.” The only sound was the tiny crackling of the fire. All eyes were on me. “When one is trained to Skill,” I went on more slowly, “one becomes aware that the magic itself has a danger to it. It attracts the attention of the user. When one is using the Skill to do a thing, one must focus one’s attention tightly on the intent and refuse to be distracted by the pulling of the Skill. If the Skill user loses that focus, if he gives in to the Skill itself, he can become lost in it. Absorbed by it.” I lifted my eyes from the fire and looked around at their faces. Everyone was still save for Kettle, who was nodding ever so slightly.
“Today, since we found the road, I have felt something that is almost like the pull of the Skill. I have not attempted to Skill; actually, for some days, I have blocked the Skill from myself as much as I can, for I have feared that Regal’s coterie may try to break into my mind and do me harm. But despite that, I have felt as if the Skill were luring me. Like a music I can almost hear, or a very faint scent of game. I catch myself straining after it, trying to decide what calls me. . . .”
I snapped my gaze back to Kettle, saw the distant hunger in her eyes. “Is it because the road is Skill-wrought?”
A flash of anger crossed her face. She looked down to her old hands curled in her lap. She gave a sigh of exasperation. “It might. The old legends that I have heard say that when a thing is Skill-wrought, it can be dangerous to some folk. Not to ordinary people, but to those who have an aptitude for the Skill but have not been trained in it. Or to those whose training is not advanced far enough for them to know how to be wary.”
“I have never heard of any legends about Skill-wrought things.” I turned to the Fool and Starling. “Have either of you?”
Both shook their heads slowly.
“It seems to me,” I said carefully to Kettle, “that someone as well-read as the Fool should have come across such legends. And certainly a trained minstrel should have heard something about them.” I continued to look at her levelly.
She crossed her arms on her chest. “I am not to blame for what they have not read or heard,” she said stiffly. “I only tell you what I was told, a long time ago.”
“How long ago?” I pressed. Across from me, Kettricken frowned, but did not interfere.
“A very long time ago,” Kettle replied coldly. “Back when young men respected their elders.”
The Fool’s face lit with a delighted grin. Kettle seemed to feel she had won something, for she set her tea mug in her porridge bowl with a clatter and handed them to me. “It is your turn to clean the dishes,” she told me severely. She got up and stamped away from the fire and into the tent.
As I slowly gathered the dishes to wipe them out with clean snow, Kettricken came to stand beside me. “What do you suspect?” she asked me in her forthright way. “Do you think she is a spy, an enemy among us?”
“No. I do not think she is an enemy. But I think she is . . . something. Not just an old woman with a religious interest in the Fool. Something more than that.”
“But you don’t know what?”
“No. I don’t. Only I have noticed that she seems to know a deal more about the Skill than I expect her to. Still, an old person gathers much odd knowledge in a lifetime. It may be no more than that.” I glanced up to where the wind was stirring the tree tops. “Do you think we shall have snow tonight?” I asked Kettricken.
“Almost certainly. And we shall be fortunate if it stops by morning. We should gather more firewood, and stack it near the tent’s door. No, not you. You should go within the tent. If you wandered off now, in this darkness and with snow to come, we’d never find you.”
I began to protest, but she stopped me with a question. “My Verity. He is more highly trained than you are in the Skill?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Do you think this road would call to him, as it does to you?”
“Almost certainly. But he has always been far stronger than I in matters of Skill or stubbornness.”
A sad smile tweaked her lips. “Yes, he is stubborn, that one.” She sighed suddenly, heavily. “Would that we were only a man and a woman, living far from both sea and mountains. Would that things were simple for us.”
“I wish for that as well,” I said quietly. “I wish for blisters on my hands from simple work and Molly’s candles lighting our home.”
“I hope you get that, Fitz,” Kettricken said quietly. “I truly do. But we’ve a long road to tread between here and there.”
“That we do,” I agreed. And a sort of peace bloomed between us. I did not doubt that if circumstances demanded it, she would take my daughter for the throne. But she could no more have changed her attitude about duty and sacrifice than she could have changed the blood and bones of her body. It was who she was. It was not that she wished to take my child from me.
All I needed do to keep my daughter was to bring her husband safely back to her.
We went to bed later that night than had become our custom. All were wearier than usual. The Fool took first watch despite the lines of strain in his face. The new ivory cast his skin had taken on made him look terrible when he was cold, like a statue of misery carved from old bone. The rest of us did not notice the cold much when we were moving during the day, but I don’t think the Fool was ever completely warm. Yet he bundled himself warmly and went to stand outside in the rising wind without a murmur of complaint. The rest of us lay down to sleep.
The storm was, at first, a thing that was happening above us, in the treetops. Loose needles fell rattling against the yurt’s skin and as the storm grew more intense, small branches and occasional dumps of icy snow. The cold grew stronger and became a thing that crept in at every gap of blanket or garment. Midway through Starling’s watch, Kettricken called her in, saying the storm would stand watch for us now. When Starling entered, the wolf slunk in at her heels. To my relief, no one objected very loudly. When Starling commented that he carried snow in with him, the Fool replied that he had less on him than she did. Nighteyes came immediately to our part of the tent, and lay down between the Fool and the outer wall. He set his great head on the Fool’s chest and heaved a sigh before closing his eyes. I almost felt jealous.
