DESPERATESTRUGGLE

The Forged one haddoubled back. Frombehind a great stump heleaped at us. He was bigandmuscledlikeasmithy.UnlikeotherForgedonesIhad encountered, this

one’ssizeandstrengthhadkept him fed and wellclothed. The boundlessanger of a hunted animalwas his. He seized me,lifting me clear off myfeet,andthenfelluponmewith one knotty forearmcrushing my throat. Helanded atop me, barrelchestonmyback,pinningmy chest and one arm tothe earth below him. I

reached back, to sink myknife twice into a meatythigh. He roared withanger and increased thepressure. He pressed myface into the frozen earth.Black dots spotted myvision, and Nighteyes wasa sudden addition to theweight on my back. Ithought my spine wouldsnap.Nighteyes slashed atthe man’s back with his

fangs, but the Forged oneonlydrewhischinintohischest and hunched hisshoulders against theattack. He knew he waskillingme;timeenoughtodealwith thewolfwhen Iwasdead….

BantamBooksBYROBINHOBB

THEFARSEER

ASSASSIN’SAPPRENTICE

THEFARSEER

ROYALASSASSIN

THEFARSEER

ASSASSIN’SQUEST

THELIVESHIPTRADERS

SHIPOFMAGIC

THELIVESHIPTRADERS

MADSHIP

THELIVESHIPTRADERS

SHIPOFDESTINY

THETAWNYMAN

FOOL’SERRAND

THETAWNYMAN

GOLDENFOOL

TableofContents

OtherBooksbyThisAuthor

Dedication

Map

Prologue: Dreams andAwakenings

Chapter1-Siltbay

Chapter2-TheHomecoming

Chapter3-RenewingTies

Chapter4-Dilemmas

Chapter5-Gambit

Chapter6-ForgedOnes

Chapter7-Encounters

Chapter8-TheQueenAwakes

Chapter9-GuardsandBonds

Chapter10-Fool’sErrand

Chapter11-LoneWolves

Chapter12-Tasks

Chapter13-Hunting

Chapter14-Winterfest

Chapter15-Secrets

Chapter16-Verity’sShips

Chapter17-Interludes

Chapter18-Elderlings

Chapter19-Messages

Chapter20-Mishaps

Chapter21-DarkDays

Chapter22-Burrich

Chapter23-Threats

Chapter24-Neatbay

Chapter25-Buckkeep

Chapter26-Skilling

Chapter27-Conspiracy

Chapter 28 - Treasons andTraitors

Chapter 29 - Escapes andCaptures

Chapter30-Dungeons

Chapter31-Torture

Chapter32-Execution

Chapter33-WolfDays

Epilogue

AbouttheAuthor

Copyright

ForRyan

W

Prologue

DreamsandAwakenings

HY IS IT forbidden towrite down specific

knowledge of the magics?Perhaps becausewe all fear

that such knowledge wouldfallintothehandsofonenotworthy to use it. Certainlythere has always been asystem of apprenticeship toensure that specificknowledge of magic ispassedonly to those trainedand judged worthy of suchknowledge.While thisseemsalaudableattempttoprotectus from unworthypractitioners of arcane lore,

it ignores the fact that themagicsarenotderived fromthis specific knowledge. Thepredilection for a certaintype of magic is eitherinborn or lacking. Forinstance, the ability for themagicsknownastheSkillistied closely to bloodrelationship to the royalFarseer line, though it mayalsooccurasa“wildstrain”among folkwhose ancestors

came from both the inlandtribes and the Outislanders.One trained in the Skill isable to reach out toanother’s mind, no matterhowdistant,andknowwhathe is thinking. Those whoare strongly Skilled caninfluence that thinking, orhave converse with thatperson. For the conductingof a battle, or the gatheringof information, it is a most

usefultool.Folklore tells of an even

older magic, much despisednow,knownastheWit.Fewwill admit a talent for thismagic, hence it is alwayssaidtobetheprovinceofthefolkinthenextvalley,ortheones who live on the otherside of the far ridge. Isuspect it was once thenatural magic of those who

livedon the landashuntersratherthanassettledfolk;amagic for those who feltkinship with the wild beastsof thewoods. TheWit, it issaid, gaveone theability tospeak the tongues of thebeasts. It was also warnedthatthosewhopracticedtheWit too long or too wellbecamewhatever beast theyhadbondedto.Butthismaybeonlylegend.

There are the Hedgemagics, though Ihaveneverbeen able to determine thesource of this name. Thesearemagicsbothverifiedandsuspect, including palmreading, water gazing, theinterpretation of crystalreflections, and a host ofothermagics thatattempt topredict the future. In aseparate unnamed categoryare the magics that cause

physical effects, such asinvisibility, levitation, givingmotion or life to inanimateobjects—all the magics ofthe old legends, from theFlyingChairof theWidow’sSon to the North Wind’sMagicTablecloth. Iknowofno people who claim thesemagics as their own. Theyseemtobesolelythestuffoflegend, ascribed to folkliving in ancient times or

distant places, or beings ofmythical or near-mythicalreputation: dragons, giants,the Elderlings, the Others,pecksies.

Ipausetocleanmypen.My writing wanders fromspiderytoblobbishonthispoor paper. But Iwill notuse good parchment for

thesewords;notyet. Iamnot sure they should bewritten. I askmyself,whyput this to paper at all?Willnotthisknowledgebepassed down by word ofmouth to those who areworthy? Perhaps. Butperhapsnot.Whatwetakefor granted now, theknowing of these things,may be a wonder and amystery someday to our

descendants.There is very little in

any of the libraries onmagic. Iwork laboriously,tracing a thread ofknowledge through apatchwork quilt ofinformation. I findscattered references,passing allusions, but thatis all. I have gathered it,over these last few years,

and stored it in my head,always intending tocommit my knowledge topaper. I will put downwhatIknowfrommyownexperience,aswellaswhatI have ferreted out.Perhaps to provideanswers for some otherpoor fool, in times tocome, who might findhimself as battered by thewarring of the magics

withinhimasIhavebeen.But when I sit down tothe task, I hesitate. WhoamItosetmywillagainstthe wisdom of those whohave gone before me?Shall I set down in plainlettering the methods bywhichaWit-giftedonecanexpand her range, or canbond a creature tohimself? Shall I detail the

trainingonemustundergobeforebeingrecognizedasa Skilled one? The Hedgewizardries and legendarymagics have never beenmine. Have I any right todig out their secrets andpin them to paper like somany butterflies or leavescollectedforstudy?I try to consider what

one might do with such

knowledge, unjustlygained. It leads me toconsider what thisknowledge has gained forme. Power, wealth, thelove of a woman? I mockmyself. Neither the Skillnor the Wit has everofferedanysuchtome.Orif they did, I had not thesensenorambitiontoseizethemwhenoffered.

Power. I do not think Ieverwanted it for itsownsake. I thirsted for it,sometimes, when I wasground down, or whenthose close tome sufferedbeneath ones who abusedtheir powers. Wealth. Inever really considered it.From the moment that I,his bastard grandson,pledged myself to KingShrewd, he always saw

that all my needs werefulfilled. I had plenty toeat,moreeducationthanIsometimes cared for,clothes both simple andthose annoyinglyfashionable, and oftenenough a coin or two ofmyowntospend.Growingup in Buckkeep, that waswealth enough and morethan most boys inBuckkeep Town could

claim. Love? Well. Myhorse Sooty was fondenoughofme, inherownplacid way. I had thetruehearted loyalty of ahound named Nosy, andthattookhimtohisgrave.Iwas given the fiercest oflovesbyaterrierpup,andit was likewise the deathofhim.Iwincetothinkofthepricewillinglypaidforlovingme.

Always Ihavepossessedthelonelinessofoneraisedamid intrigues andclustering secrets, theisolation of a boy whocannot trust thecompleteness of his heartto anyone. I could not goto Fedwren, the courtscribe,whopraisedmeformyneatletteringandwell-inked illustrations, andconfide that Iwas already

apprenticed to the royalassassin, and thus couldnot follow his writingtrade. Nor could I divulgetoChade,mymasterintheDiplomacy of the Knife,the frustrating brutality Ienduredtryingtolearntheways of the skill fromGalentheskillMaster.AndtonoonedidIdarespeakopenly of my emergingproclivity for theWit, the

ancient beast magic, saidto be a perversion and atainttoanywhousedit.NoteventoMolly.Molly was that mostcherished of items: agenuine refuge. She hadabsolutely nothing to dowithmyday-to-day life. Itwas not just that she wasfemale, though that wasmystery enough to me. I

was raised almost entirelyin the company of men,bereft not only of mynaturalmotherandfather,but of any blood relationsthat would openlyacknowledge me. As achild, my care wasentrusted to Burrich, thegruff stablemaster whohadoncebeenmyfather’sright-handman.Thestablehandsandtheguardswere

my daily companions.Then as now, there werewomen in the guardcompanies, though not somany then as now. Butlike their male comrades,they had duties toperform, and lives andfamiliesoftheirownwhentheywerenot onwatch. Icouldnotclaimtheirtime.I had no mother, norsistersorauntsofmyown.

There were no womenwhoofferedmethespecialtenderness said to be theprovinceofwomen.NonesaveMolly.She was but a year ortwoolderthanmyself,andgrowing the same way asprigofgreeneryforcesitsway up through a gap inthe cobblestones. Neitherher father’s near-constant

drunkenness and frequentbrutality nor the grindingchoresof a child trying tomaintain the pretense ofboth home and familybusiness could crush her.When I first met her, shewasaswildandwaryasafox cub. Molly Nosebleedshe was called among thestreet children. She oftenbore the marks of thebeatings her father gave

her. Despite his cruelty,she cared forhim. Ineverunderstoodthat.Hewouldgrumble and berate hereven as she tottered himhome after one of hisbingesandputhimtobed.And when he awoke, heneverhadanyremorseforhisdrunkennessandharshwords. There were onlymore criticisms: Whyhadn’t the chandlery been

swept and fresh strewingherbs put on the floor?Whyhadn’tshetendedthebeehives, when they werenearly out of honey tosell?Why had she let thefire go out under thetallow pot? I was mutewitnessmore times than Icaretoremember.Butthroughitall,Mollygrew. She flowered, one

sudden summer, into ayoungwomanwholeftmeinaweofhercapablewaysand womanly charms. Forher part, she seemedtotallyunawareofhowhereyes couldmeetmine andturnmy tongue to leatherin mymouth. Nomagic Ipossessed,noSkill,noWit,was proof against theaccidental touch of herhand against mine, nor

could defend me againstthe awkwardness thatoverwhelmed me at thequirkofhersmile.ShouldIcatalogherhair

flowing with the wind, ordetailhowthecolorofhereyes shifted from darkamber to rich browndepending on her moodandthecolorofhergown?Iwouldcatchaglimpseof

her scarlet skirts and redshawl among the marketthrong, and suddenly beaware of no one else.These are magics Iwitnessed, and though Imight set them down onpaper,noothercouldeverworkthemwithsuchskill.How did I court her?

