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  Chade nodded slowly. "There is something about this island… I have no name for it, and yet it tugs at me. I feel dread and worry, beyond what I should feel, and then the feelings go. This land seems to speak to me through my Skill. And if it can reach one as feeble as me in that talent, how must it speak to Thick?" I heard bitterness in the self-deprecation of his magic. "You grow stronger in the Skill every day," I assured him. "But I think perhaps you are right. I've felt nameless worry nibbling at me all day. Such, at times, is my nature. But this does seem more formless than usual. Could it have anything to do with the memories trapped in the stone?"

  He made a sound of resignation. "How could we possibly know? All we can do for Thick is see that he eats and sleeps well at night."

  "He is growing stronger in the Skill."

  "I've noticed that. It makes my own paltry ability seem all the more meager."

  "Time, Chade. It will come with time and patience. You're doing well, for someone who began so late and has not been long in training."

  "Time. Time is the only thing we have, when all is said and done, and yet we never have enough of it. You can be calm about it; you've had as much of magic as you've ever wanted, and more, all your life. While I've had to claw and scratch for a tiny shred of it at the end of my days. Where is the justice of fate, when a half-wit has in abundance and values not at all that which I so desperately lack?" He turned on me. "Why did you always have so much Skill, bursts of it, and never wanted with your whole heart to master it as I have longed to do all my life?"

  He was starting to frighten me. "Chade. I think this place preys on our minds, finding both our fears and our despairs. Set your walls against it, and trust only your logic."

  "Humph. I have never been prey to my emotions. But this time would be better spent in rest than in talk, by either of us. Care for Thick as best you can. I'll watch over the Prince. He too seems prey to a darker mood than is usual for him." He rubbed his gloved hands together. "I'm old, Fitz. Old. And tired. And cold. I shall be glad when all of this is over and we are safely on our way home again."

  "And I," I agreed heartily. "But I had another bit of news I wished to share with you. Odd, isn't it? Once I thought Skilling was private and secret. Yet, still I must seek you out to whisper to you. I don't think Thick is ready for me to ask this favor of him. He still resents and blames me. It might come better from you or the Prince."

  "What?" Chade demanded impatiently. He shifted restlessly and I knew the cold was biting into his skinny old bones.

  "Nettle has gone to Buckkeep Castle. I think our bird must have reached the Queen and she sent someone to Burrich. She's gone to the castle for safety's sake. And she knows that the threat to her is connected to our quest for the dragon's head." I could not quite bring myself to tell Chade that she now knew I was her father. I wanted to be clear on just how much Burrich had told her before that secret ceased being a secret.

  Chade grasped the implications immediately. "And Thick speaks to Nettle in his dreams. We can communicate with Buckkeep and the Queen."

  "Almost. I think we need to approach it cautiously. Thick is still not pleased with me, and might make mischief if he knew it would upset me. And Nettle is angry with me, also. I cannot reach her directly, and I don't know how much heed she would give to messages from me that went through Thick."

  He gave a disgruntled noise. "Too late you fall in with my plans for her. Fitz, I do not relish rebuking you. But if you had allowed us to bring Nettle in as soon as we knew her potential, she would never have been in danger. Nor would quarrels between you and her have crippled us in this way. Either the Prince or I could reach her instead of you, if she had been properly prepared to use her magic. We could have had communication with Buckkeep Castle all this time."

  It was childish of me. I pointed it out anyway. "You would probably have brought her here with us, for the sake of mustering strength for the Prince."

  He sighed, as if confronting a stubborn pupil who refused to concede a point. Which he was, I suppose. "As you will have it, Fitz. But, I beg you, do not charge into this development like a bull harried by bees. Let her settle at Buckkeep for a few days, while the Prince and I consult on how much she should know of who she is and how best to approach her through Thick. It may require some preparation of Thick as well." Relief flowed through me. I had feared that Chade would be the one to charge in like a bull. "I will do as you say. Go slowly."

  "There's a good lad," Chade replied absently. I knew that his thoughts had already wandered afar to how these new playing pieces could be deployed on the game board. And so we parted for the night.

  Chapter 15

  Civil

  Hoquin was the White Prophet and Wild Eye his Catalyst in the years that Sardus Chif held power in the Edge Lands. Famine had ruled there even longer than Sardus Chif, and some said it was a punishment on the land because Sardus Prex, mother of Sardus Chif, had burned every sacred grove in wild mourning and fury at the Leaf God when her consort, Slevm, died of pox. Since then, the rains had all but ceased, and that was because there were no sacred leaves for the rains to wash. For the rains only fall for holy duty, not to slake the thirst of men or their children.

  Hoquin believed that his call as White Prophet was to restore the fertility of the Edge Lands, and he believed that to do this, water must come. So he made his Catalyst to study water and how it might be brought to the Edge Lands, from deep wells or dug canals or prayers and offerings for rainfall. Often he asked her what she would change to bring water to her people's lands, but never did she have an answer to please him. Wild Eye had no care for water. She had been born in the dry years and lived in the dry years and knew only the dry years and their ways. What she cared for were thippi-fruits, the little soft-fleshed many-seeded pomes that grow low to the earth in the shelter of the claw brambles in the ravines of the foothills. When she was supposed to be at her chores, she would slip away up to the foothills and go to the bramble thickets, returning with her skirts and hair thick with claw seed and her mouth purple from thippi-fruit. This angered Hoquin the White, and often he beat her for her inattention to her duties.

