Fool's Fate Read online

  I carried the armload of clothing over to one of Chade’s old wardrobes, intending to stuff it all inside. Then my conscience smote me, and I carefully shook out and folded each garment before putting it away. In the process, I realized that, taken individually, many of the garments were not as ostentatious as I had imagined them. I added the warmly lined cloak to my sea chest. When all of the clothing was stored or packed, I set the jeweled sword on top of the chest. It would go with me. Despite its showy hilt, it was well made and finely balanced. Like the man who had given it to me, its glittering appearance obscured its true purpose.

  There was a courteous tap and the wine rack swung out of the way. As Dutiful stepped wearily into the room, Gilly leaped from the bed and sprang to confront him, menacing him with white teeth as he made abortive springs at his feet.

  “Yes, I’m glad to see you, too,” Dutiful greeted him and swept the little animal up in one hand. He scratched the ferret’s throat gently and then set him down. Gilly immediately attacked his feet. Being careful not to tread upon him, Dutiful came into the room, saying, “You had something extra for me to pack?” With a heavy sigh, he dropped down on the bed beside me. “I’m so tired of packing,” he confided. “I hope it’s something small.”

  “It’s on the table,” I told him. “And it’s not small.”

  As he walked toward the worktable, I knew a moment of intense regret and would have undone the gift if I could. How could it possibly mean to this boy what it had to me? He looked at it, and then looked up at me, shock on his face. “I don’t understand. You’re giving me a sword?”

  I stood up. “It’s your father’s sword. Verity gave it to me, when last we parted. It’s yours, now,” I said quietly.

  The look that overtook Dutiful’s face in that moment erased any regret I might have felt. He put out a hand toward it, drew it back, and then looked at me. Incredulous wonder shone in his face. I smiled.

  “I said it was yours. Pick it up and get the feel of it. I’ve just cleaned and sharpened it, so be careful.”

  He reached his hand down and set it on the hilt. I waited, watching, for him to lift it and discover its exquisite balance. But he drew his hand back.

  “No.” The word shocked me. Then, “Wait here. Please. Just wait.” And then he turned and fled the room. I heard the scuff of his running footsteps fade in the hidden corridor.

  His reaction puzzled me. He had seemed so delighted at first. I walked over and looked again at the blade. Freshly oiled and wiped, it gleamed. It was both beautiful and elegant, yet there was nothing in its design that would interfere with its intended function. It was a tool for killing other men. It had been made for Verity by Hod, the same Weaponsmaster who had taught me to wield both blade and pike. When Verity had gone on his quest, she had gone with him, and died for him. It was a sword worthy of a king. Why had Dutiful rejected it?

  I was sitting before the hearth, a cup of hot tea between my two hands, when he returned. He carried a long, wrapped bundle with him. He was talking and untying the leather thongs that bound it as he came through the door. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of this a long time ago, when my mother first told me who you were. I guess because it was given to me so long ago, and then my mother put it away for me. Here!”

  The wrappings fell away from it and he flourished it aloft. Grinning widely, he suddenly reversed his grip on it, and proffered it to me, the hilt resting on his left forearm. He grinned at me, his eyes blazing with delight and anticipation. “Take it, FitzChivalry Farseer. Your father’s sword.”

  A shiver ran over me, standing up every hair on my body. I set the teacup aside and came slowly to my feet. “Chivalry’s sword?”

  “Yes.” I had not thought his grin could grow wider, but it did.

  I stared at it. Yes. Even without his words, I would have known it. This blade was the elder brother to the one Verity had carried. It resembled the other sword, but this one was slightly more ornate and longer, designed for a man taller than Verity. There was a stylized buck on the cross-guard. It was, I suddenly knew, a sword made for a prince who would be king. I knew I could never bear it. I longed for it all the same. “Where did you get it?” I asked breathlessly.