With a boy’s clumsygallantries, gaping after

her like a simpletonwatching the whirlingdisks of a juggler. Sheknew I loved her before Idid. And she letme courther, although Iwas a fewyears younger than she,and not one of the townboys and possessed ofsmall prospects as far asshe knew. She thought Iwas the scribe’s errandboy, a parttime helper in

thestables,aKeeprunner.Shenever suspected Iwasthe Bastard, theunacknowledged son thathad toppled PrinceChivalry fromhis place inthelineofsuccession.Thatalone was a big enoughsecret. Of my magics andmy other profession, sheknewnothing.Maybe that was why I

couldloveher.It was certainly why I

losther.I let the secrets and

failures and pains of myother lives keep me toobusy. There were magicsto learn, secrets to ferretout, men to kill, intriguesto survive. Surrounded bythem, itneveroccurred tome that I could turn to

Mollyforameasureofthehope and understandingthat eluded meeverywhere else. She wasapart from these things,unsullied by them. Icarefully preserved herfromany touchof them. Inever tried to draw herinto my world. Instead, Iwenttohers,tothefishingand shipping port townwhereshesoldcandlesand

honey in her shop, andshopped in the market,and,sometimes,walkedonthe beaches with me. Tome,itwasenoughthatsheexisted for me to love. Ididnot evendare tohopeshe might return thatfeeling.Therecameatimewhen

my training in the Skillground me into a misery

so deep I did not think Icould survive it. I couldnot forgive myself forbeing unable to learn it; Icouldnotimaginethatmyfailuremightnotmattertoothers. I cloaked mydespair in surlywithdrawal. I let the longweekspass,andneversawherorevensentherwordthat I thought of her.Finally,whentherewasno

one else that I could turnto,Isoughther.Toolate.Iarrived at the BeebalmChandlery in BuckkeepTown one afternoon, giftsinhand,intimetoseeherleaving. Not alone. WithJade, a fine broad-chestedseaman, with a boldearring inoneearandthesure masculinity of hissuperior years. Unnoticed,defeated,Islunkawayand

watched them walk offarminarm.Iwatchedhergo,andIlethergo,andinthemonthsthatfollowed,Itried to convince myselfthat my heart had let hergoaswell. Iwonderwhatwould have happened if Ihad run after them thatafternoon, if I had beggedonelastwordofher.Odd,tothinkofsomanyeventsturning upon a boy’s

misplaced pride and hisschooled acceptance ofdefeats.Isetheroutofmythoughts,andspokeofherto no one. I got on withmylife.KingShrewdsentmeashis assassin with a greatcaravan of folk going towitnessthepledgingoftheMountain PrincessKettricken as Prince

Verity’s bride.Mymissionwas to quietly cause thedeathofherolderbrother,Prince Rurisk, subtly ofcourse, so that she wouldbe left thesoleheir to theMountainthrone.ButwhatI found when I arrivedtherewas aweb of deceitand liesengineeredbymyyoungest uncle, PrinceRegal, who hoped totoppleVerityfromtheline

of succession and claimthe Princess as his ownbride. I was the pawn hewould sacrifice for thisgoal; and I was the pawnwho instead toppled thegame pieces around him,bringing his wrath andvengeance down onmyself, but saving thecrownandthePrincessforPrince Verity. I do notthink this was heroism.

NordoIthinkitwaspettyspitewreakedononewhohad always bullied andbelittledme.Itwastheactofaboybecomingaman,and doing what I hadsworntodoyearsbeforeIcomprehended the cost ofsuch an oath. The pricewas my healthy youngbody, so long taken forgranted.

Long after I haddefeated Regal’s plot, IlingeredinasickbedintheMountain Kingdom. Butfinally a morning camewhen I awoke andbelieved that my longillness was finally over.Burrichhaddecided Iwasrecoveredenoughtobeginthe long journey backhome to the Six Duchies.Princess Kettricken and

her entourage had left forBuckkeep weeks before,whentheweatherwasstillfine. Now winter snowsalready smothered thehigher parts of theMountain Kingdom. If wedid not leave Jhaampesoon, wewould be forcedto winter there. I was upearly that morning, doingmy final packing, whenthe first small tremors

began. Resolutely, Iignored them. I was justshaky, I told myself, withnothavingeatenbreakfastyet, and theexcitementofthe journey home. Idonned the garments thatJonqui had furnished forour winter journeythrough the Mountainsand across the plains. Forme there was a long redshirt, padded with wool

quiltedintoit.Thequiltedtrousers were green, butembroidered with red atthe waist and cuffs. Theboots were soft, almostshapeless until my feetwere laced inside them.They were like sacks ofsoft leather, padded withshearedwoolandtrimmedwith fur. They fastened tothe feet with longwrappingsofleatherstrips.

Mytremblingfingersmadetyingthemadifficulttask.Jonqui had told us theywerewonderfulforthedrysnow of the mountains,but to beware of gettingthemwet.There was a lookingglass in theroom.At first,I smiled at my reflection.Not even King Shrewd’sfool dressed as gaily as

this. But above the brightgarments, my face wasthin and pale,makingmydark eyes too large,whilemy fever-shornhair, blackandbristly,stooduplikeadog’s hackles. My illnesshadravagedme.ButItoldmyselfIwasfinallyonmyway home. I turned asidefrom the mirror. As Ipacked the few small giftsI had selected to take

home to my friends, theunsteadiness grew in myhands.For the last timeBurrich, Hands, and I satdown to break fast withJonqui.Ithankedheronceagain forall shehaddonetoward healing me. Ipicked up a spoon for theporridge, and my handgaveatwitch.Idroppedit.

Iwatchedthesilveryshapefallandfellafterit.The next thing Iremember is the shadowycorners of the bedroom. Ilay for a long time, notmovingorspeaking.Iwentfrom a state of emptinessto knowing I had hadanother seizure. It hadpassed; both body andmind were mine to

commandoncemore.ButInolongerwantedthem.Atfifteen years old, an agewhen most were cominginto their full strength, Icould no longer trust mybody to perform thesimplest task. It wasdamaged,and I rejected itfiercely. I felt savagelyvindictivetowardthefleshand bone that enclosedme, and wished for some

way to express my ragingdisappointment. Whycouldn’t I heal? Whyhadn’tIrecovered?“It’s going to take time,that’sall.Waituntilhalfayear has passed since theday you were damaged.Then assess yourself.” ItwasJonquithehealer.Shewas sitting near thefireplace, but her chair

was drawn back into theshadows. I hadn’t noticedher until she spoke. Sherose slowly, as if thewinter made her bonesache, and came to standbesidemybed.“Idon’twanttolivelikeanoldman.”She pursed her lips.“Sooner or later you willhaveto.Atleast,Isowish

that you will survive thatmanyyears. Iamold,andso is my brother KingEyod.Wedonotfinditsogreataburden.”“I should not mind an

oldman’sbodyiftheyearshadearneditforme.ButIcan’tgoonlikethis.”She shook her head,

puzzled. “Of course youcan. Healing is tedious

sometimes,buttosaythatyou cannot go on… I donot understand. It is,perhaps, a difference inourlanguages?”Itookabreathtospeak,but at that momentBurrich came in. “Awake?Feelingbetter?”“Awake. Not feelingbetter,” I grumbled. Eventomyself,Isoundedlikea

fretful child. Burrich andJonqui exchanged glancesoverme. She came to thebedside, patted myshoulder,andthenlefttheroom silently. Theirobvious tolerance wasgalling, and my impotentanger rose like a tide.“Whycan’tyouhealme?”IdemandedofBurrich.He was taken aback by

the accusation in myquestion. “It’s not thatsimple,”hebegan.“Why not?” I hauled

myself up straight in thebed.“I’veseenyoucureallmanner of ailments inbeasts. Sickness, brokenbones, worms, mange …you’re stablemaster, andI’ve seen you treat themall. Why can’t you cure

me?”“You’renotadog,Fitz,”Burrich said quietly. “It’ssimplerwithabeast,whenit’s seriously ill. I’ve takendrastic measures,sometimes, telling myself,well, if theanimaldies,atleast it’s not sufferinganymore, and this mayhealit.Ican’tdothatwithyou.You’renotabeast.”

“That’s no answer! Halfthe time the guards cometo you instead of thehealer. You took the headof an arrow out of Den.You laid his whole armopen to do it! When thehealer said that Greydin’sfoot was too infected andshe’d have to lose it, shecame to you, and yousaved it. And all the timethe healer was saying the

infectionwouldspreadandshe’d die and it would beyourfault.”Burrich folded his lips,quelling his temper. If I’dbeen healthy, I’d havebeen wary of his wrath.But his restraint with meduring my convalescencehadmademe bold.Whenhe spoke, his voice wasquiet and controlled.

“Those were riskyhealings, yes. But the folkwho wanted them doneknew the risks. And,” hesaid, raising his voice tocover the objection I’dbeen about to utter, “theyweresimplethings.Iknewthe cause. Take out thearrowhead and haft fromhis arm and clean it up.Poultice and draw theinfection from Greydin’s

foot. But your sicknessisn’t that simple. NeitherJonqui nor I really knowwhat’swrongwith you. Isit the aftermath of thepoison Kettricken fed youwhenshethoughtyouhadcometokillherbrother?Isthis the effects of thepoisoned wine that Regalarranged for you?Or is itfrom thebeatingyou tookafterward? From being

near drowned? Or did allthosethingscombinetodothis to you? We don’tknow, and so we don’tknowhowtocureyou.Wejustdon’tknow.”His voice clenched onhis last words, and Isuddenly saw how hissympathy for me overlayhisfrustration.Hepacedafew steps, then halted to

stare into the fire. “We’vetalked long about it.Jonqui has much in herMountain lore that I haveneverheardofbefore.AndI’ve told her of cures Iknow.Butwebothagreedthe best thing to do wasgive you time to heal.You’re in no danger ofdying that we can see.Possibly, in time, yourownbodycancastoutthe

lastvestigesofthepoison,or heal whatever damagewasdoneinsideyou.”“Or,” I added quietly,

“it’s possible that I’ll bethis way the rest of mylife.Thatthepoisonorthebeating damagedsomething permanently.Damn Regal, to kick melike that when I wastrussedalready.”

