I didn’t know. I didn’t think there was any way I could be absolutely certain of what had happened. “Try it together,” I suggested. “Both of you attempt to send the same message to Chade, and only Chade. Try to make a concerted effort.”
“Concerted?”
“Do it together,” Dutiful supplied to Thick. There was a moment of silent conference between the two. I suspected they chose a message. “Now,” I suggested and watched Chade’s face.
He furrowed his brow. “Something about a bun.”
Dutiful gave a sigh of exasperation. “Yes, but that wasn’t what we were supposed to be conveying. Thick is having a bit of difficulty concentrating.”
“I’m hungry.”
“No you aren’t. You just want to eat,” Dutiful told him. Which put Thick into a sulk. No amount of prodding or persuasion would induce him to try again. We eventually allowed him the food and resolved to take a lesson from it on the morrow.
Yet the next morning we seemed doomed to have as little luck as before. Spring was in the air. I had thrown the window shutters open wide to the dawn. As yet, the sun was only a promise on the horizon, but the wind off the ocean had a lively and freshened air to it that spoke of life and change in the seasons. I stood breathing it in for a long time while I waited for the others to arrive.
I was no more at ease in conscience over what I had planned against Lord Golden. I had begun to wish I had not divulged that conversation to Chade, or told him of the Fool’s tattoos. Surely if he had wished Chade to know of them, he would have told him during the course of their conversation about the Narcheska’s tattoos. I had a deep and profound sense of having made a wrong choice. There was no way to undo it, and confessing it to the Fool seemed unimaginable. The only thing more unimaginable was to allow him to go to Aslevjal if he believed he would die there. So, childish though it felt, I had decided that I would simply hold my tongue and leave the matter in Chade’s hands. He would be the one who would not allow Lord Golden to accompany us. I drew another deep breath of spring air, hoping it would make me feel rejuvenated. Instead, I only felt more deeply anxious.
Civil Bresinga had returned to Buckkeep. The guard that had accompanied him on his journey was nominally to express Farseer sympathy at the loss of his mother. Yet he still knew, even if others did not, that he could look forward to years of being monitored at Buckkeep. He would remain at the castle until he reached his majority, with the crown benevolently managing his lands. Galekeep was closed save for a skeleton staff provided by the Queen. It seemed to me a mild rebuke compared to his treasonous conduct. His Wit had been kept confidential; I supposed that the revelation of it could be used as a threat to discourage him from further wrongdoing. He had not been connected at all to the deaths of three men in Buckkeep Town. I seethed that he had gotten off so lightly for exposing my prince to so much danger. From what Chade had told me, Dutiful had insisted that Civil had passed on very little information about the Prince to the Piebalds, and most of it was knowledge that even the humblest serving boy in the keep would have. It did not comfort me. Even more unsettling was that not only Laudwine but Padget had expressed an avid interest in whatever information Civil could discover about both Lord Golden and me. He knew little, so he had told them little. Still, Civil had confessed to the Prince that their interest made him very curious about us.
I’d spied on Civil in his rooms shortly after his return. He had looked like a forlorn and devastated young man. A single family servant remained with him at Buckkeep. He was a lad stripped of family and home, whittled down to his barest possessions, and his Wit-beast consigned to the stables. The simplicity of the chamber and furnishings offered to him was appropriate to a minor noble, but doubtless he had enjoyed far better at home. He had spent a good portion of his evening sitting and staring at the fire. I suspected he communed with his cat, but had not detected a flow of Wit between them. Instead, I had felt his misery as an almost tangible weight in his chamber.
I still didn’t trust him.
I was still staring out the window when I heard the Prince’s footfalls on the stairs. A moment later, he entered, shutting the door firmly behind him. Chade and Thick would be coming soon, by the secret passage, but for now I had a moment or two alone with him. I didn’t look at him as I asked him, “Does Civil’s cat speak to you?”
