Fool's Errand (28 page)

He gave me several silent minutes to digest that. Several days would not have been enough. I must have looked as sick as I felt, for Chade finally said, softly, “We think that even if he has been taken, he is most valuable to his kidnappers alive.”

I found a breath and spoke through a dry mouth. “Has anyone claimed to have him? Demanded ransom?”

“No.”

I cursed myself for not staying abreast of politics in the Six Duchies. But had not I sworn never to become involved in it again? It suddenly seemed a child’s foolish resolve never to get caught in the rain again. I spoke quietly, for I felt ashamed. “You are going to have to educate me, Chade, and swiftly. What factions? How does it benefit their interests to have control of the Prince? What foreign princess? And”—and this last question near choked me—“why would anyone think Prince Dutiful was Witted?”

“Because you were,” Chade said shortly. He reached again for his teapot and replenished his cup. It poured even blacker this time, and I caught a whiff of a treacly yet bitter-edged aroma. He gulped down a mouthful, and swiftly followed it with a toss of brandy. He swallowed. His green eyes met mine and he waited. I said nothing. Some secrets still belonged to me alone. At least, I hoped they did.

“You were Witted,” he resumed. “Some say it must have come from your mother, whoever she was, and Eda forgive me, I’ve encouraged that thinking. But others point back a time, to the Piebald Prince and several other oddlings in the Farseer line, to say, ‘No, the taint is there, down in the roots, and Prince Dutiful is a shoot from that line.’ ”

“But the Piebald Prince died without issue; Dutiful is not of his line. What made folk think that the Prince might be Witted?”

Chade narrowed his eyes at me. “Do you play cat and mouse with me, boy?” He set his hands on the edge of the table. Veins and tendons stood up ropily on their backs as he leaned toward me to demand, “Do you think I’m losing my faculties, Fitz? Because I can assure you, I’m not. I may be getting old, boy, but I’m as acute as ever. I promise you that!”

Until that moment, I had not doubted it. This outburst was so uncharacteristic of Chade that I found myself leaning back in my chair and regarding him with apprehension. He must have interpreted the look in my eyes, for he sat back in his chair as well and dropped his hands into his lap. When he spoke again, it was my mentor of old that I heard. “Starling told you of the minstrel at Springfest. You know of the unrest in the land among the Witted, yes, and you know of those who call themselves the Piebalds. There is an unkinder name for them. The Cult of the Bastard.” He gave me a baleful look, but gave me no time to absorb that information. He waved a hand, dismissing my shock. “Whatever they call themselves, they have recently taken up a new weapon. They expose families tainted by the Wit. I do not know if they seek to prove how widespread the Wit is, or if their aim is the destruction of their fellows who will not ally with them. Posts appear in public places. ‘Gere the Tanner’s son is Witted; his beast is a yellow hound.’ ‘Lady Winsome is Witted; her beast is her merlin.’ Each post is signed with their emblem, a piebald horse. Who is Witted and who is not has become Court gossip these days. Some deny the rumors; others flee, to country estates if they are landed, to a distant village and a new name if they are not. If those posts are true, there are far more who possess the Beast Magic than even you might suppose. Or”—and he cocked his head at me—“do you know far more of all this than I do?”

“No,” I replied mildly. “I do not.” I cleared my throat. “Nor was I aware how completely Starling reported to you.”

He steepled his hands under his chin. “I’ve offended you.”

“No,” I lied. “It’s not that, it’s that—”

“Damn me. I’ve become a testy old man despite all I’ve done to avoid it! And I offend you and you lie to me about it and when only you can aid me I drive you away from me. My judgment fails me just when I need it most.”

His eyes suddenly met mine and horror stood in his gaze. Before me, the old man dwindled. His voice became an uncertain whisper. “Fitz, I am terrified for the boy. Terrified. The accusation was not posted publicly. It was sent in a sealed note. It was not signed at all, not even with the Piebalds’ sigil. ‘Do what is right,’ it said, ‘and no one else ever need know. Ignore this warning, and we will take action of our own.’ But they didn’t say what they wanted of us, not specifically, so what could we do? We didn’t ignore it; we simply waited to hear more. And then he is gone. The Queen fears . . . the Queen fears too many things to list. She fears most that they will kill him. But what I fear is worse than that. Not just that they will kill him, but that they will reduce him to . . . to what you were when Burrich and I first pulled you from that false grave. A beast in a man’s body.”