Burrich stood as ifturned to ice. Then hesagged into the chair intheshadows.Defeatwasinhisvoice.“Yes.Thatisjustas possible as the other.Butdon’tyouseewehavenochoice?Icouldphysickyou to try to force thepoison out of your body.But if it’s damage, notpoison,allIwoulddowasweaken you, so that your

body’s ownhealingwouldtakethatmuchlonger.”Hestaredintotheflames,andlifted a hand to touch astreak of white at histemple. Iwasnottheonlyonewho’dfallentoRegal’streachery. Burrich himselfwas but newly recoveredfrom a skull blow thatwould have killed anyonelessthickheadedthanhe.Iknewhehadenduredlong

days of dizziness andblurred vision. I did notrecall he had complainedatall.Ihadthedecencytofeelabitofshame.“SowhatdoIdo?”Burrich started as if

rousedfromdozing.“Whatwe’ve been doing. Wait.Eat. Rest. Be easy onyourself. And see whathappens. Is that so

terrible?”I ignored his question.

“And if I don’t get better?If I just stay like this,where the tremors or fitscan come over me at anytime?”His answer was slow in

coming. “Live with it.Many folk have to livewith worse. Most of thetime you’re fine. You’re

not blind. You’re notparalyzed. You’ve yourwits, still. Stop definingyourselfbywhatyoucan’tdo. Why don’t youconsider what you didn’tlose?”“What I didn’t lose?What I didn’t lose?” Myanger rose like a covey ofbirds taking flight andlikewise driven by panic.

“I’m helpless, Burrich. Ican’tgoback toBuckkeeplike this! I’m useless. I’mworse than useless, I’m awaiting victim. If I couldgo back and batter Regalinto a pulp, thatmight beworth it. Instead, I willhave to sit at table withPrince Regal, to be civiland deferential to a manwho plotted to overthrowVerity and kill me as an

addedspice.Ican’tendurehim seeing me tremblewith weakness, orsuddenlyfallinaseizure.Idon’t want to see himsmileatwhathehasmademe; Idon’twant towatchhimsavorhis triumph.Hewill try to kill me again.We both know that.Perhapshehas learnedheis no match for Verity,perhapshewillrespecthis

older brother’s reign andnew wife. But I doubt hewillextendthat tome. I’llbe one more way he canstrikeatVerity.Andwhenhe comes, what shall I bedoing? Sitting by the firelike a palsied old man,doing nothing. Nothing!All I’ve been trained for,all Hod’s weaponryinstruction, all Fedwren’scareful teachings about

lettering, even all you’vetaught me about takingcareofbeasts!Allawaste!Icandononeofit.I’mjusta bastard again, Burrich.Andsomeoneoncetoldmethataroyalbastardisonlykeptalive so longashe isuseful.” I was practicallyshouting at him as I saidthelastwords.Buteveninmyfuryanddespair, Ididnot speak aloud of Chade

and my training as anassassin.Atthat,too,Iwasuselessnow.Allmystealthandsleightofhand,allthepreciseways tokillamanby touch, the painstakingmixingofpoisons,allweredenied me by my ownrattlingbody.Burrich sat quietly,hearingmeout.Whenmybreath and my anger ran

outandIsatgaspinginmybed, clasping mytraitorously tremblinghands together, he spokecalmly.“So. Are you saying wedon’t go back toBuckkeep?”Thatputmeoffbalance.“We?”“My life is pledged tothe man who wears that

earring. There’s a longstorybehindthat,onethatperhaps I’ll tell yousomeday. Patience had noright to give it to you. Ithought it had gone withPrince Chivalry to hisgrave. She probablythought it just a simplepiece of jewelry herhusbandhadworn,herstokeep or to give. In anywise, you wear it now.

Whereyougo,Ifollow.”I lifted my hand to the

bauble. It was a tiny bluestone caught up in a webof silver net. I started tounfastenit.“Don’t do that,” Burrich

said. The words werequiet, deeper than a dog’sgrowl. But his voice heldboththreatandcommand.I droppedmy hand away,

unable toquestionhimonthisat least. It feltstrangethat the man who hadwatched over me since Iwas an abandoned childnowputhisfutureintomyhands. Yet there he satbefore the fire andwaitedfor my words. I studiedwhatIcouldseeofhiminthe dance of firelight. Hehad once seemed a surlygiant to me, dark and

threatening, but also asavageprotector.Now,forperhaps the first time, Istudiedhimasaman.Thedark hair and eyes wereprevalent in those whocarried Outislander blood,and in this we resembledeach other. But his eyeswere brown, not black,and the wind brought aredness to his cheeksabove his curling beard

that bespoke a fairerancestor somewhere.When he walked, helimped,verynoticeablyoncold days. It was thelegacy of turning aside aboar that had been tryingto kill Chivalry. He wasnot so big as hehadonceseemedtome.IfIkeptongrowing,Iwouldprobablybe taller than he beforeanotheryearwasout.Nor

washemassivelymuscled,but instead had acompactness to him thatwas a readiness of bothmuscle and mind. It wasnothissizethathadmadehim both feared andrespectedatBuckkeep,buthis black temper and histenacity.Once,whenIwasvery young, I had askedhim if he had ever lost afight.Hehadjustsubdued

a willful young stallionand was in the stall withhim,calminghim.Burrichhad grinned, teethshowingwhiteasawolf’s.Thesweathadstoodoutindroplets on his foreheadandwasrunningdownhischeeksintohisdarkbeard.He spoke to me over theside of the stall. “Lost afight?”he’dasked,stilloutof breath. “The fight isn’t

overuntilyouwinit,Fitz.That’s all you have toremember.Nomatterwhatthe other man thinks. Orthehorse.”I wondered if I were a

fight he had to win. He’doften told me that I wasthe last task Chivalry hadgiven him. My father hadabdicated the throne,shamed by my existence.

Yethe’d givenmeover tothisman, and told him toraise me well. MaybeBurrich thought he hadn’tfinishedthattaskyet.“What do you think I

should do?” I askedhumbly.Neitherthewordsnor the humility cameeasily.“Heal,” he said after a

few moments. “Take the

time to heal. It can’t beforced.” He glanced downat his own legs stretchedtowardthefire.Somethingnotasmiletwistedhislips.“Doyouthinkweshouldgoback?”Ipressed.He leanedback into thechair. He crossed hisbooted feet at the ankleandstaredintothefire.Hetook a long time

answering. But finally hesaid,almostreluctantly,“Ifwe don’t, Regalwill thinkhe has won. And he willtry to kill Verity. Or atleast do whatever hethinks hemust tomake agrab for his brother’scrown. I am sworn to myking, Fitz, as are you.Right now that is KingShrewd.ButVerityisking-in-waiting. I don’t think it

right that he should havewaitedinvain.”“He has other soldiers,

morecapablethanI.”“Doesthatfreeyoufrom

yourpromise?”“You argue like a

priest.”“I don’t argue at all. I

merely asked you aquestion. And one other.What do you forsake, if

you leave Buckkeepbehind?”It was my turn to fall

silent. I did think of myking, and all I had sworntohim.IthoughtofPrinceVerity, and his bluffheartiness and open wayswith me. I recalled oldChade and his slow smilewhen I had finallymastered some arcane bit

of lore.LadyPatienceandher maid Lacey, Fedwrenand Hod, even Cook andMistress Hasty theseamstress.Therewerenotso many folk that hadcared for me, but thatmade them moresignificant, not less. IwouldmissallofthemifInever went back toBuckkeep.Butwhatleapedup in me like an ember

rekindledwasmymemoryofMolly.And somehow, Ifound myself speaking ofher to Burrich, and himjust nodding as I spilledoutthewholestory.When he did speak, he

told me only that he hadheard that the BeebalmChandleryclosedwhentheolddrunkardthatownedithad died in debt. His

daughter had been forcedto go to relatives inanother town. He did notknow what town, but hewas certain I could find itout, if I were determined.“Know your heart beforeyoudo,Fitz,”headded.“Ifyou’ve nothing to offerher, let her go. Are youcrippled? Only if youdecide so. But if you’redetermined that you’re a

cripple now, then perhapsyou’ve no right to go andseekherout. Idon’t thinkyou’dwantherpity. It’s apoor substitute for love.”And then he rose and leftme, to stare into the fireandthink.Was I a cripple? Had Ilost?Mybodyjangledlikebadly tuned harp strings.Thatwastrue.Butmywill,

notRegal’s,hadprevailed.My prince Verity was stillin line for theSixDuchiesthrone, and the MountainPrincesswashiswifenow.DidIdreadRegalsmirkingovermy trembling hands?Could I not smirk back athe who would never beking?Asavagesatisfactionwelled up in me. Burrichwas right. I had not lost.ButIcouldmakesurethat

RegalknewIhadwon.If I had won against

Regal, could I not winMollyaswell?Whatstoodbetween her and me?Jade? But Burrich hadheard she had leftBuckkeep Town, not wed.Gonepennilesstolivewithrelatives.Shameuponhim,had Jade let her do so. Iwould seek her out, I

would find her and winher. Molly, with her hairloose and blowing, Mollywith her bright red skirtsand cloak, bold as a red-robber bird, and eyes asbright.The thoughtofhersent a shiver down myspine. I smiled to myself,and then felt my lips setlikearictus,andtheshiverbecome a shuddering. Mybody spasmed and the

back of my headrebounded sharply off thebedstead. I cried outinvoluntarily, a garglingwordlesscry.InaninstantJonquiwasthere,callingBurrichback,and then they were bothholding down my flailinglimbs. Burrich’s bodyweightwas flung atopmeashestrovetorestrainmy

thrashing. And then Iwasgone.I came out of blacknessinto light, like surfacingfrom a deep dive intowarm waters. The deepdown of the feather bedcradled me, the blanketswere softandwarm. I feltsafe.Foramomentallwaspeaceful.Ilayquiescently,almostfeelinggood.

“Fitz?” Burrich asked,leaningoverme.Theworld came back. I

knew myself a mangled,pitifulthing,apuppetwithhalfitsstringstangledorahorse with a severedtendon. I would never beas Iwasbefore; therewasnoplaceleftformeintheworld I had onceinhabited.Burrichhadsaid

pityisapoorsubstituteforlove. I wanted pity fromnoneofthem.“Burrich.”He leaned closer over

me. “It wasn’t that bad,”he lied. “Just rest now.Tomorrow—”“Tomorrow you leave

forBuckkeep,”Itoldhim.He frowned. “Let’s take

it slowly. Give yourself a

few days to recover, andthenwe’ll—”“No.” I dragged myself

up to a sitting position. Iput everybit of strength Ihad into the words. “I’vemade a decision.Tomorrow you will goback to Buckkeep. Thereare people and animalswaiting for you there.You’re needed. It’s your

homeandyourworld.Butit’s not mine. Notanymore.”Hewas silent fora long

moment. “And what willyoudo?”Ishookmyhead.“That’s

nolongeryourconcern.Oranyone’s,savemine.”“Thegirl?”I shookmy head again,

more violently. “She’s

taken care of one cripplealready, and spent heryouth doing so, only tofind that he left her adebtor.ShallIgobackandseek her out, like this?Shall I askher to lovemesoIcanbeaburdentoherlike her father was? No.Alone or wed to another,she’sbetteroffnowassheis.”