  “Patience had it, of course. She’d left it at Withywoods when she came to Buckkeep. Then, when she was ‘sorting the clutter,’ as she put it, after the end of the Red Ship War, when she was moving her household to Tradeford, she came across it. In a closet. ‘Just as well I never took it to Buckkeep,’ she told me when she gave it to me. ‘Regal would have taken it and sold it. Or kept it for himself.’ ”

  It was so like Patience that I had to smile. A king’s sword, amongst her “clutter.”

  “Take it!” Dutiful commanded me eagerly, and I had to. I had to feel, at least once, how my hand would fit where my father’s had rested. As I took it from him, it felt near weightless. It perched in my hand like a bird. The moment I relieved Dutiful of it, he stepped to the table and took up Verity’s sword. I heard his exclamation of satisfaction, and grinned as he gripped it two-handed and swept it through the air. These blades were proper swords, as fit to shear through flesh as skewer some vulnerable point. For a time, we were both like boys as we moved the blades in a variety of ways, from the small shifts of the hand and wrist that would block and divert an opponent’s thrust to a reckless overhand slash by Dutiful that stopped just short of the scrolls on the tabletop.

  Chivalry’s blade fit me. There was satisfaction in that, even as I realized how woefully unworthy my skills were to a weapon such as this. I was little more than competent with a sword. I wondered how the abdicated king would have felt to know that his only son was defter with an axe than with a sword, and more inclined to use poison than either of those. It was a disheartening line of thought, but before I could give in to that blight, Dutiful was at my side, comparing his blade to mine.

  “Chivalry’s is longer!”

  “He was taller than Verity. Yet this blade, I think, is lighter. Verity had the brawn to put behind a heavy stroke, and so I think Hod made his weapon. It will be interesting to see which weapon fits you best when you are grown.”

  He took my meaning instantly. “Fitz. I gave you that sword to keep. I mean it.”

  I nodded. “And I thank you for that thought. But I shall have to be satisfied with the intention in place of the reality. This is a king’s sword, Dutiful. It’s not for a guardsman, let alone an assassin, or a bastard. See, look here, on the hilt. The Farseer buck, large and plain. It’s on Verity’s too, but smaller. Even so, I wrapped the hilt in leather to disguise it in the years after the Red Ship War. Anyone who had seen it would have known it couldn’t properly belong to me. This would be even more obvious.” Regretfully and respectfully, I set it down on the worktable.

  Dutiful deposited Verity’s blade carefully beside it. A stubborn look came over his face. “How can I take my father’s sword from you, if you won’t take Chivalry’s from me? My father gave you that blade. He meant you to have it.”

  “I’m sure he did, at that moment. And for many years, it has served me well. To see it in your hands will serve me even better. I know that Verity would agree with me. For now, Chivalry’s blade we should both set aside. When you are crowned, your nobles will expect to see the king’s sword on your hip.”

  Dutiful scowled in thought. “Didn’t King Shrewd have a sword? What became of it?”

  “Doubtless he did. As to what became of it, I’ve no idea. Perhaps Patience had the right of it; perhaps Regal sold it or carried it off for other scavengers to steal after he died. In any case, it’s gone. When the time comes for you to ascend the throne, I think you should carry the king’s sword. And when you sail for Aslevjal, I think you should wear your father’s sword.”

  “I shall. But won’t folk wonder where I got it?”

  “I doubt it. We’ll have Chade put out some tale that he has been holding it for you. Folk love stories of that sort. They’ll be happy to accept it.”

/>   He nodded thoughtfully, then said slowly, “It takes some of the pleasure from it, that you cannot carry Chivalry’s sword as openly as I shall carry this one.”

  “For me also,” I replied with painful honesty. “Would that I could, Dutiful. But that is simply how it is. I’ve a sword given to me by Lord Golden, also of a quality that exceeds my skill. I’ll carry that. If I ever lift a blade to defend you, it had better be an axe.”

  He looked down, pondering. Then he set his hand to the hilt of Chivalry’s sword. “Until the day when you give this sword back to me, on the day I am crowned, I wish it to remain here with you.” He took a breath. “And when I take your father’s sword from you, I will return my father’s sword to you.”

  That was a gesture I could not refuse.