“Pard? No. He’s a cat, so he could, of course, if he wished. But it would be regarded as... rude, I suppose.” He made a considering noise. “It’s an odd thing to think of. Amongst the Old Blood who prefer cats, there are a number of shared customs. I would never attempt to initiate speech with someone else’s cat partner. It would be like, well, like flirting with someone’s intended. In all the time I’ve known Pard, he has never shown any interest in communicating with me. Of course, he did convey to me, that one time, that Civil was in danger. But that was more in the nature of a threat. Civil had brought him to me in a great canvas sack. I gathered from what Civil told me that he’d tricked the cat into getting into the sack in the course of some rough game they were playing. Only then Civil tied the sack shut and dragged him up the stairs to my chamber. And I do mean dragged. Pard’s a big cat.”
He heaved a sudden sigh. “I should have known, from that alone. If Civil had not been distraught, he never would have treated Pard so disrespectfully. But Civil seemed so distressed and in such a hurry that I agreed to keep the cat in my chamber until he returned for it and asked few questions. But then, after he’d gone, I couldn’t stand to hear Pard snarling and doing that singsong whine. He was trying to gut his way out of the sack with the claws on his hind feet, but Civil had chosen a very heavy canvas. After a while, he just lay there, panting, and I began to fear that he would suffocate. He sounded as if he were in distress. But the moment I opened the mouth of the bag, he came out clawing and knocked me down. He grabbed me here,” and Dutiful’s hand measured the side of his throat, “and dug his hind claws into my belly. He swore he’d kill me if I didn’t let him out of the room. Then, before I could take any action, he yowled and raked his claws down me. That was when Civil was attacked. He said it was my fault and he’d kill me for it unless I saved him. So I Skilled to you.”
He had joined me at the window, looking out over the water’s wrinkling face as the sunrise coaxed color out of the black waves. He stared for a time in silence.
“Then what happened?” I nudged him.
“Oh. I suppose I was thinking of what must have been happening to you then. Why didn’t you Skill to me? Don’t you think I would have sent you aid?”
His question startled me. I took a moment to find the answer within myself. I laughed. “I suppose you would have, if I’d thought of it. But, for so many years, it was just the wolf and I. And when I lost Nighteyes ...I never thought that I could call out to you for help. Or even let you know where I was. It just never occurred to me.”
“I tried to reach you. When they were... strangling Civil, his cat went wild. Pard leapt off me and went racing around the room, killing everything within reach. I had no idea of the damage his claws could do. The bed curtains, clothing... There’s still a tapestry rolled up under my bed that I haven’t had the courage to tell anyone about. I think it’s ruined. And I suspect it was priceless.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got one you can have.” He looked puzzled at my lopsided smile.
“I tried to Skill to you. Even as Pard was shredding my room. But I couldn’t get through to you.”
I recalled something that I hadn’t in a long time. “Your father had the same complaint about me. That, when I went into battle, I could not sustain a Skill link to him. Nor could he establish one with me at such times.” I shrugged. “I’d near forgotten that.” Without thinking, I fingered the bite-scar at the angle of my neck. Then I realized Dutiful was staring at me with that look of boyish admiration and I snatched my hand down.
“And that is the only time that Pard has ever spoken to you?”
He shrugged. “Almost. Abruptly he stopped tearing up my things. Then he thanked me. Very stiffly. I think it must be difficult for a cat to thank anyone. After that, he got up into the middle of my bed and ignored me. He stayed there until Civil came for him. My room reeks of cat still. I think Pard sprays when he fights.”
From the little I knew of cats, it seemed likely. I said as much. Then, delicately, because this was a topic that was tender between us, I asked him, “Dutiful? Why do you trust Civil? I can’t understand why you allow him in your life after what he’s done.”
He gave me a puzzled glance. “He trusts me. I don’t think anyone could trust a man as he does me, and not be worthy of my trust in return. Besides. I need him if I am to understand the Old Blood people of my kingdom. My mother pointed that out to me. That I must know at least one, very well, if we are to treat with them at all.”
I hadn’t thought of that, but I knew what he meant. The Old Blood lifestyle was a culture hidden within our own Six Duchies culture. I’d had a glimpse of it, but I could not explain it to Dutiful, as could someone born and raised in it. Still, “There must be someone else who could serve you that way. I still do not see what Civil has ever done to deserve your regard of him.”
Dutiful gave a small sigh. “FitzChivalry. He entrusted his cat to me. If you knew you were going forth to die, and you did not want Nighteyes to die alongside you, where would you leave him? Who would you entrust him to? A man you had willingly betrayed? Or a friend whom you trusted to see past all shams?”