The silence stretchedlong between us. Jonquiwasbusyinacorneroftheroom, concocting yetanother herbal draft thatwould do nothing for me.Burrich stood over me,black and lowering as athundercloud. I knewhowbadly he wanted to shakeme,howhelongedtocuffthestubbornnessfromme.Buthedidnot.Burrichdid

nothitcripples.“So,” he said at last.

“That leaves only yourking.Ordoyouforgetyouare sworn as a King’sMan?”“I do not forget,” I said

quietly.“AnddidIbelievemyselfamanstill,Iwouldgo back. But I am not,Burrich. I am a liability.Onthegameboard,Ihave

become but one of thosetokens that must beprotected. A hostage forthe taking, powerless todefend myself or anyoneelse.No.ThelastactIcanmakeasaKing’sManistoremove myself, beforesomeone else does andinjures my king in thedoing.”Burrich turned aside

from me. He was asilhouette in the dimroom, his face unreadableby the firelight.“Tomorrow we will talk,”hebegan.“Onlytosayfarewell,”I

interrupted. “My heart isfirm on this, Burrich.” Ireached up to touch theearringinmyear.“If you stay, then so

must I.” There was afiercenessinhislowvoice.“That isn’t how itworks,” I toldhim.“Once,myfather toldyoutostaybehind,andraiseabastardforhim.NowI tellyou toleave,togotoserveaKingwhostillneedsyou.”“FitzChivalry,Idon’t—”“Please.” I don’t knowwhat he heard in my

voice. Only that he wassuddenly still. “I am sotired. So damnably tired.The only thing I know isthatIcan’tliveuptowhateveryone else thinks Ishould do. I just can’t doit.”Myvoicequaveredlikean old man’s. “No matterwhat I ought to do. Nomatterwhat I ampledgedto do. There isn’t enoughof me left to keep my

word. Maybe that’s notright, but that’s how it is.Everyone else’s plans.Everyone else’s goals.Never mine. I tried, but…” The room rockedaround me as if someoneelse were speaking, and Iwas shocked at what hewas saying. But I couldn’tdeny the truth of hiswords.“Ineedtobealonenow. To rest,” I said

simply.Bothofthemjustlooked

atme.Neitheroneofthemspoke.They left theroom,slowly, as if hoping Iwouldrelentandcallthemback.Ididnot.Butaftertheyhadgone,

and I was alone, Ipermitted myself tobreathe out. I felt dizzywith the decision I had

made. Iwasn’tgoingbackto Buckkeep. What I wasgoingtodo,Ihadnoidea.Ihadsweptmybrokenbitsof life from the gametable.Nowtherewasroomto set out anew whatpiecesIstillhad,toplotanew strategy for living.Slowly,IrealizedIhadnodoubts. Regrets warredwith relief, but I had nodoubts. Somehow it was

much more bearable tomove forward into a lifewherenoonewouldrecallwho I had once been. Alife not pledged tosomeone else’s will. Noteven my king’s. It wasdone.Ilaybackinmybed,and for the first time inweeks, I relaxedcompletely. Farewell, Ithought wearily. I wouldhavelikedtowishthemall

farewell, to stand one lasttime before my king andseehisbriefnodthatIhaddonewell.PerhapsIcouldhavemadehimunderstandwhy I did not wish to goback. It was not to be. Itwasdonenow,alldone.“Iam sorry, my king,” Imuttered.Istaredintothedancing flames in thehearth until sleep claimedme.

T

1

Siltbay

O BE THEKing-in-Waiting,ortheQueen-in-Waiting,

is to firmly straddle thefence between responsibilityand authority. It is said theposition was created to

satisfy the ambitions of anheir for power, whileschooling him in theexercising of it. The eldestchild in the royal familyassumes this position uponthesixteenthbirthday.Fromthat day on, the King-orQueen-in-Waiting assumes afull share of responsibilityfor the running of the SixDuchies. Generally, heimmediately assumes such

dutiesastherulingmonarchcares least for, and thesehave varied greatly fromreigntoreign.Under King Shrewd,

PrinceChivalry firstbecameking-in-waiting. To him,King Shrewd ceded over allthat had to do with theborders and frontiers:warfare, negotiations anddiplomacy, the discomforts

of extended travel and themiserable conditions oftenencountered on thecampaigns. When Chivalryabdicated and Prince Veritybecame king-in-waiting, heinherited all theuncertaintiesofthewarwiththe Outislanders, and thecivil unrest this situationcreated between the Inlandand Coastal Duchies. All ofthese tasks were rendered

moredifficultinthat,atanytime, his decisions could beoverridden by the King.Often he was left to copewith a situation not of hiscreating, armed only withoptionsnotofhischoosing.Evenlesstenable,perhaps,

was the position of Queen-in-Waiting Kettricken. HerMountain ways marked heras a foreigner in the Six

Duchies court. In peacefultimes, perhaps she wouldhave been received withmore tolerance. But thecourt at Buckkeep seethedwith the general unrest ofthe Six Duchies. The Red-Ships from the Outislandsharriedourshorelineastheyhad not for generations,destroying far more thantheystole.ThefirstwinterofKettricken’s reign as queen-

in-waiting saw also the firstwinter raiding we had everexperienced. The constantthreat of raids, and thelingering torment of Forgedonesinourmidstrockedthefoundations of the SixDuchies. Confidence in themonarchy was low, andKettricken had theunenviable position of beingan unadmired king-in-waiting’soutlandishqueen.

Civil unrest divided thecourt as the Inland Duchiesvoiced their resentment attaxes to protect a coastlinethey did not share. TheCoastalDuchiescriedoutforwarshipsandsoldiersandaneffective way to battle theRaiders that always struckwhere we were leastprepared.Inland-bredPrinceRegalsoughttogatherpowerto himself by courting the

Inland Dukes with gifts andsocial attentions. King-in-Waiting Verity, convincedthat his Skill was no longersufficienttoholdtheRaidersat bay, put his attentions tobuilding warships to guardthe Coastal Duchies, withlittletimeforhisnewqueen.Over all, King Shrewdcrouchedlikeagreatspider,endeavoring to keep powerspread among himself and

his sons, to keep all inbalanceandtheSixDuchiesintact.

I awakened to someonetouching my forehead.With an annoyed grunt, Iturnedmyheadasidefromthe touch. My blanketswereweltered aroundme;I fought my way clear of

theirrestraintandthensatup to see who had dareddisturbme. King Shrewd’sfool perched anxiously ona chair beside my bed. Istared at him wildly, andhe drew back from mylook. Uneasiness assailedme.The Fool should have

been back in Buckkeep,withtheKing,manymiles

anddays fromhere. Ihadneverknownhim to leavethe King’s side for morethan a few hours or anight’s rest. That he washere boded no good. TheFool was my friend, asmuch as his strangenessallowed him to be friendswith anyone. But a visitfrom him always had apurpose, and suchpurposes were seldom

trivial or pleasant. Helooked as weary as I hadeverseenhim.Heworeanunfamiliar motley ofgreens and reds andcarried a fool’s scepterwitharat’sheadonit.Thegay garments contrastedtoo strongly with hiscolorless skin. They madehim a translucent candlewreathed in holly. Hisclothing seemed more

substantial than he did.His fine pale hair floatedfrom the confines of hiscap like a drownedman’shairinseawater,whilethedancing flames of thefireplaceshoneinhiseyes.I rubbed my gritty eyesand pushed some of thehair back from my face.My hair was damp; I’dbeensweatinginmysleep.

“Hello,” I managed. “Ididn’t expect to see youhere.” Mymouth felt dry,mytongue thickandsour.I’d been sick, I recalled.Thedetailsseemedhazy.“Whereelse?”Helooked

atmewoefully.“Foreveryhour you’ve slept, the lessrestedyouseem.Lieback,mylord.Letmemakeyoucomfortable.” He plucked

atmypillowsfussily,butIwaved him away.Something was wronghere.Neverhadhespokenme so fair. Friends wewere,buttheFool’swordstomewerealwaysaspithyand sour as half-ripenedfruit. If this suddenkindness was a show ofpity,Iwantednoneofit.I glanced down at my

embroidered nightshirt, atthe rich bedcovers.Something seemed oddaboutthem.Iwastootiredandweaktopuzzle itout.“What are you doinghere?”Iaskedhim.He took a breath and

sighed.“Iamtendingyou.Watching over you whileyou sleep. I know youthinkitfoolish,butthen,I

am the Fool. You knowthenthatImustbefoolish.Yet you askme this samething every time youawake. Let me thenproposesomethingwiser.Ibeg you, my lord, let mesendforanotherhealer.”Ileanedbackagainstmy

pillows. They were sweatdamp,andsmelledsourtome.IknewIcouldaskthe

Fool to change them andhewould.ButIwouldjustsweat anew if he did. Itwas useless. I clutched atmy covers with gnarledfingers. I asked himbluntly, “Why have youcomehere?”He tookmyhand inhis

and patted it. “My lord, Imistrust this suddenweakness. You seem to

take no good from thishealer’s ministrations. Ifear that his knowledge ismuch smaller than hisopinionofit.”“Burrich?” I askedincredulously.“Burrich?Wouldthathewere here, my lord! Hemay be the stablemaster,but for all that, I warrantheismoreofahealerthan

this Wallace who dosesandsweatsyou.”“Wallace?Burrichisnothere?”The Fool’s face grewgraver. “No, my king. Heremained in theMountains, as well youknow.”“Your king,” I said, andattempted to laugh. “Suchmockery.”

“Never, my lord,” hesaid gently. “Never.” Histenderness confused me.This was not the Fool Iknew, full of twistingwords and riddles, of slyjabsandpunsandcunninginsults. I felt suddenlystretched thinasold rope,andas frayed.Still, I triedto piece things together.“ThenIaminBuckkeep?”

He nodded slowly. “Ofcourse you are.” Worrypinchedhismouth.I was silent, plumbing

the full depth of mybetrayal. Somehow I hadbeen returned toBuckkeep.Againstmywill.Burrichhadnoteven seenfittoaccompanyme.“Let me get you some

food,”theFoolbeggedme.

