Assassin's Quest (88 page)

“How long?” Kettle asked him conversationally.

“A . . . long time,” Verity said. He took another sip of the tea. “There are fish in a stream, outside the quarry. But it is hard enough to take time to catch them, let alone cook them. Actually, I forget. I have put so many things into the dragon . . . perhaps that was one of them.”

“And how long since you slept?” Kettle pressed him.

“I cannot both work and sleep,” he pointed out to her. “And the work must be done.”

“And the work shall be done,” she promised him. “But tonight you will pause, just for a bit, to eat and drink. And then to sleep. See? Look down there. Starling has made you a tent, and within it will be warm, soft bedding. And warmed water, to wash yourself. And such fresh clothing as we can manage.”

He looked down at his silvered hands. “I do not know if I can wash myself,” he confided to her.

“Then FitzChivalry and the Fool will help you,” she promised him blithely.

“Thank you. That would be good. But . . .” His eyes went afar for a time. “Kettricken. Was not she here, a while ago? Or did I dream her? So much of her was what was strongest, so I put it into the dragon. I think that is what I have missed the most, of all I have put there.” He paused and then added, “At the times when I can recall what I miss.”

“Kettricken is here,” I assured him. “She has gone hunting, but she will return soon. Would you like to be washed and freshly clothed when she returns?” I had privately resolved to respond to the parts of his conversation that made sense, and not upset him by questioning the other parts.

“That one sees past such things,” he told me, a shade of pride in his voice. “Still, it would be nice . . . but there is so much work to do.”

“But it is getting too dark to work any more today. Wait until tomorrow. It will get done,” Kettle assured him. “Tomorrow, I will help you.”

Verity shook his head slowly. He sipped more of the tea. Even that thin beverage seemed to be strengthening him. “No,” he said quietly. “I am afraid you cannot. I must do it myself, you see.”

“Tomorrow, you will see. I think, if you have strength enough by then, then it may be possible for me to help you. But we shall not worry about it until then.”

He sighed and offered the empty mug back to her. Instead, she quickly gripped his upper arm and drew him to his feet. She was strong for such an old woman. She did not seek to take the sword from his grasp, but he let it fall. I stooped to gather it up. He followed Kettle docilely, as if her simple act of taking his arm had deprived him of all will. As I followed, I ran my eyes down the blade that had been Hod’s pride. I wondered what had possessed Verity to take such a kingly weapon and turn it into a rock-carving tool. The edges were turned and notched from the misuse, the tip no more pointed than a spoon. The sword was much like the man, I reflected, and followed them down to the camp.

When we got down to the fireside, I was almost shocked to see that Kettricken had returned. She sat by the fire, staring dispassionately into it. Nighteyes lay almost across her feet. His ears pricked toward me as I approached the fire, but he made no move to leave the Queen.

Kettle guided Verity directly to the makeshift tent that had been pitched for him. She nodded to the Fool, and without a word he took up a steaming basin of water from beside the fire and followed her. When I ventured to enter the tiny tent also, the Fool shooed both me and Kettle away. “He will not be the first king I have tended to,” he reminded us. “Trust him to me.”

“Touch not his hands nor forearms!” Kettle warned him sternly. The Fool looked a bit taken aback by that, but after a moment he gave a bobbing nod of agreement. As I left he was untying the much-knotted thong that closed Verity’s worn jerkin, speaking all the while of inconsequential things. I heard Verity observe, “I have missed Charim so. I should never have let him come with me, but he had served me so long . . . He died slowly, with much pain. That was hard for me, watching him die. But, he, too, has gone into the dragon. It was necessary.”

I felt awkward when I returned to the fire. Starling was stirring the pot of stew that was bubbling merrily. A large chunk of meat on a spit was dripping fat into the fire, making the flames leap and hiss. The smell of it reminded me of my hunger so that my belly growled. Kettle was standing, her back to the fire, staring off into darkness. Kettricken’s eyes flickered toward me.