“Oh,” I said, when his question had sunk in to my mind. “I see. You are right.”
No man would entrust half his soul to a man he cared nothing for.
In a short time Chade and Thick emerged from the mantelpiece. The old man was scowling and shaking cobwebs from his elaborate sleeves. Thick was humming to himself, odd notes that filled in the gaps in a song that he Skilled to the morning. He seemed to be taking a great deal of pleasure in it. If I listened only with my ears, he seemed to be merely making annoying random sounds. What a difference access to another’s mind could make in my understanding of him.
Thick’s eyes went immediately to the table and I sensed his disappointment that no pastries awaited him. With a sigh, I hoped that his dashed expectations would not interfere with today’s efforts. I seated my students as I had the day before, with Chade on one side of the table and Dutiful and Thick close beside each other on the other side. As before, I stood behind Dutiful and Thick, ready to fall on them and physically separate them if necessary. I knew Dutiful regarded this as somewhat dramatic, and even Chade seemed to think me overly anxious. But neither of them had ever been near drained of life by another Skill-user.
As before, Dutiful set his hand to Thick’s shoulder. As before, they tried to reach Chade with a simple message and could not. Dutiful could reach my mind, as could Thick, but even in the familiar task of reaching me, they could not unite. I was beginning to think it was hopeless. One of the most basic tasks of a coterie was to be able to join their Skill and make it available to their king. We could not even do that. And the repeated failures were beginning to make us fractious with one another.
“Thick. Stop your music. How can I concentrate with your music running continually in the back of my mind?” Dutiful demanded after our latest effort had yielded naught.
Thick flinched to his prince’s rebuke. As his eyes filled with tears, I suddenly realized how deep and powerful a bond he had formed with Dutiful. I think the Prince realized his error also, for an instant later he shook his head at himself and commented, “It’s the loveliness of the music that distracts me, Thick. I don’t wonder that you always want to share it with the world. But for now, we must focus on our lessons. Do you see?”
Chade’s eyes suddenly kindled to green sparks. “No!” he exclaimed. “Thick, do not stop your music. For I have never heard it, though I have often heard from Dutiful and Tom how lovely it is. Let me hear your music, Thick, just this once. Put your hand on Dutiful’s shoulder and send your music to me. Please.”
Dutiful and I gawked at Chade, but Thick beamed. He did not hesitate for an instant. Almost before Dutiful had dropped his hand from Thick’s shoulder, the little man had seized Dutiful’s in a firm grip. Eyes fixed on Chade, mouth wide open with delight, he gave Dutiful no time to focus. Music filled us all like a flood. Vaguely, I saw Chade reel with the impact of it. His eyes widened, and even though triumph dawned on his features, I also saw a shadow of fear.
I had not underestimated Thick’s strength. Never had I witnessed such an outpouring of Skill. Up to now, Thick’s music had been always in the undercurrent of his thoughts, as unconscious as his breathing or the beating of his heart. Now he flung himself out wide to the world, rejoicing in his mothersong.
As a muddy river in flood time can color the whole bay it drains into, so did Thick’s song dye the great Skill current. His song entered the flow and changed it. I had never imagined anything like it. Gripped by it as I was myself, I found myself powerless to take command of my body. The overwhelming fascination of Thick’s music drew me into it and wrapped me in his rhythm and melody. Somewhere, I sensed that Dutiful and Chade were with me, but I could not discern them for the curtain of beckoning music. Nor was I the only one so drawn. I sensed others in the Skill curtain. Some were single threads, a trailing tendril of magic from those barely Skilled at all. Perhaps somewhere a fisherman wondered at the odd tune running in the back of his mind, or a mother changed the lullaby she hummed. Others were more engaged. I sensed folk who halted in the midst of what they were doing and looked round blindly, trying to locate the source of the whispering music.
There were not many, but some were there, their awareness of the Skill a constant in their lives, a background hush of muted voices that they had schooled themselves to ignore. But this rush of music broke through all such habitual barriers, and I sensed them turn toward us. Some likely shouted aloud in shock; others may have fallen to the ground. Only one voice did I hear, clear and unencumbered by fear:
What is this?
Nettle demanded.
Whence comes this waking dream?