“You always feel betterafter you have eaten.” Herose.“Ibroughtituphoursago. I’ve kept it warm bythehearth.”My eyes followed himwearily. At the big hearthhe crouched, to coach acovered tureen away fromthe edge of the fire. HeliftedthelidandIsmelledrich beef stew. He began

to ladle it into a bowl. Ithadbeenmonths since I’dhad beef. In theMountains, it was allvenison and mutton andgoat’s flesh. My eyeswandered wearily aboutthe room. The heavytapestries, the massivewooden chairs. The heavystonesofthefireplace,therichly worked bedhangings. I knew this

place. Thiswas the King’sbedchamber at Buckkeep.Why was I here, in theKing’sownbed? I tried toask the Fool, but anotherspoke with my lips. “Iknow too many things,Fool. I can no longer stopmyself from knowingthem.Sometimesitisasifanother controlled mywill, andpushedmymindwhereIwouldratheritdid

not go. My walls arebreached. It all pours inlikeatide.”Idrewadeepbreath, but I could notstave it off. First a chilltingling, then as if I wereimmersed in a swiftflowing of cold water. “Arising tide,” I gasped.“Bearing ships.Red-keeledships…”TheFool’seyeswidened

in alarm. “In this season,YourMajesty? Surely not!Notinwinter!”My breath was pressedtight in my chest. Istruggled to speak. “Thewinter has crept in toosoftly. She has spared usboth her storms and herprotection.Look.Lookoutthere, across the water.See? They come. They

comefromthefog.”Iliftedmyarmtopoint.

The Fool came hastily, tostand beside me. Hecrouched to peer where Ipointed, but I knew hecould not see. Still, heloyally placed a hesitanthandonmythinshoulder,and stared as if he couldwill away the walls andthe miles that stood

between him and myvision. I longed to be asblind as he. I clasped thelong-fingered pale handthat rested on myshoulder. For a moment Ilooked down at mywithered hand, at theroyalsignetringthatclungto a bony finger behind aswollen knuckle. Thenmyreluctant gaze was drawnup and my vision taken

afar.My pointing handindicatedthequietharbor.I struggledtosituptaller,toseemore.Thedarkenedtownspreadoutbeforemelikeapatchworkofhousesand roads. Fog lay inhollows and was thickupon the bay. Weatherchange coming, I thoughtto myself. Something

stirred in the air thatchilledme,coolingtheoldsweatonmyskinsothatIshivered. Despite theblacknessof thenightandthefog,Ihadnodifficultyin seeing everythingperfectly. Skill watching Itold myself, and thenwondered. I could notSkill, not predictably, notusefully.

But as I watched, twoships broke out of themistsandemergedintothesleeping harbor. I forgotwhat I could or could notdo. They were sleek andtrim, those ships, andthough they were blackunder the moonlight, Iknewtheirkeelswerered.Red-ShipRaiders from theOutislands. The shipsmovedlikeknivesthrough

thewavelets, cutting theirway clear of the fog,slicing into the protectedwater of the harbor like athin blade slicing into apig’s belly. The oarsmoved silently, in perfectunison, oarlocks muffledwith rags. They camealongside the docks asboldlyashonestmerchantscome to trade. From thefirst boat, a sailor leaped

lightly, carrying a line tomake fast to a piling. Anoarsmanfendedheroffthedockuntil theaft linewasthrown and made fast aswell. All so calmly, soblatantly. The second shipwas following theirexample. The dreadedRed-Ships had come intotown, bold as gulls, andtied up at their victims’homedock.

No sentry cried out. Nowatchmanblewahorn,orthrew a torch onto awaiting heap of pitchpineto kindle a signal fire. Ilooked for them, andinstantly found them.Headsonchests,theywereidling at their posts.Goodwoolen homespun hadgone from gray to redsopping up the blood oftheir slit throats. Their

killers had come quietly,overland, sure of eachsentry post, to silenceevery watcher. No onewould warn the sleepingtown.Therehadnotbeenthatmany sentries. There wasnot much to this littletown, scarce enough todeserveadoton themap.The town had counted on

the humbleness of itspossessions to shelter itfrom raids such as this.Good wool they grewthere,andtheyspunafineyarn, it was true. Theyharvested and smoked thesalmonthatcamerightuptheir river, and the appleshere were tiny but sweet,and they made a goodwine. There was a fineclambeach to thewest of

town. These were theriches of Siltbay, and ifthey were not great, theywere enough to make lifetreasured by those wholivedhere.Surely,though,they were not worthcoming after with a torchand a blade. What sanemanwould think a kegofapple wine or a rack ofsmoked salmon worth araider’stime?

But these were Red-Ships, and they did notcometoraidforwealthortreasures. They were notafter prize breeding cattleor even women for wivesor boys for galley slaves.The wool-fat sheep wouldbe mutilated andslaughtered, the smokedsalmon trampledunderfoot, the warehousesof fleeces and wines

torched. They would takehostages, yes, but only toForge them. The Forgemagic would leave themless thanhuman,bereftofall emotions and any butthe most basic thoughts.The Raiders would notkeep these hostages, butwouldabandonthemhere,to work their debilitatinganguish upon those whohadlovedthemandcalled

them kin. Stripped ofevery human sensitivity,Forged ones would scourtheir homeland aspitilessly as wolverines.ThissettingofourownkintopreyuponusasForgedoneswastheOutislanders’cruelest weapon. This IalreadyknewasIwatched.Ihadseentheaftermathofotherraids.

I watched the tide ofdeath rise to inundate thelittle town. TheOutislander pirates leapedfromtheshiptothedocksand flowed up into thevillage. They trickledsilently up the streets inbands of twos and threes,as deadly as poisonunfurling in wine. Somefew paused to search theother vessels tied to the

dock. Most of the boatswere small open dories,but there were two largerfishing vessels and onetrader. Their crews metswift death. Their franticstruggles were as patheticas fowl flapping andsquawking when a weaselgets into the chickenhouse. They called out tome with voices full ofblood. The thick fog

gulpedtheircriesgreedily.It made the death of asailor no more than thekeening of a seabird.Afterward, the boats weretorched, carelessly, withno thought to their valueas spoils. These Raiderstook no real booty.Perhapsahandfulofcoinsif easily found, or anecklace from thebodyofone they had raped and

killed,butlittlemorethanthat.I could do nothing

except watch. I coughedheavily, then found abreath to speak. “If only Icould understand them,” Isaid to theFool. “Ifonly Iknew what they wanted.There is no sense to theseRed-Ships. How can wefight thosewhowar for a

reason they will notdivulge? But if I couldunderstandthem…”TheFoolpursedhispalelipsandconsidered.“Theypartake of themadness ofhewhodrives them.Theycan only be understood ifyou share that madness. Imyself have no wish tounderstand them.Understanding them will

notstopthem.”“No.” I did notwant towatch the village. I hadseen this nightmare toooften.Butonlyaheartlessman could have turnedawayasifitwereapoorlystaged puppet show. Theleast I could do for mypeople was watch themdie. Italsowas themost Icould do for them. I was

sick and a cripple, an oldman far away. No morecould be expected fromme.SoIwatched.Iwatchedthelittletownawaken from soft sleep totheroughgripofastrangehand on the throat orbreast, to a knife over acradle, or the sudden cryof a child dragged fromsleep. Lights began to

flicker and glowthroughout the village;somewerecandleskindledon hearing a neighbor’soutcry;othersweretorchesor burning houses.Although the Red-Shipshad terrorized the SixDuchies for over a year,for this folk it becamecompletely real tonight.They had thought theywere prepared. They had

heard the horror stories,andresolvednevertoletithappen to them. But stillthehousesburnedandthescreams rose to the nightsky as if borne on thesmoke.“Speak, Fool,” I

commanded hoarsely.“Remember forward forme. What do they sayabout Siltbay? A raid on

Siltbay,inwinter.”He took a shudderingbreath.“It isnoteasy,norclear,” he hesitated. “Allwavers, all is change still.Toomuch is in flux, YourMajesty. The future spillsoutinalldirectionsthere.”“Speak any you cansee,”Icommanded.“They made a songabout this town,” theFool

observed hollowly. Hegripped my shoulder still;throughmynightshirt, theclutch of his long, strongfingers was cold. Atrembling passed betweenus and I felt how helabored to continuestandingbesideme.“Whenitissunginatavern,withthe refrain hammered outto the beat of ale mugsupon a table, none of this

seems so bad. One canimagine the brave standthese folk made, goingdown fighting rather thansurrendering.Notone,notone single person, wastaken alive and Forged.Notone.”TheFoolpaused.A hysterical note mingledwith the levity he forcedinto his voice. “Of course,when you’re drinking andsinging, you don’t see the

blood. Or smell theburning flesh.Or hear thescreams. But that’sunderstandable. Have youever tried to finda rhymefor ‘dismembered child’?Someone once tried‘rememberedwild’but theverse still didn’t quitescan.” There is nomerriment in his banter.His bitter jests can shieldneither him nor me. He

falls silent oncemore,myprisoner doomed to sharehispainfulknowledgewithme.I witness in silence. Noverse would tell of aparent pushing a poisonpellet intoachild’smouthto keep him from theRaiders.Noonecouldsingofchildrencryingoutwiththe cramps of the swift,

harsh poison, or thewomenwhowererapedasthey lay dying. No rhymenormelodycouldbeartheweightoftellingofarcherswhose truest arrows slewcaptured kinfolk beforethey could be draggedaway. I peered into theinterior of a burninghouse.Throughtheflames,I watched a ten-year-oldboybarehisthroatforthe

slashofhismother’sknife.He held the body of hisbaby sister, strangledalready, for the Red-Shipshad come, and no lovingbrother would give her toeither the Raiders or thevoraciousflames.Isawthemother’s eyesas she liftedher children’s bodies andcarried them into theflames with her. Suchthings are better not

remembered.ButIwasnotspared the knowledge. Itwas my duty to knowthese things, and to recallthem.Not all died. Some fledintothesurroundingfieldsand forests. I saw oneyoung man take fourchildren under the dockswith him, to cling in thechill water to the

barnacledpilingsuntil theRaidersleft.Otherstriedtofleeandwereslainastheyran. I saw a woman in anightgown slip from ahouse. Flames werealready running up theside of the building. Shecarried one child in herarmsandanotherclungtoher skirts and followedher. Even in the darkness,the light fromtheburning

huts woke burnishedhighlights inherhair. Sheglanced about fearfully,but the long knife shecarried in her free handwasupandattheready.Icaught a glimpse of asmall mouth set grimly,eyes narrowed fiercely.Then,foraninstant,Isawthat proud profile limnedagainstfirelight.“Molly!”Igasped.Ireachedaclawed

hand to her. She lifted adoor and shooed thechildren down into a rootcellar behind the blazinghome. She lowered thedoorsilentlyoverthemall.Safe?No. They came around

the corner, two of them.One carried an ax. Theywere walking slowly,swaggering and laughing