“So,” I said suddenly, “How was the hunting?”

“As you see,” Kettricken said softly. She gestured at the pot, and then tossed a hand casually to indicate a butchered out wood sow. I stepped over to admire it. It was not a small animal.

“Dangerous prey,” I observed, trying to sound casual rather than horrified that my queen would take on such a beast alone.

“It was what I needed to hunt,” she said, her voice still soft. I understood her only too well.

It was very good hunting. Never have I taken so much meat with so little effort,
Nighteyes told me. He rubbed the side of his head against her leg in true affection. She dropped a hand to pull gently at his ears. He groaned in pleasure and leaned heavily against her.

“You’ll spoil him,” I mock-warned her. “He tells me he has never taken so much meat with so little effort.”

“He is so intelligent. I swear, he drove the game toward me. And he has courage. When my first arrow did not drop her, he held her at bay while I nocked another one to my bow.” She spoke as if she had nothing else on her mind but this. I nodded to her words, content to let our conversation be thus. But she suddenly asked me, “What is wrong with him?”

I knew she did not speak of the wolf. “I am not sure,” I said gently. “He has known a great deal of privation. Perhaps enough to . . . weaken his mind. And . . .”

“No.” Kettle’s voice was brusque. “That is not it at all. Though I will grant you he is weary. Any man would be, to do what he has done alone. But—”

“You cannot believe he has carved that whole dragon himself!” I interrupted her.

“I do,” the old woman replied with certainty. “It is as he told you. He must do it himself, and so he has done it.” She shook her head slowly. “Never have I heard such a thing. Even King Wisdom had the help of his coterie, or what was left of it when he reached here.”

“No one could have carved that statue with a sword,” I said stubbornly. What she was saying was nonsense.

For answer, she rose and stalked off into the darkness. When she returned, she dropped two objects at my feet. One had been a chisel, once. Its head was peened over into a lump, its blade gone to nothing. The other was an ancient iron mallet head, with a relatively new wooden handle set into it. “There are others, scattered about. He probably found them in the city. Or discarded hereabouts,” she observed before I could ask the question.

I stared at the battered tools, and considered all the months that Verity had been gone. For this? For the carving of a stone dragon?

“I don’t understand,” I said faintly.

Kettle spoke clearly, as if I were slow. “He has been carving a dragon, and storing all his memories in it. That is part of why he seems so vague. But there is more. I believe he used the Skill to kill Carrod, and has taken grievous hurt in so doing.” She shook her head sadly. “To have come so close to finishing, and then to be defeated. I wonder how sly Regal’s coterie is. Did they send one against him, knowing that if Verity killed with the Skill, he might defeat himself?”

“I do not think any of that coterie would willingly sacrifice himself.”

Kettle smiled bitterly. “I did not say he was willingly sent. Nor did I say he knew what his fellows intended. It is like the game of stones, FitzChivalry. One plays each stone to best advantage in the game. The object is to win, not to hoard one’s stones.”

34

Girl on a Dragon

E
ARLY IN OUR
resistance to the Red Ships, before anyone in the Six Duchies had begun to call it a war, King Shrewd and Prince Verity realized that the task facing them was overwhelming. No individual man, no matter how Skilled, could stand alone to fend the Red Ships from our coasts. King Shrewd summoned before him Galen, the Skillmaster, and directed him to create for Verity a coterie to aid the prince’s efforts. Galen resisted this idea, especially when he found that one of those he must train was a royal bastard. The Skillmaster declared that none of the students presented to him were worthy of training. But King Shrewd insisted, telling him to make the best of them that he could. When Galen grudgingly gave in, he created the coterie that bore his name.

It soon became apparent to Prince Verity that the coterie, while internally cohesive, did not work well with the prince at all. By then Galen had died, leaving Buckkeep with no successor to the post of Skillmaster. In desperation, Verity sought for others trained in the Skill who might come to his aid. Although there had been no coteries created in the peaceful years of King Shrewd’s reign, Verity reasoned that there might still live men and women trained for coteries before that. Had not the longevity of coterie members always been legendary? Perhaps he could find one who would either help him, or be able to train others in the Skill.

