The Tawny Man 1 - Fool's Errand Read online

  I took a double handful of water to the wolf, and sat by him, to let it trickle over his still-lolling tongue. After a bit, he stirred feebly, enough to pull his tongue back into his mouth.

  I made another effort for the Fool. "I know that you did what you did to save my life. Thank you."

  He saved both our lives . He spared us continuing in a way that would have destroyed us both. The wolf did not open his eyes, but his thought was strong with passion.

  However, what he did

  Was it worse than what you did to me?

  I had no answer for that. I could not be sorry that I had kept him alive. Yet

  It was easier to speak to the Fool than follow that thought. "You saved both our lives. I had gone . . . somehow, I had gone inside Nighteyes. With the Skill, I think." A flash of insight broke my words. Was this what Chade had spoken of to me, that the Skill could be used to heal? I shuddered. I had imagined it as a sharing of strength, but what I had done I pushed the knowledge away. "I had to try and save him. And ... I did help him. But then I could not find my way out of him. If you hadn't drawn me back ..." I let the words trail off. There was no quick way to explain what he had rescued us from. I knew now, with certainty, that I would tell him the tale of our year among the Old Blood. "Let's go back to the cabin. There is elfbark there, for tea. And I need rest as much as Nighteyes does."

  "And I, also," the Fool acceded faintly.

  I glanced over him, noting the gray pallor of fatigue that drooped his face and the deep lines clenched in his brow. Guilt washed through me. Untrained and unaided, he had used the Skill to pull me back into my own body. The magic was not in his blood as it was in mine; he had no hereditary predilection for it. All he had possessed was the ancient Skill marks on his fingers, the memento of his accidental brush against Verity's Skill-encrusted hands. That and the feeble bond we had once shared through that touch were his only tools as he had risked himself to draw me back. Neither fear nor ignorance had stopped him. He had not known the full danger of what he did. I could not decide if that made his act less brave or more so. And all I had done was rebuke him for it.

  I recalled the first time that Verity had used my strength to further his own Skill. I had collapsed from the drain of it. Yet the Fool still stood, swaying slightly, but he stood. And he made no complaint of the pain that must be playing hammer and tongs on his brain. Not for the first time, I marveled at the toughness that resided in his slender body. He must have sensed my eyes on him, for he turned his gaze to mine. I attempted a smile. He answered it with a wry grimace.

  Nighteyes rolled onto his belly, then lurched to his feet. Wobbly as a new foal, he tottered to the water and drank. Satisfying his thirst made both of us feel better, yet my legs still trembled with weariness.

  "It's going to be a long walk back to the cabin," I observed.

  The Fool's voice was neutral, yet almost normal as he asked, "Can you make it?"

  "With some help." I held my hand up to him and he came to take it and draw me to my feet. He held my arm and walked beside me, but I think he leaned on me more than I did on him. The wolf trod slowly after us. I set my teeth and my resolve, and did not reach out to him through that Skill-link that hung between us like a silver chain. I could resist that temptation, I told myself. Verity had. So could I.

  The Fool broke the sun-dappled silence of the forest. "I thought you were having a seizure at first, as used to fell you. But then you lay so still ... I feared you were dying. Your eyes were open and staring. I could not find your pulse. But every now and then, your body would twitch and gasp in some air." He paused. "I could get no response from you. It was the only thing I could think of to do, to plunge in after you."

  His words horrified me. I was not sure that I wanted to know what my body did when I was out of it. "It was probably the only way to save my life."

  "And mine," he said quietly. "For despite what it costs B either of us, I must keep you alive. You are the wedge I must use, Fitz. And for that, I am sorrier than I can ever say."

  He turned his head as he spoke to me. The openness of that golden gaze combined with the bond between us, gold and silver twining. I recognized and rejected a truth I did not want to know.

  Behind us, the wolf paced slowly, his head hanging.

