Fool’s Quest

Kettricken’s smooth brow furrowed. She took a breath and considered well her words before she replied, “We believe both princes have the Skill, their heritage magic as Farseers. But it does not seem that either one has a strong talent for it.” She did something with her eyes as she met my gaze. It was not a wink or an eye roll toward Web, but only the slightest flicker of movement that let me know this was not a topic she wished to discuss before the Witmaster. So, my erstwhile queen had learned discretion and secrecy. Perhaps Buckkeep had changed her as much as she had changed it.

She turned the talk to other topics and I let her. Web was garrulous as ever, and astute at getting other people to talk. I tried to stay to safe topics—sheep and orchards and the repairs I’d been making to Withywoods—but I am sure I told him far more about myself and my situation than I intended. The food was long gone and the last of the tea standing cold in our cups when Kettricken smiled at both of us and reminded us that others awaited her attention outside the audience chamber.

“Please tell Lord Golden that I will call on him this evening. Late, I fear, for there will be yet more celebration of the dark’s turning and I must attend. But when I may, I will come to him, and hope that he does not mind too much if I wake him. If he prefers not, leave a note for me to say he does not desire company.”

“Boredom besieges him in his infirmity. I daresay he will welcome the company.” I decided it for him. It would be good for him.

Web spoke. “And, Fitz, when can I expect a visit from you? I’d like to introduce you to the crow. I will not say that her company is a burden to me, but Soar does not regard her with welcome . . .”

“I understand. I will come tomorrow morning, if Lord Chade does not give me any other errands. I may have to spend my day in Buckkeep Town.” I rebuked myself for being reluctant to help him. I would go. I was confident that the crow would find me an unsuitable partner.

Web smiled at me. “Excellent. I’ve told her a great deal about you and shared Wit-knowledge of you. Within a day or so, I must be on my way. So she may find you before then. She’s eager to meet you.”

“And I as eager to meet her,” I replied politely. And with that I made my bows and left Lady Kettricken’s audience chamber wondering if Riddle had ever considered having a pet bird.

Chapter Seven Secrets and a Crow

With the Red Ships at our doors and our noble King Shrewd failing in both body and mind,
The young bastard saw his opportunity. He felled him. With magic and might of muscle,
He took from the duchies the king they needed. And from Prince Regal he stole
His father, his mentor, his rock of wisdom.
The kindness bestowed on a bastard felled him.

And the Bastard laughed. In his murderous triumph, sword bared and bloody, he soiled with murder
The keep that had sheltered his worthless life. Cared he nothing for the great hearts
That had fostered him, fed him, clothed and protected him. He loved only bloodshed.
No loyalty did the Bastard cede to king or country.

Wounded in heart, sorrowing as a son, burdened with the concerns of a country at war,
The prince, now king, stepped forward to his tasks. His brothers dead or fled, to him fell
The heavy crown. To him fell the mourning, and to him, the protecting. The last son,
The loyal son, the brave prince became the king of the racked and troubled land.

“Vengeance first!” weary King Regal cried. To his shelter flocked his dukes and nobles.
“To the dungeons with the Bastard!” they pleaded with one voice. And so King Regal
Did his duty. To cell and chains went the conniving Bastard, the Witted One, the Regicide.
To dark and cold he was sent, as befitted such a dark and cold heart.

“Discover his magic,” the king bade his loyal men. And so they tried. With questions and fists,
Clubs and iron, with cold and dark, they broke the traitor. They found no nobility, no cleverness,
Only wolf-greed and dog-selfishness. And so he died, the Traitor, the Witted One, the Bastard.
Of no use to anyone but himself had his life been. His death freed us from his shame.

—“King Regal’s Burden,” a song by Celsu Cleverhands, a Farrow minstrel

I tottered back to my room, silently cursing my painful shoes. I needed to sleep. Then I would check on the Fool, and after that, I thought with a sigh, I would once more assume my role as Lord Feldspar. There would be feasting, dancing, and music again tonight. My mind wandered to Bee, and I felt that sudden gulf of guilt. Revel, I told myself sternly. He would see that Winterfest was well kept at Withywoods. And surely Shun would not allow the holiday to go by without appropriate foods and festivity. I only hoped they would include my child. I wondered again how long I would be away from her. Was Kettricken wiser than I? Would it be best to send for her?

I was chewing my lip at that thought as I reached the top of the stairs. When I looked down the corridor and saw Riddle standing outside my door, my heart lifted as it does when one sees an old friend. Then as I drew closer it sank again, for his face was solemn and his eyes opaque as when a man hides his feelings. “Lord Feldspar,” he greeted me gravely. He bowed, and I took care that the bow I gave him was little more than a nod. Farther down the hallway, two servants were replenishing the corridor lamps.

“What brings you to my door, good man?” I took care that my words held the right amount of disdain for a messenger.

“I bring you an invitation, Lord Feldspar. May I step within your chambers and recite it for you?”

“Of course. A moment.” I patted about in my garments, found my key, and, opening the door, I preceded him into the room.

Riddle shut the door firmly behind us. I removed the wig and hat gratefully and turned to him, expecting to see my friend. But he still stood at the door as if he were no more than a messenger, his face both grave and still.

I said the words I hated most. “I’m so sorry, Riddle. I had no idea what I was doing to you. I thought I was giving the Fool my strength. I never intended to steal from you. Have you recovered? How do you feel?”

“I’m not here about that.” He spoke flatly. My heart sank.

“Then what? Sit, please. Shall I call for someone to bring us food or drink?” I asked. I tried to keep my words warm, but his manner warned me that his heart was sealed against me right now. I could not blame him.

He worked his mouth, took in a deep breath, and then let it out. “First,” he declared, in a voice almost hard despite its shaking, “this is not about you. You can be offended. You can offer to kill me—you’re welcome to try to kill me. But it’s not about you or your pride or your place at court, or who Nettle is or my common parentage.” His words grew more rushed and impassioned as he spoke, and the color rose higher in his face. Anger and pain sparked in his eyes.