But Prince Verity’s efforts in this area availed him nothing. Those he could identify as Skill users from records and word of mouth were all either dead, or mysteriously vanished. So Prince Verity was left to wage his war alone.

Before I could press Kettle to clarify her answers, there was a cry from Verity’s tent. Every one of us jumped, but Kettle was the first to the tent flap. The Fool emerged, gripping his left wrist in his right hand. He went straight to the water bucket and plunged in his hand. His face was contorted with either pain or fear, perhaps both. Kettle stalked after him to peer at the hand he gripped.

She shook her head in disgust. “I warned you! Here, take it out of the water, it won’t do it any good. Nothing will do it any good. Stop. Think about it. It’s not really pain, it’s just a sensation you’ve never felt before. Take a breath. Relax. Accept it. Accept it. Breathe deep, breathe deep.”

All the while she spoke, she tugged at the Fool’s arm until he reluctantly drew his hand from the water. Kettle immediately overset the bucket with her foot. She scuffed rock dust and gravel over the spilled water, all the while gripping the Fool’s arm. I craned my neck to peer past her. His first three fingers on his left hand were now tipped with silver. He looked at them with a shudder. I had never seen the Fool so unnerved.

Kettle spoke firmly. “It won’t wash off. It won’t wipe off. It’s with you now, so accept it. Accept it.”

“Does it hurt?” I asked anxiously.

“Don’t ask him that!” Kettle snapped at me. “Don’t ask him anything just now. See to the King, FitzChivalry, and leave the Fool to me.”

In my worry over the Fool, I had all but forgotten my king. I stooped to enter the tent. Verity sat on two folded blankets. He was struggling to lace up one of my shirts. I deduced that Starling had ransacked all the packs to find clean clothes for him. It smote me to see him so thin that one of my shirts fit him.

“Allow me, my king,” I suggested.

He not only dropped his hands away, he put them behind his back. “Is the Fool much hurt?” he asked me as I fought with the knotted strings. He sounded almost like my old Verity.

“Just three fingertips are silvered,” I told him. I saw that the Fool had laid out a brush and thong. I stepped behind Verity, and began to brush his hair back. He hastily snatched his hands around in front of him. Some of the gray in his hair had been rock dust, but not all. His warrior’s queue was now gray with black streaks in it and coarse as a horse’s tail. I struggled to smooth it back. As I tied the thong I asked him, “What does it feel like?”

“These?” he asked, holding up his hands and waggling the fingers. “Oh. Like Skill. Only more so, and on my hands and arms.”

I saw he thought he had answered my question. “Why did you do it?” I asked.

“Well, to work the stone, you know. When this power is on my hands, the stone must obey the Skill. Extraordinary stone. Like the Witness Stones in Buck, did you know that? Only they are not nearly as pure as what is here. Of course, hands are poor tools for working stone. But once you have cut away all the excess, down to where the dragon waits, then he can be awakened with your touch. I draw my hands over the stone, and I recall to it the dragon. And all that is not dragon shivers away in shards and chips. Very slowly, of course. It took a whole day just to reveal his eyes.”

“I see,” I murmured, at a loss. I did not know whether he was mad or if I believed him.

He stood up as far as he could in the low tent. “Is Kettricken angry with me?” he asked abruptly.

“My lord king, it is not for me to say . . .”

“Verity,” he interrupted wearily. “Call me Verity, and for Eda’s sake, answer the question, Fitz.”

He sounded so like his old self I wanted to embrace him. Instead, I said, “I do not know if she is angry. She is definitely hurt. She came a long and weary way to find you, bearing terrible news. And you did not seem to care.”

“I care, when I think of it,” he said gravely. “When I think of it, I grieve. But there are so many things I must think of, and I cannot think of them all at once. I knew when the child died, Fitz. How could I not know? He, too, and all I felt, I have put into the dragon.”