  Chapter VIII

  OLD BLOOD

  ". . . And I trust the hounds will reach you in good health along with this missive. If it be otherwise, please have a bird sent me with such tidings, that I may advise you as to their care. In closing, I ask that you please pass on my regards to Lord Chivalry Farseer. Inform him, with my greetings, that the colt he entrusted to my care still suffers from too abrupt a weaning from his dam. In nature, he is skittish and suspicious, but we shall hope that gentle treatment and patience coupled with a firm hand will cure him of this. He has also a stubborn streak, most vexatious to his trainer, but this, I believe, we may attribute to his sharing his sire's temperament. Discipline may supplant it with strength of spirit. I remain, as always, his most humble servant.

  My best wishes also to your mistress and children, Tallman, and I look forward, when next you come to Buckkeep, to settling our wager regarding my Vixen's tenacity on a scent as opposed to your Stubtail."

  -e, BURRICH,' STABLEMASTER, BUCKKEEPFROM A MISSIVE SENT TO TALLMAN, STABLEMASTER, WITHYWOODS

  By the time we reached the cabin, darkness threatened the edges of my vision. I gripped the Fool's slender shoulder and steered him toward the door. He stumbled up the steps. The wolf followed us. I pushed the Fool toward a chair and he dropped into it. Nighteyes went straight to my bedchamber and clambered up onto my bed. He made a brief show of rucking up the blankets, then settled into it and droppedinto a limp sleep. I quested toward him with the Wit, but found him closed to me. I had to be content with watching the rhythmic rise and fall of his ribs as I built up the fire and put a kettle on to boil. Each step of the simple tasks re-quired all my concentration. The thundering of pain in my head demanded simply drop in my tracks, yet I could not allow myself to do that.

  At the table, the Fool had pillowed his head on his arms, the picture of misery. As I took down my supply of elf-bark, he rolled his head to watch me. The Fool made a face at his bitter memory of the dark, dried bark. "So you keep a supply at hand, do you?" His question came out as a croak.

  "I do," I conceded, measuring out the bark. I began to grind it with a mortar and pestle. As soon as some was powdered, dipped my finger into it and touched it to the side of my tongue. I felt a brief easing of the pain.

  "And you use it often?"

  "Only when I must."

  He took a deep breath and let it out. Then he stood reluctantly, and found mugs for both of us. When the water boiled, I prepared a strong pot of elfbark tea. The drug would ease the headache of Skilling, but leave behind both a jittery restlessness and a morose spirit. I had heard tales that the slave owners of Chalced gave it to their slaves, to increase their stamina at the same time that it drained their will to escape. Using elfbark is said to become a habit, but I have never found it so. Perhaps regular forced use of it could create a craving, but my own use of it has always been as a remedy. It is also said to extinguish the ability to Skill in the young, and to cripple its growth for older Skill users. That I might have considered a blessing, but my experience has been that elfbark can deaden the ability to Skill without easing the craving to do so.

  I poured two mugs of it after the bark had steeped, and sweetened both with honey. I thought of going to the garden for mint. It seemed much too far away. I set a mug before the Fool and took a seat across from him.

  He lifted his mug in a mocking toast. "To us: the White Prophet and his Catalyst."

  I lifted mine. "The Fool and the Fitz," I amended his words, and touched my mug to his.

  I took a sip. The elfbark spread bitterness all through my mouth. As I swallowed it, I felt my throat tighten in its wake. The Fool watched me drink, then took a mouthful of his own. He grimaced at it, but a
lmost immediately, the lines in his brow relaxed somewhat. He frowned at his mug. "Is there no other way to get the benefit of this ?"

  I grinned sourly. "I was desperate enough, once, to simply chew the bark. It cut the insides of my cheeks to ribbons and left my mouth so puckered with bitterness I could scarcely drink water to get rid of the taste."

  "Ah." He added another liberal dollop of honey to his, drank from the mug, and scowled.

  A little silence fell. The edge of uneasiness hovered between us still. No apology would clear it, but perhaps an explanation would. I glanced over at the wolf sleeping on my bed. I cleared my throat. "Well. After we left the Mountain Kingdom, we journeyed back to the borders of Buck."

  The Fool lifted his eyes to mine. He propped his chin on one hand and looked at me, giving me his absolute and silent attention. He waited as I found my words. They did not come easily. Slowly I strung together for him the tale of those days.