  Soon he left as he had come, taking Verity’s sword with him. I made myself a fresh cup of tea and sat considering my father’s blade. I tried to think what it meant to me, but encountered only a curious absence inside myself. Even my recent discovery that he had not ignored me, but had Skill-watched me through his brother’s eyes, did not make up for his physical absence in my life. Perhaps he had loved me from afar, but Burrich had been the one to discipline me and Chade the one to teach me. I looked at the blade and groped for a sense of connection, for any emotion at all, but could not find one. By the time I had finished my tea, I still had no answer, nor was I completely certain what my question was. But I had resolved that I would find time to see Hap again before I departed.

  I went to bed, successfully claiming the pillow from Gilly. Nonetheless, I slept badly, and even that poor rest was interrupted. Nettle edged into my dreams like a child reluctantly seeking comfort. It was a peculiar contrast. In my dream, I was crossing a steep scree slope from my sojourn in the mountains. I had crossed this avalanche-prone incline carrying the Fool’s lax body. I was not so burdened in my dream, but the mountainside seemed steeper and the fall eternal. Loose pebbles shifted treacherously under my feet. At any moment I might go sliding off the face of the mountain like the small stones rattling past me. My muscles ached with tension and sweat streamed down my back. Then I caught a flash of motion at the corner of my eye. I turned my head slowly, for I dared risk no swift movement. I discovered Nettle sitting calmly uphill from me, watching my agonized progress.

  She sat amongst grass and wildflowers. Her gown was green and her hair decked with tiny daisies. Even to my father’s eyes, she looked more woman than child, but she sat like a little girl, her knees drawn up under her chin and her arms clasped around her legs. Her feet were bare and her eyes troubled.

  Such was our dichotomy. I still struggled to retain my footing on the unstable slope. In her dream, adjoining mine, she sat in a mountain meadow. Her presence forced me to admit that I dreamed, and yet I could not surrender the exertion of my nightmare. I did not know if I feared I would be swept to my death or thrust into wakefulness. So, “What is it?” I called to her as I continued my inching progress across the mountain’s face. It mattered not how many steps I took: solid ground remained ever distant, while Nettle kept her place above me.

  “My secret,” she said quietly. “It gnaws at me. So I have come to ask your advice.”

  She paused but I did not reply. I did not want to know her secret, or to offer advice. I could not commit myself to helping her. Despite the dream, I knew I was leaving Buckkeep soon. Even if I stayed, I could not venture into her life without the risk of destroying it. Better to remain a vague dream-thing on the edge of her reality. Despite my silence, she spoke to me.

  “If someone gives her word to keep silent about a thing, not realizing how much pain it will bring, not just to herself but to others, is she bound to keep her word?”

  That was too grave a question to leave unanswered. “You know the answer to that,” I panted. “A woman’s word is her word. She keeps it, or it is worth nothing.”

  “But I did not know the trouble it would cause when I gave it. Nim goes about like half a creature. I did not know that Mama would blame Papa, or that Papa would take to drink over it, blaming himself more deeply than she does.”

  I halted. It was dangerous to do so, but I turned to face her. Her words had plummeted me into a deeper danger than the chasm that yawned below me. I spoke carefully. “And you think you’ve found a way around the word you gave. To tell me what you promised not to tell them.”

  She lowered her forehead to her knees. Her voice was muffled when she spoke. “You said you knew Papa, long ago. I do not know who you truly are; but perhaps you know him still. You could speak to him. The last time Swift ran away, you told me when he and Papa were safely on their way home to us. Oh, please, Shadow Wolf! I don’t know what your connection to my family is, but I know it exists. In trying to aid Swift, I have nearly torn us apart. I have no one else to turn to. And I never promised Swift that I would not tell you.”

  I looked down at my feet. She had changed me into her image of me. Her dream was devouring mine. Now I was a man-wolf. My black claws dug into the loose gravel. Moving on all fours, with my weight lower, I clawed my way up the slope toward her. When I was close enough to see the dried salt track of tears on her cheeks, I growled, “Tell me what?”