He walked slowly away from me, and I followed him out of the tent. Outside, he stood up straight, but did not lose the stoop in his shoulders. Verity was an old man now, far older than Chade somehow. I did not understand that, but I knew it was true. Kettricken glanced up at his approach. She looked back into the fire, and then, almost unwillingly she stood, stepping clear of the sleeping wolf. Kettle and Starling were binding the Fool’s fingers in strips of cloth. Verity went straight to Kettricken and stood beside her. “My queen,” he said gravely. “If I could, I would embrace you. But you have seen that my touch . . .” He gestured at the Fool and let his words trail away.

I had seen the look on her face when she had told Verity about the stillbirth. I expected her to turn aside from him, to hurt him as he had hurt her. But Kettricken’s heart was larger than that. “Oh, my husband,” she said, and her voice broke on the words. He held his silvered arms wide, and she came to him, taking him in her embrace. He bowed his gray head over the rough gold of her hair, but could not allow his hand to touch her. He turned his silvered cheek away from her. His voice was husky and broken as he asked her, “Did you give him a name? Our son?”

“I named him according to the customs of your land.” She took a breath. The word was so soft I scarce heard it. “Sacrifice,” she breathed. She clung to him tightly and I saw his thin shoulders convulse in a sob.

“Fitz!” Kettle hissed at me sharply. I turned to find her scowling at me. “Leave them alone,” she whispered. “Make yourself useful. Get a plate for the Fool.”

I had been staring at them. I turned away, shamed to have been gawking, but glad to see them embrace, even in sorrow. I did as Kettle had ordered, getting food for myself at the same time. I took the plate to the Fool. He sat cradling his injured hand in his lap.

He looked up as I sat beside him. “It doesn’t rub off on anything else,” he complained. “Why did it cling to my fingers?”

“I don’t know.”

“Because you’re alive,” Kettle said succinctly. She sat down across from us as if we needed supervising.

“Verity told me he can shape rock with his fingers because of the Skill on them,” I told her.

“Is your tongue hinged in the middle so that it flaps at both ends? You talk too much!” Kettle rebuked me.

“Perhaps I would not talk too much if you spoke a bit more,” I replied. “Rock is not alive.”

She looked at me. “You know that, do you? Well, what is the point of my talking when you already know everything?” She attacked her food as if it had done her a personal wrong.

Starling joined us. She sat down beside me, her plate on her knees and said, “I don’t understand about the silvery stuff on his hands. What is it?”

The Fool snickered into his plate like a naughty child when Kettle glared at her. But I was getting tired of Kettle’s evasions. “What does it feel like?” I asked the Fool.

He glanced down at his bandaged fingers. “Not pain. Very sensitive. I can feel the weave of the threads in the bandages.” His eyes started to get distant. He smiled. “I can see the man who wove it, and I know the woman who spun it. The sheep on the hillside, rain falling on their thick wool, and the grass they ate . . . wool is from grass, Fitz. A shirt woven from grass. No, there is more. The soil, black and rich and . . .”

“Stop it!” Kettle said harshly. And she turned to me angrily. “And you stop asking him, Fitz. Unless you want him to follow it too far and be lost forever.” She gave the Fool a sharp poke. “Eat your food.”

“How is it you know so much about the Skill?” Starling suddenly asked her.

“Not you, too!” Kettle angrily declared. “Is there nothing private anymore?”

“Among us? Not much,” the Fool replied, but he was not looking at her. He was watching Kettricken, her face still puffy from weeping, as she dished up food for herself and Verity. Her worn and stained clothing, her rough hair and chapped hands and the simple, homely task she performed for her husband should have made her seem like any woman. But I looked at her and saw perhaps the strongest queen that Buckkeep had ever known.