  Nighteyes and I had not hurried our journey. It took us the better part of a year of wandering by a very roundabout path through the Mountains and across the wide plains of Farrow before we returned to the vicinity of Crowsneck in Buck. Autumn had just begun her warnings when we reached the low-roofed log and stone cabin built into the rise of the forested hill. The great evergreens stood impervious to autumn's threats, but frost had just touched the leaves of the small bushes and plants that grew on the mossy roof, outlining some in yellow and blushing others to red. The wide door stood open to the cool afternoon, and a ripple of near-invisible smoke rose from the squat chimney. There was no need to knock or call. The Old Blood folk within knew we were there, as surely as I could sense that both Rolf and Holly were within. Unsurprised, Black Rolf came to the threshold. He stood in the cavernous dark of his cabin and frowned out at us.

  "So, you've finally realized you need to learn what I can teach you," he greeted us. The stink of bear hung about the place, making both Nighteyes and me uneasy. Yet I still had nodded.

  He laughed aloud, and his welcoming grin divided the forest of his black beard. I had forgotten the size of the hulking man. He lumbered out and engulfed me in a friendly hug that near cracked my ribs. Almost, I felt the thought he sent to Hilda, the bear that was his bond-animal.

  "Old Blood welcomes Old Blood." Holly emerged to greet us gravely. Rolf's wife was as slender and quiet as I recalled her. Her Wit-beast, Sleet, rode on her wrist. Her hawk fixed me with one bright eye, then took flight as she drew closer to us. She smiled and shook her head to watch him go. Her greeting was more restrained than Rolf's, yet somehow warmer. "Well met and welcome," she offered us. She turned her head slightly and sent us a sideways glance from her dark eyes. A quick smile lit her face even as she ducked her head to conceal it. She stood beside Rolf, as slight as he was broad. She preened her short, sleek hair back from her face. "Come within and share food," she invited.

  "And then we shall take a walk, find a good place for your den, and start building it," Rolf offered, blunt and direct as always. He glanced up through the forest roof at the overcast sky. "Winter draws nigh. You were foolish to delay so long."

  And as simply as that, we became part of the Witted folk who lived in the area outlying Crowsneck. They were forest-dwellers, going into the town only for those things they could not make for themselves. They kept their magic concealed from the town-dwellers, for to be Witted was to invite the rope and the blade to your door. Not that Rolf and Holly or any of the others referred to themselves as Witted. That was the epithet flung by those who both hated and feared Beast Magic; it was a taunt to be hung by. Amongst themselves, they spoke of their kind as Old Blood, and pitied any children born to them who could not bond with an animal, mind and spirit, as ordinary folk might pity a child born blind or deaf.

  There were not many of the Old Blood; no more than five families, spread far and wide in the forests about Crows-neck. Persecution had taught them not to dwell too closely together. They recognized one another, and that was enough community for them. Old Blood families generally practiced the solitary trades that permitted them to live apart from ordinary folk and yet close enough to barter and enjoy the benefits of a town. They were woodcutters and fur trappers, and the like. One family lived with their otters near a clay bank, and made exquisitely graceful pottery. One old man, bonded with a boar, lived amply on the coin the richer folk of the town paid him for the truffles he foraged. By and large, they were a peaceful folk, a people who accepted their roles as members of the natural world without disdain. It could not be said that they felt the same about humanity in general. From them, I heard and sensed much disapproval for folk who lived cheek by jowl in the towns and thought of animals as mere servants or pets, "dumb" beasts. They disparaged too those of Old Blood who lived amongst ordinary folk and denied their magic to do so. Often it was assumed I came of such a family, and it was difficult to dispel such ideas without revealing too much of the truth about myself.

  "And did you succeed in that?" the Fool asked quietly.