aloud. The soot thatsmeared their faces madetheir teeth and thewhitesof their eyes stand out.One was a woman. Shewas very beautiful,laughing as she strode.Fearless. Her hair wasbraided back with silverwire. The flames winkedred in it. The Raidersadvanced to the door oftherootcellar,andtheone

swung his ax in a greatarcing blow. The ax bitdeep into the wood. Iheardtheterrifiedcryofachild. “Molly!” I shrieked.I scrabbled from my bed,but had no strength tostand. I crawled towardher.Thedoorgaveway,andthe Raiders laughed. Onedied laughing as Molly

came leaping through theshattered remnants of thedoor toputher longknifeinto his throat. But thebeautiful woman with theshining silver in her hairhadasword.AndasMollystruggled topull her knifeclear of the dying man,that sword was falling,falling,falling.At that instant

somethinggavewayintheburning house with asharp crack. The structureswayed and then fell in ashower of sparks and anupburst of roaring flames.Acurtainoffiresoaredupbetween me and the rootcellar. I could see nothingthrough that inferno. Haditfallenacrossthedoorofthe root cellar and theRaiders attacking it? I

could not see. I lungedforth, reaching out forMolly.Butinaninstant,allwasgone. There was noburninghouse,nopillagedtown, no violated harbor,noRed-Ships.Onlymyself,crouchingby thehearth. Ihad thrust my hand intothe fire and my fingersclutched a coal. The Fool

cried out and seized mywristtopullmyhandfromthe fire. I shook him off,then looked at myblisteredfingersdully.“Myking,”theFoolsaid

woefully. He knelt besideme, carefully moved thetureenofsoupbymyknee.Hemoistened a napkin inthewinehehadpouredformy meal, and folded it

overmyfingers. I lethim.Icouldnotfeeltheburnedskin for the great woundinside me. His worriedeyes stared into mine. Icouldscarcelyseehim.Heseemed an insubstantialthing, with the falteringflames of the fireplaceshowing in his colorlesseyes.Ashadowlikealltheother shadows that cametotormentme.

My burned fingersthrobbed suddenly. Iclutchedtheminmyotherhand. What had I beendoing, what had I beenthinking? The Skill hadcomeonmelikeafit,andthen departed, leavingmeas drained as an emptyglass.Weariness flowed intofillme,andpainrodeitlikeahorse. Istruggledtoretain what I had seen.

“Whatwomanwasthat?Issheimportant?”“Ah.” The Fool seemedeven wearier, butstruggled to gatherhimself. “A woman atSiltbay?” He paused as ifracking his brains. “No. Ihave nothing. It is all amuddle,my king. So hardtoknow.”“Mollyhasnochildren,”

I told him. “It could nothavebeenher.”“Molly?”“Her name is Molly?” I

demanded. My headthrobbed. Anger suddenlypossessed me. “Why doyoutormentmelikethis?”“My lord, I know of no

Molly. Come. Come backto your bed, and I willbringyousomefood.”

HehelpedmetomyfeetandItoleratedhistouch.Ifoundmy voice. I floated,the focus of my eyescoming and going. Onemoment I could feel hishandonmyarm, thenextit seemed as if I dreamedtheroomandthemenwhospoke there. Imanaged tospeak. “I have to know ifthat was Molly. I have toknowifsheisdying.Fool,

Ihavetoknow.”TheFoolsighedheavily.

“It is not a thing I cancommand, my king. Youknow that. Like yourvisions,mine ruleme,notthereverse.Icannotpluckathreadfromthetapestry,but must look where myeyes are pointed. Thefuture, my king, is like acurrent in a channel. I

cannot tellyouwhereonedrop of water goes, but Ican tell you where theflowisstrongest.”“Awomanat Siltbay,” Iinsisted. Part ofme pitiedmypoor fool, but anotherpart insisted. “Iwouldnothaveseenhersoclearly ifshe were not important.Try.Whowasshe?”“Sheissignificant?”

“Yes.Iamsureofit.Oh,yes.”The Fool sat cross-leggedonthefloor.Heputhislongthinfingerstohistemples and pressed as iftrying to open a door. “Iknow not. I don’tunderstand…. All is amuddle,allisacrossroads.The tracks are trampled,the scents gone awry….”

He looked up at me.Somehow Ihad stood,buthe sat on the floor at myfeet,lookingupatme.Hispale eyes goggled in hiseggshell face. He swayedfrom the strain, smiledfoolishly. He consideredhis rat scepter, went noseto nose with it. “Did youknow any such Molly,Ratsy? No? I didn’t thinkyou would. Perhaps he

should ask someone moreinapositiontoknow.Theworms, perhaps.” A sillygiggling seized him.Useless creature. Sillyriddling soothsayer. Well,hecouldnothelpwhathewas.Ilefthimandwalkedslowly back to my bed. Isatontheedgeofit.IfoundIwasshakingas

ifwithanague.Aseizure,

I toldmyself. Imust calmmyself or risk a seizure.DidIwant theFool toseemetwitchingandgasping?I didn’t care. Nothingmattered, except findingout if that wasmyMolly,and if so, had sheperished?Ihadtoknow.Ihad to know if she haddied, and if she had died,how she had died. Neverhad the knowing of

something been soessentialtome.The Fool crouched on

theruglikeapaletoad.Hewet his lips and smiled atme. Pain sometimes canwringsuchasmile fromaman.“It’saverygladsong,the one they sing aboutSiltbay,” he observed. “Atriumphant song. Thevillagers won, you see.

Didn’t win life forthemselves, no, but cleandeath. Well, deathanyway. Death, notForging. At least that’ssomething. Something tomake a song about andhold on to these days.That’s how it is in SixDuchies now. We kill ourown so the Raiders can’t,and thenwemakevictorysongs about it. Amazing

whatfolkwilltakecomfortin when there’s nothingelsetoholdonto.”My vision softened. Iknew suddenly that Idreamed. “I’m not evenhere,” I said faintly. “Thisis adream. Idream that IamKingShrewd.”Heheldhispalehanduptothefirelight,consideredthe bones limned so

plainlyinthethinflesh.“Ifyou say so, my liege, itmust be so. I, too, then,dream you are KingShrewd. If I pinch you,perhaps, shall I awakenmyself?”I looked down at my

hands. Theywere old andscarred. I closed them,watchedveinsandtendonsbulge beneath the papery

surface, felt the sandyresistance of my ownswollen knuckles. I’m anoldmannow,Ithoughttomyself. This is what itreally feels like to be old.Notsick,whereonemightgetbetter.Old.Wheneachday can only be moredifficult, each month isanother burden to thebody. Everything wasslipping sideways. I had

thought,briefly,thatIwasfifteen. From somewherecame the scent ofscorching flesh andburninghair.No,richbeefstew.No, Jonqui’s healingincense. The minglingscentsmademe nauseous.I had lost track of who Iwas, of what wasimportant. I scrabbled attheslipperylogic,tryingtosurmount it. It was

hopeless.“Idon’tknow,”Iwhispered. “I don’tunderstandanyofthis.”“Ah,” said theFool. “AsI told you. You can onlyunderstand a thing whenyoubecomeit.”“Isthiswhatitmeanstobe King Shrewd, then?” Idemanded. It shookme tomy core. I hadnever seenhim like this, racked by

the pains of age but stillrelentlessly confronted bythe pains of his subjects.“Is this what he mustendure,dayafterday?”“I fear it is, my liege,”the Fool replied gently.“Come. Let me help youbackintoyourbed.Surely,tomorrow you will feelbetter.”“No. We both know I

will not.” I did not speakthose terriblewords. Theycame from King Shrewd’slips,andIheardthem,andknew that this was thedebilitating truth KingShrewd bore every day. Iwassoterriblytired.Everypartofmeached.Ihadnotknown that flesh could beso heavy, that the merebending of a finger coulddemand a painful effort. I

wanted to rest. To sleepagain.WasitI,orShrewd?I should let the Fool putme to bed, let my kinghavehisrest.ButtheFoolkept holding that one keymorsel of information justabove my snapping jaws.He juggled away the onemoteof knowledge Imustpossesstobewhole.“Did she die there?” I

demanded.He looked at me sadly.

He stooped abruptly,picked up his rat scepteragain. A tiny pearl of atear trickled down Ratsy’scheek. He focused on itand his eyes went afaragain, wandering across atundra of pain. He spokeinawhisper.“AwomaninSiltbay.Adropofwaterin

the current of all thewomen of Siltbay. Whatmight have befallen her?Did she die? Yes. No.Badly burned, but alive.Her arm severed at theshoulder. Cornered andrapedwhiletheykilledherchildren, but left alive.Sort of.” The Fool’s eyesbecame even emptier. Itwas as if he read aloudfrom a roster. His voice

hadnoinflection.“Roastedalive with the childrenwhen the burningstructure fell on them.Tookpoisonassoonasherhusband awoke her.Chokedtodeathonsmoke.Anddiedofaninfectioninaswordwoundonlyafewdayslater.Diedofaswordthrust. Strangled on herown blood as she wasraped.Cuther own throat

after she had killed thechildren while Raiderswere hacking her doordown. Survived, and gavebirth to a Raider’s childthe next summer. Wasfound wandering dayslater, badly burned, butrecallingnothing.Hadherfaceburnedandherhandshacked off, but lived ashort—”

“Stop!” I commandedhim. “Stop it! I beg you,stop.”He paused and drew a

breath.Hiseyescamebackto me, focused on me.“Stop it?” He sighed. Heputhisfaceintohishands,spoke through mufflingfingers. “Stop it? Soshrieked the women ofSiltbay. But it is done

already, my liege. Wecannotstopwhat’salreadyhappening.Once it’s cometo pass, it’s too late.” Helifted his face from hishands. He looked veryweary.“Please,” I begged him.

“Cannotyoutellmeoftheone woman I saw?” Isuddenly could not recallher name, only that she

wasveryimportanttome.He shook his head, and

thesmallsilverbellsonhiscap jingled wearily. “Theonlywaytofindoutwouldbetogothere.”Helookedup at me. “If youcommandit,Ishalldoso.”“SummonVerity,”I told

him instead. “I haveinstructionsforhim.”“Our soldiers cannot

arrive in time to stop thisraid,” he reminded me.“Onlytohelptodousethefires and assist the folkthere in picking from theruinswhatislefttothem.”“Thenso theyshalldo,”Isaidheavily.“First, let me help youreturn to your bed, myking. Before you take achill.Andletmebringyou

food.”“No, Fool,” I told himsadly. “Shall I eat and bewarm,while thebodiesofchildrenarecoolinginthemud?Fetchmeinsteadmyrobe and buskins. AndthenbeofftofindVerity.”The Fool stood hisground boldly. “Do youthink the discomfort youinflictonyourselfwillgive

even one child anotherbreath, my liege? Whathappened at Siltbay isdone. Why must yousuffer?”“Why must I suffer?” I

foundasmilefortheFool.“Surely that is the samequestion that everyinhabitantofSiltbayaskedtonightofthefog.Isuffer,myfool,becausetheydid.