I watched Verity wince slightly as he took from her hand the simple wooden dish and spoon. He shut his eyes a moment, struggling against the pull of the implement’s history. He composed his face and took a mouthful of food. Even across camp from him, I felt the sudden awakening of plain hunger. It was not just hot food he had been long without, it was solid sustenance of any kind. He took a shuddering breath and began to eat like a starved wolf.

Kettle was watching him. A look of pity crossed her face. “No. Very little privacy left for any of us,” she said sadly.

“The sooner we get him back to Jhaampe, the sooner he can get better,” Starling said soothingly. “Should we start tomorrow, do you think? Or give him a few days of food and rest to rebuild his strength?”

“We shall not be taking him back to Jhaampe,” Kettle said, an undercurrent of sadness in her voice. “He has begun a dragon. He cannot leave it.” She looked around at us levelly. “The only thing we can do for him now is stay here and help him finish it.”

“With Red Ships torching the entire coastline of the Six Duchies and Farrow attacking the Mountains, we should stay here and help the King carve a dragon?” Starling was incredulous.

“Yes. If we want to save the Six Duchies and the Mountains, that is exactly what we should do. Now, you will excuse me. I think I shall put on more meat to cook. Our king looks as if he could use it.”

I set my empty plate aside. “We should probably cook it all. In this weather, meat will sour fast,” I unwisely said.

I spent the next hour butchering the pig into portions that could dry-cook over the fire all night. Nighteyes awoke and helped dispose of scraps until his belly was distended. Kettricken and Verity sat talking quietly. I tried not to watch them, but even so, I was aware that his gaze frequently strayed from her to the dais where his dragon crouched over us. The low rumble of his voice was hesitant, and often died away altogether until prompted by another question from Kettricken.

The Fool was amusing himself by touching things with his Skill-fingers: a bowl, a knife, the cloth of his shirt. He met Kettle’s scowls with a benign smile. “I’m being careful,” he told her once.

“You have no idea of how to be careful,” she complained. “You won’t know you’ve lost your way until you’re gone.” She got up from our butchery with a grunt and insisted on rebandaging his fingers. After that, she and Starling left together to get more firewood. The wolf got up with a groan and followed them.

Kettricken helped Verity into the tent. After a moment she reappeared to go into the main tent. She emerged carrying her bedding. She caught my quick glance and abashed me by meeting my eyes squarely. “I have taken your long mittens from your pack, Fitz,” she told me calmly. Then she joined Verity in the smaller tent. The Fool and I looked everywhere except at each other.

I went back to my cutting on the meat. I was tired of it. The smell of the pig was suddenly the smell of something dead rather than that of fresh meat and I had smears of sticky blood up to my elbows. The worn cuffs of my shirt were soaked with it. I continued doggedly with my task. The Fool came to crouch beside me.

“When my fingers brushed Verity’s arm, I knew him,” he said suddenly. “I knew he was a worthy king for me to follow, as worthy as his father before him. I know what he intends,” he added in a lower voice. “It was too much for me to grasp at first, but I have been sitting and thinking. And it fits in with my dream about Realder.”

A shiver ran through me that had nothing to do with chill. “What?” I demanded.

“The dragons are the Elderlings,” the Fool said softly. “But Verity could not wake them. So he carves his own dragon, and when it is finished, he will waken it, and then he will go forth to fight the Red Ships. Alone.”

Alone. That word struck me. Once again, Verity expected to fight the Red Ships alone. But there was too much I didn’t quite grasp. “All the Elderlings were dragons?” I asked. My mind went back to all the fanciful drawings and weavings of Elderlings I had ever seen. Some had been dragonlike, but . . .

“No. The Elderlings
are
dragons. Those carved creatures back in the stone garden. Those are the Elderlings. King Wisdom was able to wake them in his time, to rouse them and recruit them to his cause. They came to life for him. But now they either sleep too deeply or they are dead. Verity spent much of his strength trying to rouse them in every way he could think of. And when he could not, he decided that he would have to make his own Elderling, and quicken it, and use it to fight the Red Ships.”