“I slept a bit, and then woke when the town started to stir around me. I heard a girl singing and recognized one of the old Winterfest songs from when I lived at Buckkeep. And so I knew it might be a good day to beg. Holidays bring out the kindness in some people. I thought I would beg and try to get some food in me and then, if I encountered someone who seemed kind, I would ask them to put me on the path to Withywoods.”
“So you were coming to find me.”
He nodded slowly. His hand crept back to his wine cup. He found it, drank sparingly, and set it down. “Of course I was coming to find you. So. I was begging, but the shopkeeper kept ranting at me to move on. I knew I should. But I was so tired, and the place where I had settled was out of the wind. Wind is a cruel thing, Fitz. A day that is cold but bearable when the air is still becomes a constant torment when a wind rises.” His voice fell away and he hunched his shoulders as if even the memory of wind could freeze him now.
“Then, hmm. A boy came by. He gave me an apple. Then the shopkeeper cursed me and shouted at her husband to come and drive me off. And the boy helped me to move away from the door. And . . .” The Fool’s words trailed away. His head moved, wagging from side to side. I did not think he was aware of it. It reminded me of a hound casting about for a lost scent. Then plaintive words burst from him. “It was so vivid, Fitz! He was the son I was seeking. The boy touched me and I could see with his vision. I could feel the strength he might have, someday, if he was trained, if he was not corrupted by the Servants. I’d found him and I could not contain my joy.” Yellowish tears spilled slowly from his eyes and began to track down his scarred face. All too well, I recalled the request that he had sent his messengers to give me: that I search for the “Unexpected Son.” His son? A child he had fathered, despite all I knew of him? In the time since his messenger had reached me and then died, I’d mulled over a dozen possibilities as to who the mother of such a son might be.
“I found him,” the Fool continued. “And I lost him. When you stabbed me.”
Shame and guilt washed over me in a wave. “Fool, I am so sorry. If only I had recognized you, I never would have hurt you.”
He shook his head. One clawlike hand found his napkin. He mopped his face with it. His words came out as hoarse as a crow’s caw. “What happened, Fitz? What . . . provoked you to try to kill me?”
“I mistook you for someone dangerous. Someone that would hurt a child. I came out of the tavern, looking for my little girl.”
“Your little girl?” His words broke through my explanation in an incredulous shout.
“Yes. My Bee.” Despite all else, I smiled. “Molly and I had a child together, Fool, a tiny girl.”
“No.” His denial was absolute. “No. Not in any future I saw did you have another child.” His brow was furrowed. Scarred as his face was, it was not easy to read his emotions, but he looked almost furious. “I know I would have seen that. I am the true White Prophet. I would have seen that.” He slapped his hand on the table, jerked with the pain, and cradled it to his chest. “I would have seen that,” he insisted again, more quietly.
“But we did,” I said softly. “I know it’s hard to believe. We thought we couldn’t. Molly told me her time for bearing was past. But then she had Bee. Our little girl.”
“No.” He said the word stubbornly. He pinched his lips flat together, and then abruptly his chin trembled like a child’s. “It can’t be. Fitz, it can’t be so. How can that be true? If I did not see such an immense event in your life, what else did I miss? How wrong can I have been about so many other things? Was I wrong about myself?” He fell silent for a time. His blind eyes shifted back and forth, trying to find me. “Fitz. Do not be angry that I ask this, for I must.” He hesitated and then asked in a whisper, “Are you sure? Can you be positive? Are you certain the child was yours, and not just Molly’s?”
“She is mine,” I said flatly. I was astonished at how much insult I took at his words. “Definitely mine,” I added defiantly. “She has a Mountain look to her, like my mother.”
“The mother you scarcely remember.”
“I remember her enough to say that my child looks like her. And I remember Molly well enough to know that Bee is my daughter. Without question. Fool, this is not worthy of you.”
He lowered his eyes and stared at his lap. “So few things are, anymore,” he decided. He rose with a lurch that shook the table. “I’m going back to bed. I don’t feel well.” He shuffled away from me, one knotted hand feeling the air before him while the other curled protectively near his chin.
“I know you’re not well,” I replied, suddenly repentant for how harshly I’d rebuked him. “You are not yourself, Fool. But you will be again. You will be.”
“Do you think so?” he asked. He did not turn toward me but spoke to the empty air in front of him. “I am not certain of that myself. I’ve spent over a decade with people who insisted that I was never who I thought I was. Never the White Prophet, only a boy with vivid dreams. And what you have just told me makes me wonder if they had the right of it.”
I hated seeing him so defeated. “Fool. Remember what you told me so long ago. We move now in a time that you never foresaw. One where we are both alive.”
He made no response to my words. He reached the bed, groped along the edge, then turned and sat down on it. Then he more crumpled than lay down, pulled the covers up over his head, and was completely still.
“I tell you the truth, old friend. I have a daughter, a small girl who depends on me. And I cannot leave her. I must be the one to raise her, to teach her and protect her. It’s a duty I can’t forsake. And one I do not want to.” I tidied as I spoke, wiping away the food he had spilled, corking the remainder of the wine. I waited and my heart continued to sink as he made no response. Finally I said, “What you asked me to do last night. I’d do it for you. You know that. If I could, I would. But now I ask you, as you asked me last night: For my sake, understand that I must say no to you. For now.”
The silence unspooled like a dropped ball of yarn. I’d said the words I must, and their sense would soak into him. He was not a selfish man, nor a cruel one. He’d recognize the truth of what I had told him. I couldn’t go anywhere with him, no matter how badly someone needed to be killed. I had a child to raise and protect. Bee had to come first. I smoothed the bedclothes on my side of the bed. Perhaps he’d fallen asleep. I spoke softly.
“I can’t be here this evening,” I told him. “Chade has a task for me. It may be very late before I come back. Will you be all right alone?”
Still no response. I wondered if he truly had fallen asleep that quickly, or if he was sulking. Leave it alone, Fitz, I counseled myself. He was a sick man. Rest would do more for him than anything else.
Chapter Two
Lord Feldspar
What is a secret? It is much more than knowledge shared with only a few, or perhaps only one other. It is power. It is a bond. It may be a sign of deep trust, or the darkest threat possible.
There is power in the keeping of a secret, and power in the revelation of a secret. Sometimes it takes a very wise man to discern which is the path to greater power.
All men desirous of power should become collectors of secrets. There is no secret too small to be valuable. All men value their own secrets far above those of others. A scullery maid may be willing to betray a prince before allowing the name of her secret lover to be told.
Be very chary of telling your hoarded secrets. Many lose all power once they have been divulged. Be even more careful of sharing your own secrets lest you find yourself a puppet dancing on someone else’s strings.