Because I am king. Butmore,becauseIamaman,and I saw what happenedthere. Consider it, Fool.What if every man in theSix Duchies said tohimself, ‘Well, the worstthat can befall them hasalready happened. Whyshould I give upmymealand warm bed to concernmyself with it?’ Fool, bythe blood that is in me,

these are my folk. Do Isuffer more tonight thananyoneofthemdid?Whatis the pain and tremblingofonemancomparedwithwhathappenedatSiltbay?Why should I sheltermyself while my folk areslaughteredlikecattle?”“Buttwowordsareall I

needsaytoPrinceVerity.”The Fool vexed me with

morewords.“‘Raiders’and‘Siltbay,’ and he knows asmuchasanymanneedsto.Let me rest you in yourbed, my lord, and then Ishall race to him withthosewords.”“No.” A fresh cloud of

painblossomedinthebackof my skull. It tried topush the sense from mythoughts,butIheldfirm.I

forcedmybodytowalktothe chair beside thehearth.Imanagedtolowermyself into it.“I spentmyyouthdefiningthebordersof the Six Duchies to anywho challenged them.Should my life be toovaluabletorisknow,whenthere is so little left of it,andallofthatriddledwithpain? No, Fool. Fetch mysontomeatonce.Heshall

Skillforme,sincemyownstrengthforitisatanendthis night. Together, weshall consider what wesee, and make ourdecisions as to whatmustbedone.Nowgo.GO!”The Fool’s feet patteredon the stone floor as hefled.I was left alone withmyself.Myselves.Iputmy

handstomytemples.Ifelta painful smile crease myfaceas I foundmyself.So,boy.Thereyouare.Mykingslowlyturnedhisattentiontome.Hewasweary, buthereachedhisSkilltowardme to touch my mind assoftly as blowingspiderweb. I reachedclumsily, attempting tocomplete the Skill bondand it all went awry. Our

contact tattered, frayingapartlikerottencloth.Andthenhewasgone.Ihunkeredaloneon the

floorofmybedchamberinthe Mountain Kingdom,uncomfortablyclosetothehearth fire. I was fifteen,and my nightclothes weresoft and clean.The fire inthe hearth had burnedlow. My blistered fingers

throbbed angrily. Thebeginnings of a Skillheadache pulsed in mytemples.I moved slowly,

cautiously as I rose. Likean old man? No. Like ayoung man whose healthwas still mending. I knewthedifferencenow.My soft, clean bed

beckoned,likeasoftclean

tomorrow.I refused them both. Itook the chair by thehearth and stared into theflames,pondering.When Burrich came atfirst light to bid mefarewell, I was ready toridewithhim.

B

2

TheHomecoming

UCKKEEPHOLDOVERLOOKSthefinestdeep-waterharbor

in the Six Duchies. To thenorth, the Buck River spillsinto the sea, and with itswaters carries most of the

goods exported from theinteriorDuchiesofTilthandFarrow. Steep black cliffsprovide the seat for thecastle, which overlooks therivermouth,theharbor,andthewatersbeyond.Thetownof Buckkeep clingsprecariously to those cliffs,well away from the greatriver’s floodplain, with agood portion of it built ondocks and quays. The

originalstrongholdwasalogstructurebuiltbytheoriginalinhabitants of theareaasadefense against Outislanderraids. It was seized inancient time, by a raidernamed Taker, whowith theseizingof the fort becamearesident. He replaced thetimber structure with wallsand towers of black stonequarried from the cliffsthemselves, and in the

processsankthefoundationsof Buckkeep deep into thestone.With each succeedinggeneration of the Farseerline, thewallswere fortifiedand the towers built tallerandstouter.SinceTaker,thefounder of the Farseer line,Buckkeephasneverfallentoenemyhands.

Snow kissed my face,windpushedthehairbackfrommyforehead.Istirredfrom a dark dream to adarker one, to awinterscapeinforestland.Iwas cold, save where therising heat of my toilinghorsewarmedme.Beneathme, Sooty was ploddingstolidly along throughwind-banked snow. Ithought I had been riding

long.Handsthestableboywas riding before me. Heturned in his saddle andshoutedsomethingbacktome.Sooty stopped, not

abruptly, but I was notexpecting it, and I nearlyslid from the saddle. Icaught at her mane andsteadied myself. Steadilyfalling flakes veiled the

forest around us. Thespruce trees were heavywith accumulated snow,while the interspersedbirches were bare blacksilhouettes in the cloudedwinter moonlight. Therewasnosignofatrail.Thewoods were thick aroundus.Handshadreinedinhisblack gelding in front ofus, and that was whySooty halted. Behind me

Burrich sat his roan marewith the practiced ease ofthelifelonghorseman.I was cold, and shaky

with weakness. I lookedaround dully, wonderingwhywe had stopped. Thewind gusted sharply,snapping my damp cloakagainst Sooty’s flank.Hands pointed suddenly.“There!”Helookedbackat

me.“Surelyyousawthat?”Ileanedforwardtopeer

throughsnowthatfelllikefluttering lace curtains. “Ithinkso,” I said, thewindand falling snowswallowingmywords. Foran instant I had glimpsedtiny lights.Theyhadbeenyellow and stationary,unlikethepalebluewillo’the wisps that still

occasionally plagued myvision.“Do you think it’s

Buckkeep?”Handsshoutedthroughtherisingwind.“It is,” Burrich asserted

quietly, his deep voicecarrying effortlessly. “Iknow where we are now.ThisiswherePrinceVeritykilled that big doe aboutsix years ago. I remember

because she leaped whenthe arrow went in, andtumbled down that gully.It took us the rest of thedaytogetdownthereandpackthemeatout.”Thegullyhegesturedto

wasnomorethanalineofbrush glimpsed throughthe falling snow. Butsuddenly it all snappedintoplace forme.The lay

ofthishillside,thetypesoftrees, the gully there, andsoBuckkeepwasthatway,just abrief ridebeforewecould clearly see thefortress on the sea cliffsoverlooking the bay andBuckkeepTownbelow.Forthe first time in days, Iknew with absolutecertainty where we were.The heavy overcast hadkeptus fromcheckingour

course by the stars, andthe unusually deepsnowfall had altered thelay of the land until evenBurrich had seemedunsure. But now I knewthathomewasbutabriefrideaway.Insummer.ButI picked up what was leftofmydetermination.“Not much farther,” ItoldBurrich.

Hands had alreadystarted his horse. Thestockylittlegeldingsurgedahead bravely, breakingtrail through the bankedsnow. I nudged Sooty andthe tall mare reluctantlysteppedout.Assheleanedinto the hill I slid to oneside.AsIscrabbledfutilelyat my saddle Burrichnudged his horse abreastof mine. He reached out,

seized me by the back ofmycollar,anddraggedmeupright again. “It’s notmuch farther,” he agreed.“You’llmakeit.”Imanagedanod.Itwas

only the second time he’dhad to steady me in thelasthourorso.Oneofmybetter evenings, I toldmyself bitterly. I pulledmyselfupstraighterinthe

saddle, resolutely squaredmy shoulders. Nearlyhome.The journey had been

long and arduous. Theweather had been foul,andtheconstanthardshipshad not improved myhealth. Much of it Iremembered like a darkdream; days of joltingalonginthesaddle,barely

cognizant of our path,nightswhenI laybetweenHands and Burrich in oursmall tent and trembledwithawearinesssogreatIcould not even sleep. Aswe had drawn closer toBuckDuchy Ihad thoughtour travel would becomeeasier. I had not reckonedonBurrich’scaution.At Turlake, we had

stoppedanightataninn.Ihadthoughtthatwe’dtakepassage on a river bargethe next day, for thoughicemightlinethebanksofthe Buck River, its strongcurrent kept a channelclear year-round. I wentstraight toour room, for Ihad not much stamina.Burrich and Hands wereboth anticipating hot foodandcompanionship,tosay

nothing of ale. I had notexpected them to comesoon to the room. Butscarcely two hours hadpassed before they bothcame up to readythemselvesforbed.Burrich was grim and

silent, but after he hadgone to bed, Handswhispered to me from hisbed how poorly the King

was spoken of in thistown. “Had they knownwewere fromBuckkeep, Idoubt they would havespoken so freely. But cladas we are in Mountaingarments, they thought ustraders or merchants. Adozen times I thoughtBurrich would challengeoneofthem.Intruth,Idonot know how hecontained himself. All

complain about the taxesfor defending the coast.Theysneer,sayingthatforall the taxes they bleed,the Raiders still cameunlooked for in autumn,when the weather lastedfine,andburnedtwomoretowns.”Handshadpaused,and uncertainly added,“But they speakuncommonly well ofPrince Regal. He passed

through here escortingKettricken back toBuckkeep.Onemanatthetable called her a greatwhitefishofawife,fitforthe coast King. Andanother spoke up, sayingthat at least Prince Regalbore himself well despitehis hardships, and lookedever as a Prince should.Then they drank to thePrince’s health and long

life.”A cold settled in me. I

whispered back, “The twoForged villages. Did youhear what ones theywere?”“WhalejawupinBearns.