  It was all the permission she needed. “They think Swift ran away to sea, for so we made it seem, he and I. Oh, do not look at me like that! You don’t know what it was like around here! Papa was a perpetual storm cloud and Swift near as bad. Poor Nim slunk around like a whipped dog, ashamed to win praise from Papa because his twin could not share it. And Mama, Mama was like a madwoman, every night demanding to know what ailed them, and both of them refusing to answer. There was no peace in our house anymore, no peace at all. So when Swift came to me and asked me to help him slip away, it seemed the wise thing to do.”

  “And what sort of aid did you give him?”

  “I gave him money, money that was mine, to use as I pleased, money I had earned myself helping with the Gossoin’s lambing last spring. Mama often sent him to town, to make deliveries of honey or candles. I thought up the plan for him, that he would start asking neighbors and folk in town about boats and fishing and the sea. And then, at the last, I wrote a letter and signed Papa’s name as I have become accustomed to doing for him. His eyes . . . Papa can still write, but his hand wanders for he cannot see the letters he is forming. So, of late, I have written things for him, the papers when he sells a horse and such. Everyone says that my hand is just like his; probably because he taught me to make my letters. So . . .”

  “So you wrote a letter for Swift saying that his father had released him and that he could go forth and do as he pleased with his life.” I spoke slowly. Every word she spoke burdened me more. Burrich and Molly quarreled, and he took to drink again. His sight was failing him, and he believed he had driven his son away. Hearing these things rent me, for I knew I could not mend any of them.

  “It can be difficult for a boy to find any sort of work if folk think he is a runaway apprentice or a lad whose work still belongs to his father.” She spoke the words hesitantly, trying to excuse her forgery. I dared not look at her. “Mama packed up six racks of candles and sent Swift into town to deliver them and to bring back the money. When he said good-bye to me, I knew he meant to take that opportunity. He never came back.” Around her, flowers bloomed and a tiny bee buzzed from one to the next, seeking nectar.

  I slowly worked through her words. “He stole the candle money to travel on?” My estimate of Swift dropped.

  “It wasn’t . . . it wasn’t exactly stealing. He’d always helped with the hives. And he needed it!”

  I shook my head slowly. It disappointed me that she found excuses for him. But then, I’d never had a little brother. Perhaps it was a thing all sisters did.

  “Won’t you help me?” she asked piteously when my silence grew long.

  “I can’t,” I said helplessly. “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “How could I?” I was completely in her dream now. The
meadow grass was firm beneath my feet. A spring day in the hills surrounded me. The bee buzzed past my ear, and I flicked it away. I knew my nightmare still lurked behind me. If I stepped back two paces, I’d be on that treacherous slope again.

  “Talk to Papa for me. Tell him it wasn’t his fault Swift went away.”

  “I can’t talk to your papa. I’m far, far away. Only in dreams can we reach across distances like this.”

  “Can’t you visit his dreams, as you do mine? Can’t you talk to him there?”

  “No. I can’t.” Long ago, my father had sealed Burrich off from all other Skill-users. Burrich himself had told me that. Chivalry had been able to draw strength from him for Skilling, and the bond between them meant that Chivalry would be vulnerable through Burrich to other Skill-users. Dimly I wondered, did that mean that at one time Burrich had had some level of Skill ability? Or did it only mean that the two men were so close that Chivalry could take strength from him for Skilling?

  “Why not? You come to my dreams. And you were friends long ago; you said so. Please. He can’t go on as he is. It’s killing him. And my mother.” She added softly, “I think you owe him this.”

  A bee from Nettle’s flowers buzzed past my face and I swiped at it. I decided I needed to end this contact swiftly. She was drawing too many conclusions about her father and me. “I cannot come to your father’s dreams, Nettle. But there may be something I can do. I may be able to speak to someone, someone who can find Swift and send him home again.” Even as I said the words, my heart sank. As annoying as Swift was, I knew what it would mean to the boy to be sent back to Burrich; I hardened my will. It truly wasn’t my problem. Swift was Burrich’s son, and they must sort it out themselves.