Golden Fool (52 page)

I pondered. Should she tell Molly she had a dream? No.
You can’t. I’m afraid they must endure. So, be strong for them, knowing all will be well. Help your mother, care for your little brothers, and wait. If I know your father at all, he will be at your side as soon as his horse can bear them there.

You know my father?

Such a question.
Very well indeed.
And then I knew I had gone too far, that I had given her words that were dangerous to both of us. So I Skill-suggested to her, more gently than a willow leaf moves in a breeze, that she would sleep now, truly sleep, and wake refreshed in the morning. Her grip on me weakened and I slipped away from her, back behind the safety of my walls. I opened my eyes to the dark of my own chamber. I took a deep breath, rolled over, and shouldered deeper into my bedding. I was hungry, but morning and breakfast would come soon enough.

A fumbling thought intruded, wafting on music. The Skilling was hesitant, not with lack of ability but with a squeamish reluctance to touch his mind to mine.
You finally made her stop crying. Now Thick can sleep, too.

His touch vanished from my mind, leaving me to stare restlessly at my ceiling. But even as I recentered my mind and tried to convince myself that Thick’s Skilling to me should be viewed as a positive step, not an invasion, another mind touched mine. It was distant and immense, and impossibly foreign. There was nothing human to the way her thoughts moved as she observed with bitter amusement,
Now perhaps you will learn not to dream so loud. He is not the only one it bothers. Nor is he the only one you reveal yourself to, little man. What are you? What do you mean to me?

Then her thoughts abandoned me as a retreating wave leaves a drowned man on a beach. I rolled to the edge of my bed and retched dryly, more battered by that prodigious mind contact than by the beating I’d taken from Rory. The foreignness of the being that had pressed against my mind disrupted me, gagging my thoughts as if I had tried to breathe oil or drink flame. Panting in the dark, I felt the sweat slide down my brow and back and wondered what my errant Skilling had awakened in the world.

chapter
XVII

EXPLOSIONS

. . . and overheard a conversation between Erikska and the captain. He complained that the wind battled the ship, as if El himself begrudged bearing their homecoming. Erikska laughed at him, and mocked him for believing in “such old gods. They have grown feeble of muscle and wit. It is the Pale Lady who commands the winds now. As she is displeased with the Narcheska, she makes all of you suffer.” At her words, the captain turned aside from her. His face was angry, as an Outislander looks angry because he hates to show fear.

Of the handmaid you bade me especially watch, I have seen no sign. Either she has remained within the Narcheska’s cabin for this entire voyage, or she is not aboard this vessel. I think the second is likelier.

—
UNSIGNED REPORT TO CHADE FALLSTAR ON THE
NARCHESKA
’
S JOURNEY HOME

Sleep was gone. I ended up rising, dressing, and ascending to my tower. It was cold up there, and dark save for a few coals in the fireplace. I lit candles from the embers on the hearth and restored the fire. I damped a cloth in water and held it to my aching face. For a time I just stared into the fire. Then, in a useless effort to distract myself from all the questions I could not answer, I sat down at the table and tried to study the current set of scrolls that Chade had left out on the tabletop. These were the Outislander dragon legends, but there were two there that were new, the ink clean and black on the pale cream vellum. He would not have left them there if he had not wanted me to see them. One dealt with a report of a silver-blue dragon seen over Bingtown Harbor during a decisive battle between the Bingtown Traders and the Chalcedeans. The other looked like a child’s practice of the alphabet, the letters sprawling and malformed. But long ago he had taught me several ciphers by which we could leave messages for one another, and this parchment rapidly gave way to my efforts to decode it. Indeed, so simple was the secret of it that I scowled, wondering if Chade were losing his grip on our need for secrecy or if the quality of spies he retained had somehow lessened. For that is what it proved to be, an early report from the spy he had sent off to the Out Islands. It was mostly an account of gossip, rumors, and overheard conversations on the Narcheska’s ship during the voyage to the Out Islands. I found little that was immediately useful there, though a reference to a Pale Woman did disturb me. It was as if an old shadow out of my previous life had reached out toward me, with claws instead of insubstantial fingers.

I was making myself tea when Chade arrived. He thrust the scroll-rack door open and staggered in. His cheeks and nose were red, and for a shocked moment, I thought the old man was drunk. He clutched at the table edge and seated himself in my chair and said plaintively, “Fitz?”

“What’s happened?” I asked him as I went to him.

He stared at me, and then said overloudly, “I can’t hear you.”

“What’s happened to you?” I asked again, more loudly.