He’s colder than you are. Much colder. And, in the city, where hunting was so poor, he often shared food with me.
So. He is pack, then?
I asked with a trace of amusement.
You tell me,
Nighteyes challenged me.
He saved your life, fed you from his kills, and shared his den with you. Is he pack with us or not?
I suppose he is,
I said after a moment’s consideration. I had never seen things in quite that light before. Unobtrusively, I shifted in my bedding to be slightly closer to the Fool. “Are you cold?” I asked him aloud.
“Not so long as I keep shivering,” he told me miserably. Then he added, “Actually, I’m warmer with the wolf between me and the wall. He gives off a lot of heat.”
“He’s grateful for all the times you fed him in Jhaampe.”
The Fool squinted at me through the tent’s dimness. “Really? I did not think animals carried memories for that long.”
That startled me into thinking about it. “Usually, they don’t. But tonight, he recalls that you fed him and is grateful.”
The Fool lifted a hand to scratch carefully around Nighteyes’ ears. Nighteyes made a puppy growl of pleasure and happily snuggled closer. I wondered again at all the changes I was seeing in him. More and more often, his reactions and thoughts were a mixture of human and wolf.
I was too tired to give it much thought. I closed my eyes and started to sink into sleep. After a time, I realized that my eyes were tightly shut, my jaw clenched, and I was no closer to sleep. I wanted to simply let go of consciousness, so weary was I, but the Skill so threatened and lured me that I could not relax enough to sleep. I kept shifting, trying to find a physical position that was more relaxing, until Kettle on the other side of me pointedly asked me if I had fleas. I tried to be still.
I stared up into the darkness of the tent’s ceiling, listening to the blowing wind outside and the quiet breathing of my companions inside. I closed my eyes and laxed my muscles, trying to at least rest my body. I wanted so desperately to fall asleep. But Skill dreams tugged at me like tiny barbed hooks in my mind until I thought I should scream. Most were horrible. Some sort of Forging ceremony in a coastal village, a huge fire burning in a pit, and captives dragged forward by jeering OutIslanders and offered the choice of being Forged or flinging themselves into the pit. Children were watching. I jerked my mind back from the flames.
I caught my breath and calmed my eyes. Sleep. In a night chamber in Buckkeep Castle, Lacey was carefully removing lace from an old wedding gown. Her mouth was pinched shut with disapproval as she picked out the tiny threads that secured the ornate work. “It will bring a good price,” Patience said to her. “Perhaps enough to supply our watchtowers for another month. He would understand what we must do for Buck.” She held her head very upright, and there was more gray in the black of her hair than I recalled as her fingers unfastened the strings of tiny pearls that glistened in scalloping at the neckline of the gown. Time had aged the white of the gown to ivory, and the luxuriant breadth of the skirts cascaded over their laps. Patience cocked her head suddenly as if listening, a puzzled frown on her face. I fled.
I used all my will to pry my eyes open. The fire in the small brazier burned small, shedding a reddish light. I studied the poles that supported the taut hides. I willed my breath to calmness. I dared not think of anything that might lure me out of my own life, not Molly, not Burrich, not Verity. I tried to find some neutral image to rest my mind upon, something with no special connotations to my life. I called up a bland landscape. A smooth blank plain of land cloaked in white snow, a peaceful night sky over it. Blessed stillness . . . I sank into it as into a soft feather bed.
A rider came, swiftly, leaning low, clinging to his horse’s neck, urging him on. There was a simple safe beauty to the duo, the running horse, the man’s streaming cloak echoed by the horse’s flowing tail. For a time, there was no more than this, the dark horse and rider cleaving the snowy plain under an open moonlit night. The horse ran well, an effortless stretching and gathering of muscles and the man sat him lightly, almost appearing to ride above him rather than on his back. The moon glinted silver off the man’s brow, glistening upon the rampant buck badge that he wore. Chade.
Three riders and horses appeared. Two came from behind, but those horses were running wearily, heavily. The lone rider would outdistance them if the chase went much longer. The third pursuer cut the plain at an angle to the others. The piebald horse ran with a will, unmindful of the deeper snow he churned through in pursuit. His small rider sat him high and well, a woman or a young man. The moonlight danced lightly along a drawn blade. For a time it looked as if the young rider would intersect with Chade’s path of flight, but the old assassin saw him. He spoke to his horse, and the gelding put on a burst of speed, incredible to see. He left the two lumbering pursuers far behind, but the piebald reached the packed trail now and his legs stretched long as he endeavored to catch up. For a time, it looked as if Chade would escape cleanly, but the piebald horse was fresher. The gelding could not maintain his burst of speed, and the even pace of the piebald slowly ate into his lead. The gap closed gradually but relentlessly. Then the piebald ran right behind the black gelding. The gelding slowed and Chade turned in the saddle and lifted an arm in greeting. The other rider shouted to him, her voice thin in the cold air. “For Verity the true King!” She tossed a bag to him, and he threw a packet to her. Abruptly they separated, the two horses both veering from the trodden path to go wide of one another. The hoofbeats dwindled in the night.