He rose suddenly and walked away from the table. I do not know if he felt shamed that his love for the boy could reduce him to such terror, or if he sought to spare me the recollection of what I had been. He need not have bothered. I had become adept at refusing those memories. He stared unseeing at a tapestry for a time, then cleared his throat. When he went on, it was the Queen’s advisor who spoke. “The Farseer Throne would not stand before that, FitzChivalry. We have needed a king for too long. If the boy were proven Witted, even that I think I could manage to set in a different light. But if he were shown to his dukes as a beast, all would come undone, and the Six Duchies will never become the Seven Duchies, but will instead be reduced to squabbling city-states and lands between that know no rule. Kettricken and I have come such a long and weary road, my boy, in the years that you have been gone. Neither she nor I can really muster the unquestionable authority that a true Farseer-born king could wield. Through the years, we have sailed a shifting sea of alliances with first these dukes, then those ones, always netting a majority that allowed us to survive another season. We are so close now, so close. In two more years, Prince Dutiful will be Prince no more, but take the title of King-in-Waiting. One year of that, and I think I could persuade the dukes to recognize him as a full king. Then, I think, we might feel secure for a time. When King Eyod of the Mountains dies, Dutiful inherits his mantle as well. We will have the Mountains at our back, and if this marriage alliance Kettricken has negotiated with the Out Islands Hetgurd prospers, we will have friendship in the seas to the north.”

“Hetgurd?”

“An alliance of nobles. They have no king there, no high ruler. Kebal Rawbread was an anomaly for them. But this Hetgurd has a number of powerful men in it, and one of them, Arkon Bloodblade, has a daughter. Messages have gone back and forth. His daughter and Dutiful seem to be suitable for one another. The Hetgurd has sent a delegation to formally recognize their betrothal. It will be here soon. If Prince Dutiful meets their expectations, the affiancing will be recognized at a ceremony at the next new moon.” He turned back to me, shaking his head. “I fear it is too soon for such an alliance. Bearns does not like it, nor Rippon. They would probably profit from the renewed trade, but the wounds are still too fresh. Better, I would think, to wait another five years, let the trade swell slowly between the countries, let Dutiful take up the reins of the Six Duchies, and then propose an alliance. Not with my Prince, but with a lesser offering. A daughter of one of the dukes, perhaps a younger son . . . but that is only my advice. I am not the Queen, and the Queen has made her will known. She will have peace in her lifetime, she proclaims. I think she attempts too much: to meld the Mountain Kingdom into the Six Duchies as a seventh, and to put an Outislander woman on our throne as Queen. It is too much, too soon. . . .”

It was almost as if he had forgotten I was there. He thought aloud before me, with a carelessness that he had never displayed in the years when Shrewd was on the throne. In those years, he would never have spoken a word of doubt on any of the King’s decisions. I wonder if he regarded our foreign-born Queen as more fallible, or if he deemed me now mature enough to hear his misgivings. He took his chair across from me and again our eyes met.

In that moment, cold walked up my spine as I realized what I confronted. Chade was not the man he had been. He had aged, and despite his denials, the keen mind fought to shine past the fluttering curtains of his years. Only the structure of his spy-web, built so painstakingly through the years, sustained his power now. Whatever drugs he brewed in his teapot were not quite enough to firm the façade. To realize that was like missing a step on a dark steep stair. I suddenly grasped just how far and how swiftly we all could fall.

I reached across the table to set my hand atop his. I swear, I strove to will strength into him. I gripped his eyes with mine and sought to give him confidence. “Begin the night before he disappeared,” I suggested quietly. “And tell me all that you know.”

“After all these years, I should report to you, and let you draw the conclusions?” I thought I had affronted him, but then his smile dawned. “Ah, Fitz, thank you. Thank you, boy. After this long while, it is so good to have you back at my side. So good to have someone I can trust. The night before Prince Dutiful vanished. Well. Let me see, then.”

For a time, those green eyes looked far afield. I feared for a moment that I had sent his mind wandering, but then he suddenly looked back at me, and his glance was keen. “I’ll go back a bit further than that. We had quarreled that morning, the Prince and I. Well, not quarreled exactly. Dutiful is too mannered to quarrel with an elder. But I had lectured him, and he had sulked, much as you used to. I declare, sometimes it is a wonder to me how much that boy can put me in mind of you.” He huffed out a brief sigh.