I don’t think he heard those words, either, but he explained, “It blew up. I was working on that same mix, the one I showed you at your cottage. This time it worked too well. It blew up!” He lifted his hands to his face, patting at his cheeks and brow. His face was tragic. I immediately knew what troubled him. I went and got him a looking glass. He stared into it while I fetched a fresh basin of water and a cloth. I wet it for him, and he held it against his face for a moment. When he took it away, some of the flush had gone from his skin, but most of his eyebrows had, also.

“It looks as if a great flash of fire hit you. Part of your hair is singed also.”

“What?”

I motioned to him to lower his voice.

“I can’t hear you,” he repeated plaintively. “My ears are ringing as if my stepfather had boxed them for me. Gods, I hated that man!”

That he spoke of him at all was a measure of his distress. Chade had never told me much of his childhood. He lifted his hands and fingered his ears as if to be sure they were still there, and then plugged and unplugged them with his fingers. “I can’t hear,” he repeated yet again. “But my face isn’t too bad, is it? I’m not going to be scarred, am I?”

I shook my head at him. “Your eyebrows will grow back. This”—I touched his cheek lightly—“seems no worse than a sunburn or wind scald. It will go away. And I think your deafness will pass, also.” I had no basis for saying the last, save that I hoped it so devoutly.

“I can’t hear you,” he agonized.

I patted his shoulder comfortingly and put my cup of tea in front of him. I touched my mouth to draw his attention to my lips and then said carefully, “Is your apprentice all right?” Well I knew he would not be conducting such experiments alone at such an hour.

He watched my mouth move, and after a moment he seemed to comprehend my words because he said, “Don’t worry about that. I took care of her.” Then, at my shocked look at his use of the feminine pronoun, he exclaimed angrily, “Mind your own business, Fitz!”

His irritation was directed more at himself than at me, and if I had not been so worried about him, I would have laughed. Her. So I’d been replaced with a girl. I reined my mind away from considering who she was, or why Chade had chosen her, to giving Chade what comfort I could. After a time, I ascertained that Chade could hear me, but not well. I dared to hope his hearing would recover, and tried to convey that to him. He nodded and waved a hand dismissively, but I could see the haunting worry in his eyes. If his deafness remained, it would severely compromise his ability to counsel the Queen.

Nevertheless, he bravely tried to ignore his injury, asking me loudly if I’d seen the scrolls on the table, and then asking me what on earth I’d done to my face. To keep him from shouting more questions, I wrote down brief answers to his questions. I dismissed my injuries as the result of accidentally getting involved in a random tavern brawl. He was too preoccupied with his own problems to question that. Next he wrote on the scrap of paper we were using, “Did you speak with Burrich?”

“I judged it best not to,” I inked in reply. He pursed his lips, sighed, and said nothing, but I could tell that there was much he wished to say. He’d save it for later when conversation might be easier. Then we went over the spy scrolls, pointing out interesting bits to one another even as we agreed that there was nothing there that was immediately useful. Chade wrote that he was hoping to hear soon from a spy that he’d sent out to Aslevjal Isle, to see if there was any scrap of truth to the legend.

I wanted to discuss my progress with Thick and Dutiful, but deferred that not only on account of his dampened hearing but because I was still trying to sort out how well I was doing. I’d already decided that I’d take my efforts with Thick further tomorrow.

It was then that I realized tomorrow was nearly upon us. Chade seemed to realize the same thing. He told me that he would seek his own bed, and plead a stomach affliction when the servant came to wake him.

I had no such luxury of bed rest. Instead, I retreated briefly to my room to put on fresh clothing before I made the trek to Verity’s tower to await both my students. I am sure I dreaded the day’s lesson more than either of them, for my head still pounded. I clenched my brow against it as I built a fire in the tower hearth and kindled some candles on the table. Sometimes I could not recall the last time I had been completely free of Skill-pain. I briefly considered going back to my room for elfbark. When I rejected the notion, it was not because I feared it would damage my ability to Skill. It was that I connected the drug too strongly with my stupid quarrel with the Fool. No. No more of that.

I heard Dutiful’s footfall on the stair outside the door, and there was no time to ponder such things anymore. He shut the door firmly behind him and came to the table. I sighed silently. His posture plainly said that he had not completely forgiven me. The first words out of his mouth were “I don’t want to learn the Skill with a half-wit as my partner. There must be someone else.” Then he stared at me. “What happened to you?”

“I got in a fight.” I made the reply short, to let him know that was as much as I would say. “And as far as Thick working with you on the Skill, I know of no other suitable candidates. He’s our only choice.”