  I had the uneasy feeling he was asking the question because he knew I had not. I sighed. "In fact, that was the most difficult line I walked. In the months that passed, I wondered if I had not made a great error in coming back amongst them. Years before, when I had first met them, Rolf and Holly had known that my name was Fitz. They had known, too, of my hatred for Regal. From that knowledge to identifying me as Fitz the Wit Bastard was a tiny step. I knew that Rolf took it, for he attempted to talk of it with me one day. I told him flatly that he was mistaken, that it was a great and unfortunate coincidence both of name and bond-beast that had caused me a great deal of trouble in my lifetime. I was so adamant on the point that even that blunt soul soon realized he would never badger me into admitting otherwise. I lied, and he knew I lied, but I made it clear that it must be taken as truth between us, and so we left it. Holly, I am certain, knew as much but never spoke of it. I did not think the others in the community made the connection. I introduced myself as Tom, and so they all called me, even Holly and Rolf. Fitz, I prayed, would stay dead and buried.

  "So they knew." The Fool confirmed his suspicion. "That group, at least, knew that Fitz, Chivalry's bastard, did not die."

  I shrugged a shoulder. It surprised me that the old epithet still stung as it did, even from his lips. Surely I had grown past that. Once, I had thought of myself only as "the bastard." But I had long ago got past that and realized that a man was what he made of himself, not what he was born. I suddenly recalled how the hedge-witch had puzzled over my disparate palms. I resisted the impulse to look at my own hands and instead poured us both more of the elfbark brew. Then I rose to rummage through my larder to see what I could find to drive the bitter taste from my mouth. I picked up the Sandsedge brandy, then determinedly set it back again. Instead, I found the last of the cheese, a bit hard but still flavorful, and half a loaf of bread. We had not eaten since breaking our fast that morning. Now that my headache was quieting, I found myself ravenously hungry. The Fool shared my appetite, for as I whittled hunks off the cheese, he sliced thick slabs off the bread.

  My story hung unfinished in the air between us.

  I sighed. "There was little I could do about what they knew or didn't know, save deny it. Nighteyes and I needed what they knew. They alone could teach us what we had to learn."

  He nodded, and stacked cheese atop bread before biting into it. He waited for me to continue.

  The words came to me slowly. I did not like to recall that year. Nonetheless, I learned much, not just from Rolf's deliberate teaching, but by simple exposure to the Old Blood community. "Rolf was not the best of teachers. He was short-tempered and impatient, especially around mealtimes, much inclined to cuff and growl, and sometimes roar his frustration at a slow student. He simply could not grasp how completely ignorant I was of Old Blood ways and customs. I suppose by his lights I was as ill-mannered as a deliberately rude child. My 'loud' Wit-conversations with Nighteyes spoiled hunting for other bonded predators. I had never known th
at we must announce our presence through the Wit if we shifted territory. In my days at Buck-keep, I had never even known that community existed among the Witted ones, let alone that they had customs of their own."

  "Wait," the Fool interrupted me. "Then you are saying that Witted ones can share thoughts with each other, just as thoughts can be exchanged through the Skill." He seemed very excited at the idea.

  "No." I shook my head. "It's not like that. I can sense if another Witted one is speaking with his bond-beast ... if they are careless and free in their conversing, as Nighteyes and I used to be. Then I will be aware of the Wit being used, even though I am not privy to the thoughts they share. It's like the humming of a harp string." I smiled ruefully. "That was how Burrich kept guard on me, to be sure I was not indulging in the Wit, once he was aware I had it. He kept his own walls firm against it. He did not use it, and he tried to screen himself from the beasts that reached toward him with it. For a long time, that kept him ignorant of my use of it. He had set Wit-walls, similar to the Skill-walls that Verity taught me to set. But once he realized I was Witted, I think he lowered them, to oversee me." I paused at the Fool's puzzled gaze. "Do you understand?"

  "Not completely. But enough to take your meaning. But . . . can you overhear another Witted one's beast speaking to that Witted one, then?"

  I shook my head again, then nearly laughed at his baffled look. "It seems so natural to me, it is difficult to put it into words." I pondered a bit. "Imagine that you and I shared a personal language, one that only we two could interpret,"

  "Perhaps we do," he offered with a smile.

  I continued doggedly. "The thoughts that Nighteyes and I share are our thoughts, and largely incomprehensible to anyone who overhears us using the Wit. That language has always been our own, but Rolf taught us to direct our thoughts specifically to one another, rather than flinging our Wit wide to the world. Another Witted one might be aware of us if he were specifically listening for us, but generally, our communication now blends with all the Wit-whispering of the rest of the world."