“Anyway. We had had a little confrontation. He came to me for his morning Skill lesson, but he could not keep his mind on it. There were circles under his eyes, and I knew he had been out late again with that hunting cat of his. And I warned him, sharply, that if he could not regulate himself so as to arrive refreshed and ready for lessons, it could be done for him. The cat could be put out in the stables with the other coursing beasts to assure that my Prince would get a good sleep every night.

“That, of course, ill suited him. He and that cat have been inseparable ever since the beast was given to him. But he did not speak of the cat or his late-night excursions, possibly because he thinks I am less well informed of them than I truly am. Instead he attacked the lessons, and his tutor, as being at fault. He told me that he had no head for the Skill and never would no matter how much sleep he got. I told him not to be ridiculous, that he was a Farseer and the Skill was in his blood. He had the nerve to tell me that I was the one being ridiculous, for I had but to look in the mirror to see a Farseer who had no Skill.”

Chade cleared his throat and sat back in his chair. It took me a moment to realize that he was amused, not annoyed. “He can be an insolent pup,” he growled, but in his complaint I heard a fondness, and a pride in the boy’s spirit. It amused me in a different way. A much milder remark from me at that age would have earned me a good rap on the head. The old man had mellowed. I hoped his tolerance for the boy’s insolence would not ruin him. Princes, I thought, needed more discipline than other boys, not less.

I offered a distraction of my own. “Then you’ve begun teaching him the Skill.” I put no judgment in my voice.

“I’ve begun trying,” Chade growled, and there was concession in his. “I feel like a mole telling an owl about the sun. I’ve read the scrolls, Fitz, and I’ve attempted the meditations and the exercises they suggest. And sometimes I almost feel . . . something. But I don’t know if it’s what I’m meant to feel or only an old man’s wistful imagining.”

“I told you,” I said, and I kept my voice gentle. “It can’t be learned, nor taught, from a scroll. The meditation can ready you for it, but then someone has to show it to you.”

“That’s why I sent for you,” he replied, too quickly. “Because you are not just the only one who can properly teach the Skill to the Prince. You are also the only one who can use it to find him.”

I sighed. “Chade, the Skill doesn’t work that way. It—”

“Say rather that you were never taught to use the Skill that way. It’s in the scrolls, Fitz. It says that two who have been joined by the Skill can find one another with it, if they need to. All my other efforts to find the Prince have failed. Dogs put on his scent ran well for half the morning, and then raced in circles, whimpering in confusion. My best spies have nothing to tell me, bribes have bought me nothing. The Skill is all that is left, I tell you.”

I thrust aside my piqued curiosity. I did not want to see the scrolls. “Even if the scrolls claim it can be done, you say it happens between two who have been joined by the Skill. The Prince and I have no such—”

“I think you do.”

There is a certain tone of voice Chade has that stops one from speaking. It warns that he knows far more than you think he does, and cautions you against telling him lies. It was extremely effective when I was a small boy. It was a bit of a shock to find it was no less effective now that I was a man. I slowly drew breath into my lungs but before I could ask, he answered me.

“Certain dreams the Prince has recounted to me first woke my suspicions. They started with occasional dreams when he was very small. He dreamed of a wolf bringing down a doe, and a man rushing up to cut her throat. In the dream, he was the man, and yet he could also see the man. That first dream excited him. For a day and a half, he spoke of little else. He told it as if it were something he had done himself.” He paused. “Dutiful was only five at the time. The detail of his dream far exceeded his own experience.”

I still said nothing.

“It was years before he had another such dream. Or, perhaps I should say it was years before he spoke to me of one. He dreamed of a man fording a river. The water threatened to sweep him away, but at the last he managed to cross it. He was too wet and too cold to build a fire to warm himself, but he lay down in the shelter of a fallen tree. A wolf came to lie beside him and warm him. And again, the Prince told me this dream as something that he himself had done. ‘I love it,’ he told me. ‘It is almost as if there is another life that belongs to me, one that is far away and free of being a prince. A life that belongs to me alone, where I have a friend who is as close as my own skin.’ It was then that I suspected he had had other such Skill-dreams, but had not shared them with me.”