“Oh, he can’t be. Have you made an organized search for ones?”

“No.”

Then, before I could say anything further, he picked up the little figurine from the table. The chain dangled from it. “What’s this?” he asked.

“It’s yours. You found it on that beach where we encountered an Other. Don’t you remember it?”

“No.” He stared at it with dread. Then, unwillingly, “Yes. Yes, I do.” He swayed in his chair, looking at it. “It’s Elliania, isn’t it? What does it mean, Tom? That I found it there, before I’d ever even met her?”

“What?” I held out my hand for it, but he didn’t seem to notice. Instead he just sat, staring at it. I got up and walked around the table. When I looked at the small face and the coils of black hair, and bared breasts and the black, black eyes, I suddenly saw he was right. It was Elliania. Not as she was now, but as she would be, when she was a woman grown. The blue ornament carved in the woman’s hair was identical to the one that the Narcheska had worn. I drew a deep breath. “I don’t know what it means.”

The Prince spoke as a man does when he dreams. He looked down into the doll’s face. “That place where we were, that beach . . . it was like a vortex. Like a whirlpool that draws magic to itself. All sorts of magic.” He closed his eyes for an instant. He still clutched the carved figurine in his hand. “I nearly died there, didn’t I? The Skill sucked me in and pulled me to pieces. But you came after me and . . . someone helped you. Someone—” He groped helplessly for a word. “Someone great. Someone bigger than the sky.”

It was not how I would have expressed it, but I knew what he meant. I suddenly recognized how reluctant I had been to discuss the events on the beach or even think about them. There was a nimbus around the hours we had spent there, a light that obscured rather than illuminated. It filled me with dread. It was why I hadn’t shown the feathers to the Fool or discussed them with anyone. They were a vulnerability. They were a door to the unknown. When I picked them up, I had set something larger in motion, something that was beyond anyone’s controlling. Even now, my mind cringed away, as if by refusing to remember, I could undo those events.

“What was that? Who was that, that we encountered there?”

“I don’t know,” I said shortly.

A deep enthusiasm suddenly kindled in the Prince’s eyes. “We have to find out.”

“No. We don’t.” I took a breath. “In fact, I think we should be very careful to avoid finding out.”

He stared at me in consternation. “But why? Don’t you remember what it felt like? How wonderful it was?”

I remembered only too well, especially now that we spoke of it together. I shook my head, and suddenly wished I’d kept the figurine hidden. The sight of her was pulling all the memories back into my mind, just as a familiar perfume or the few notes of a song will suddenly recall all of an evening’s foolishness. “Yes. It was wonderful. And it was dangerous. I didn’t want to come back from there, Dutiful. Neither did you. She made us.”

“She? It wasn’t a she. It was like . . . like a father. Strong and safe. Caring.”

“I don’t think it was either of those things,” I said unwillingly. “I think that we each shaped it into what we wanted it to be.”

“You think we made it all up to ourselves?”

“No. No, I think we encountered something that was bigger than we could grasp. And so we set it into a familiar shape, so we could behold it. So our minds could encompass it.”

“What makes you think that? Something you read in the Skill scrolls?”

I answered reluctantly. “No. I’ve found nothing in the Skill scrolls about anything like that. I just think that because . . . because I do.”

He stared at me and I shrugged hopelessly, because I had no better explanation for the boy or myself. Only a stirring anticipation at the memory of the creature we had encountered, backed by an ominous dread.

The mantel door scraping open saved me. Thick entered, sneezing. He wore the whistle outside his shirt. The contrast between the shiny paint on the whistle and the ragged, grimy garment suddenly made me see him anew. I was appalled. His lank hair was flat to his head, and the flesh that showed through his rent garments was grimy. I suddenly perceived him as Dutiful did, and realized that the Prince’s abhorrence went past the man’s physical deformity and mental limits. Dutiful literally drew back as Thick came closer, his nose wrinkling. My years with the wolf had led me to accept that certain things smelled certain ways. But the reek of Thick’s unwashed body was not simply a part of him as intrinsic as the ferret’s musk. It could be changed, and it would have to be changed if I expected the Prince to work with him.

For now, “Thick, would you sit here?” I invited him, and drew out the chair farthest from the Prince. Thick looked at me suspiciously. Then he dragged it out, looked at the seat as if there might be some trick to it, and then plopped down into it. He began to scratch at something behind his left ear. When I glanced at the Prince, he seemed transfixed with a horrified fascination. “Well. Here we all are,” I announced, and then wondered what I was going to do with them.