AndSiltbayinBuckitself.”The darkness settled

darker around me, and Ilaywatchingitallnight.The next morning we

leftTurlake.Onhorseback.Overland. Burrich wouldnotevenletuskeeptotheroad. I had protested invain. He listened to mecomplain, then took measide, to fiercely demand,“Doyouwanttodie?”I lookedathimblankly.Hesnortedindisgust.“Fitz, nothing haschanged. You’re still a

royal bastard, and PrinceRegal still regards you asan obstacle. He’s tried tobe rid of you, not once,but twice. Do you thinkhe’sgoingtowelcomeyouback to Buckkeep? No.Even better for him if wenevermake it back at all.So let’s not make easytargetsofourselves.Wegooverland. If he or hishirelings want us, they’ll

have to hunt us throughthewoods.Andhe’sneverbeenmuchofahunter.”“Wouldn’tVerityprotect

us?”Iaskedweakly.“You’re a King’s Man,

and Verity is king-in-waiting,” Burrich hadpointed out shortly. “Youprotectyourking,Fitz.Notthe reverse. Not that hedoesn’t think well of you,

andwoulddoallhecouldtoprotectyou.Buthehasweightier matters toattend. Red-Ships. A newbride. And a youngerbrother who thinks thecrownwould sit better onhis own head. No. Don’texpecttheKing-in-Waitingtowatchoveryou.Dothatforyourself.”All I could thinkofwas

the extra days he wasputting between me andmysearchforMolly.ButIdidnotgive that reason. Ihad not told him of mydream. Instead, I said,“Regal would have to becrazy to try to kill usagain. Everyone wouldknow he was themurderer.”“Not crazy, Fitz. Just

ruthless. Regal is that.Let’snoteversupposethatRegal abides by the rulesweobserve,oreventhinksaswedo. IfRegal sees anopportunitytokillus,he’lltakeit.Hewon’tcarewhosuspectssolongasnoonecanprove it.Verity is ourking-in-waiting. Not ourking. Not yet. While KingShrewdisaliveandonthethrone, Regal will find

waysaroundhisfather.Hewill get away with manythings.Evenmurder.”Burrich had reined his

horse aside from thewell-traveled road, plunged offthrough drifts and up theunmarked snowy hillsidebeyond,tostrikeastraightcourse for Buckkeep.Handshadlookedatmeasif he felt ill. But we had

followed. And every nightwhen we had slept,bundled all together in asingle tent for warmthinsteadofinbedsinacozyinn, I had thought ofRegal. Every flounderingstep up each hillside,leading our horses moreoften than not, and everycautious descent, I hadthought of the youngestPrince.Italliedeveryextra

hour between Molly andme. The only times I feltstrengthsurge throughmewere during mydaydreams of batteringRegalintoruin.Icouldnotpromise myself revenge.Revenge was the propertyofthecrown.ButifIcouldnot have revenge, Regalwould not havesatisfaction.Iwouldreturnto Buckkeep, and I would

stand tall before him, andwhen his black eye fellupon me, I would notflinch. Nor, I vowed,would Regal ever see metremble,orcatchatawallforsupport,orpassahandbeforemy blurry eyes.Hewould never know howclose he had come towinningitall.So at last we rode to

Buckkeep, not up thewindingseacoastroad,butfrom the forested hillsbehind her. The snowdwindled, then ceased.The night winds blew theclouds aside, and a finemoon made Buckkeep’sstonewalls shine black asjet against the sea. Lightshoneyellowinherturretsand beside the side gate.“We’re home,” Burrich

said quietly. We rodedown one last hill, struckthe road at last, and rodearoundtothegreatgateofBuckkeep.A young soldier stood

night guard. He loweredhis pike to block ourwayanddemandedournames.Burrichpushedhishood

backfromhisface,butthelad didn’t move. “I’m

Burrich,thestablemaster!”Burrich informed himincredulously. “Thestablemaster here forlonger than you’ve beenalive, most likely. I feel Ishouldbeaskingyouwhatyourbusinessishereatmygate!”Before the flustered ladcould reply, there was atumbleandrushofsoldiers

fromtheguardhouse.“ItisBurrich!” the watchsergeant exclaimed.Burrich was instantly thecenterofaclusterofmen,all shouting greetings andtalking at once whileHandsandIsatourwearyhorses at the edge of thehubbub.Thesergeant,oneBlade, finally shoutedthem to silence,mostly sohe could speak his own

comments easily. “Wehadn’tlookedforyouuntilspring,man,”theburlyoldsoldier declared. “Andeven then, we was toldyoumightnotbe themanthatlefthere.Butyoulookgood, you do. A bit cold,and outlandishly dressed,and another scar or two,but yourself for all that.Word was that you washurt bad, and the Bastard

like to die. Plague orpoison,therumorswas.”Burrich laughed andheld out his arms that allmight admire hisMountain garb. For amoment I saw Burrich astheymust have seen him,his purple-and-yellowquiltedtrousersandsmockand buskins. I no longerwondered at how we had

been challenged at thegate. But I did wonder attherumors.“Who said the Bastardwould die?” I demandedcuriously.“Who’s asking?” Bladedemanded in return. Heglancedovermygarments,lookedme in theeye,andknewmenot. But as I satupstraighteronmyhorse,

he gave a start. To thisday, I believe he knewSootyandthatwashowherecognizedme.Hedidnotcoverhisshock.“Fitz? There’s hardlyhalf of you left! You looklike you’ve had the BloodPlague.” It was my firstinkling of just how bad Ilookedto thosewhoknewme.

“Who said I had beenpoisoned,or afflictedwithplague?” I repeated thequestionquietly.Blade flinched andglanced back over hisshoulder. “Oh, no one.Well,nooneinparticular.Youknowhowitis.Whenyoudidn’tcomebackwiththe others, well, somesupposed this and some

that, and pretty soon itwas almost like we knewit. Rumors, guardroomtalk. Soldiers gossip. Wewondered why you didn’tcome back, that was all.No one believed anythingthat was said. We spreadtoomanyrumorsourselvesto give gossip anycredence. We justwondered why you andBurrich and Hands hadn’t

comeback.”He finally realized hewas repeating himself andfell silentbeforemy stare.I let the silence stretchlong enough to make itplainthatIdidn’tintendtoanswerthisquestion.ThenI shrugged it away. “Noharmdone,Blade.Butyoucan tell them all theBastard isn’t done for yet.

Plagues or poisons, youshould have knownBurrichwould physickmethrough it. I’m alive andwell; I just look like acorpse.”“Oh, Fitz, lad, I didn’tmean it thatway. It’s justthat—”“I said, no harm done,Blade.Letitgo.”“Good enough, sir,” he

replied.I nodded, and lookedat

Burrich to find himregarding me strangely.WhenIturnedtoexchangea puzzled glance withHands, I met the samestartlement on his face. Icouldnotguessthereason.“Well, good night to

you, Sergeant.Don’t chideyour man with the pike.

He did well to stopstrangers at Buckkeep’sgate.”“Yes, sir. Good night,sir.”Bladegavemearustysalute and the greatwooden gates swungwidebefore us as we enteredthe keep. Sooty lifted herhead and some of theweariness fell from her.Behind me, Hands’s horse

whinnied softly andBurrich’s snorted. Neverbefore had the road fromthekeepwalltothestablesseemed so long.AsHandsdismounted, Burrichcaught me by the sleeveand held me back. Handsgreeted the drowsy stableboywhoappearedtolightourway.“We’ve been some time

in theMountainKingdom,Fitz,” Burrich cautionedme in a low voice. “Upthere, no one cares whatsideofthesheetsyouwereborn on. But we’re homenow. Here, Chivalry’s sonis not a Prince, but abastard.”“I know that.” I wasstung by his directness.“I’ve known it allmy life.

Liveditallmylife.”“You have,” heconceded. A strange lookstoleoverhisface,asmilehalf-incredulous and half-proud. “So why are youdemanding reports of thesergeant, and giving outcommendations as brisklyas if you were Chivalryhimself? I scarce believedit, how you spoke, and

how those men came toheel.Youdidn’t even takenotice of how theyresponded to you, youdidn’t even realize you’dstepped up and takencommandawayfromme.”I felt a slow flush creep

up my face. All in theMountain Kingdom hadtreated me as if I were aPrinceinfact, insteadofa

Prince’s bastard. Had I soquicklyaccustomedmyselftothathigherstation?Burrich chuckled at myexpression, then quicklygrew sober. “Fitz, youneed to find your cautionagain. Keep your eyesdownanddon’tcarryyourheadlikeayoungstallion.Regal will take it as achallenge, and that’s

somethingwearen’treadytoface.Notyet.Maybenotever.”I nodded grimly, myeyeson the churned snowof the stable yard. I hadbecome careless. When IreportedtoChade,theoldassassin would not bepleased with hisapprentice. I would haveto answer for it. I had no

doubtthathewouldknowall about the incident atthe gate before he nextsummonedme.“Don’t be a sluggard.

Get down, boy.” Burrichinterrupted my musingsabruptly. I jumped to histone and realized that he,too,washavingtoreadjustto our comparativepositions at Buckkeep.

How many years had Ibeen his stable boy andward?Bestthatweresumethose roles as closely aspossible. It would savekitchen gossip. Idismounted and, leadingSooty, followed Burrichintohisstables.Inside it was warm andclose. The blackness andcold of the winter night

wereshutoutsidethethickstone walls. Here washome, the lanterns shoneyellow and the stalledhorses breathed slow anddeep. But as Burrichpassed,thestablescametolife. Not a horse or a dogin the whole place didn’tcatch his scent and rouseto give greeting. Thestablemaster was home,and he was greeted

warmly by those whoknewhimbest.Twostableboys soon trailed after us,rattling off simultaneouslyevery bit of newsconcerninghawkorhoundor horse. Burrich was infull command here,noddingsagelyandaskinga terse question or two ashe absorbed every detail.His reserve only brokewhen his old bitch hound

Vixen came walking stiffto greet him. He wentdown on one knee to hugand thump her and shewiggled puppyishly andtried to lick his face.“Now, here’s a real dog,”he greeted her. Then hestood again, to continuehis round. She followedhim, hindquarterswobbling with every wagofhertail.

I lagged behind, thewarmth robbing thestrength from my limbs.One boy came hurryingback to leavea lampwithme, and then hastenedaway to pay court toBurrich. I came to Sooty’sstall and unlatched thedoor. She entered eagerly,snorting her appreciation.I set my light on its shelfand looked about me.

Home. This was home,morethanmychamberupin the castle, more thananywhere else in theworld. A stall in Burrich’sstable, safe inhis domain,one of his creatures. Ifonly Icould turnbackthedays, and burrow into thedeep straw and drag ahorse blanket over myhead.

Sootysnortedagain,thistime rebukingly. She’dcarried me all those daysand ways, and deservedeverycomfortIcouldgiveher. But every buckleresisted my numbed andweary fingers. I draggedthe saddle down from herback and very nearlydropped it. I fumbled ather bridle endlessly, thebrightmetalofthebuckles

dancing before my eyes.Finally I closed them andlet my fingers work aloneto take her bridle off.When I opened my eyes,Handswasatmyelbow. Inodded at him, and thebridle dropped from mylifelessfingers.Heglancedat it, but said nothing.Instead he poured forSooty the bucket of freshwaterhehadbrought,and

shookoutoatsforherandfetchedanarmfulofsweethay with much green stillto it. I had taken downSooty’s brushes when hereached pastme and tookthemfrommyfeeblegrip.“I’ll do this,” he saidquietly.“Take care of your ownhorsefirst,”Ichidedhim.“I already did, Fitz.

Look.Youcan’tdoagoodjob on her. Let me do it.You can barely stand up.Go get some rest.” Headded, almost kindly,“Another time, when weride, you can doStoutheartforme.”“Burrich will have myhide off if I leave myanimal’s care for someoneelse.”

“No, he won’t. Hewouldn’t leave an animalin the care of someonewho can barely stand,”Burrich observed fromoutside the stall. “LeaveSooty to Hands, boy. Heknowshisjob.Hands,takechargeofthingshereforabit. When you’ve donewith Sooty, check on thatone spotted mare at thesouth endof the stables. I