  Then, around their cottage, where had been only dusty earth, the claw brambles began to grow. Their tangling thorns sheltered the soil from the sun and beneath them came in the thippi-fruit vines. In the season when the thippi-fruit died back, greygrass grew, and rabbits came to live beneath the brambles and eat the greygrass. Then Wild Eye caught and cooked the rabbits for the White Prophet.

  Scribe Cateren, of the White Prophet Hoquin

  Despite Chade's suggestion, I did not go immediately to my blankets. I returned to the fire, where Thick sat staring at the remaining embers and shivering as the cold of the glacier crept up into him. I rousted him from there and saw him off to bed in the tent we would share with Riddle and Hest. The tight quarters were welcome for the body warmth that would be shared. He settled in, gave a huge sigh that ended in a coughing fit, then sighed again and dropped into sleep. I wondered if he would be conversing with Nettle tonight. Perhaps in the morning I'd have the courage to ask him. For now, I'd be content knowing she was safe at Buckkeep. I left the tent and went out under the stars. The fires had died out almost completely. Longwick would keep a few coals going in a firepot but we didn't have enough fuel to keep them burning constantly. There was a dim light from Dutiful's tent; probably a small lantern still burned in there. The Fool's tent was likewise illuminated, glowing like a jewel in the night. I walked quietly over the snow to it.

  I halted outside it when I heard soft voices from within. I could not make out the words, but I recognized the speakers. Swift said something, and the Fool replied teasingly. The boy chuckled. It sounded peaceful and friendly. I felt a strange twinge of exclusion, and almost retreated to my tent. Then I rebuked myself for jealousy. So the Fool had befriended the boy. Very likely, it was the best thing that could happen to Swift. As I could not knock to announce myself, I cleared my throat loudly, and then stoop
ed to lift the tent flap. A slice of light fell on the snow. "May I come in?"

  There was the tiniest of pauses, and then, "If you wish. Try to leave the snow and ice outside."

  He knew me too well. I brushed the damp snow from my leggings, and then shook it from my feet. Crouching, I entered and let the tent flap fall closed behind me.

  The Fool had always had the unique talent of creating a small world for himself when he wished to retreat. The tent was no exception. When I had visited it before, it had been charming, but empty. Now he occupied it and filled it with his presence. A small metal firepot in the center of the floor burned near smokelessly. A smell of cooking, something spicy, lingered in the air. Swift sat cross-legged on a tasseled cushion while the Fool was half-reclined on his pallet. Two arrows, one a dull gray, the other brightly painted and obviously the Fool's work, rested across Swift's knees.

  "Did you require me, sir?" Swift asked quickly. I could hear his reluctance to leave in his voice. I shook my head. "I didn't even know you were here," I replied.

  As the Fool sat up, I saw what had made Swift laugh. A tiny marionette dangled from his hand, with five fine black threads going to each of the Fool's fingertips. I had to smile. He had carved a tiny jester, done in black-and-white. The pallid face was his own, as it had been when he was a boy. White down hair floated around the little face. A twitch of one long finger set the creature's head to nodding at me. "So what brings you here, Tom Badgerlock?" the Fool and his puppet asked me. A shift of his finger made the little jester cock his head inquiringly at me.

  "Fellowship," I replied after a moment's pondering. I sat down on the opposite side of the fire from Swift. The boy gave me a resentful look and then glanced away.

  The Fool's face was neutral. "I see. Welcome." But there was no warmth in the words; I was an intruder. An awkward silence fell and I perceived in full the mistake I had made. The lad knew nothing of the connection between the Fool and me. I could not speak freely. Indeed, I could suddenly think of nothing at all to say. The boy sat staring glumly at the fire, obviously waiting for me to leave. The Fool began to unfasten the marionette from his fingertips, one string at a time.

  "I've never seen a tent like this. Is it from Jamaillia?" Even to me, my query sounded like a polite nothing said to a chance acquaintance.

  "The Rain Wilds, actually. The fabric is Elderling-made, I suspect, but I chose the patterns sewn into it."

  "Elderling-made?" Swift sat up with the avidity of a boy who senses a tale. A very faint smile played about the Fool's mouth. I suspected that he had seen the quickening of interest in my face, too.

  "So the Rain Wild people say. Those who live far up the Rain Wild River. They say that once there were great cities there, and that the cities were the homes of the Elderlings. What exactly or who the Elderlings were is harder to tell. But in some places, buried deep in the muck of the Rain Wild swamps, there are cities of stone. Sometimes, one can find a way into them and, within whatever chambers have remained dry and intact, discover the treasures of another time and people. Some of the items they rescue are magical, with uses and abilities that not even the Rain Wilders completely understand. At other times, they find things that are just as we might make ourselves, but of a different quality."

  "Like this arrow?" Swift held up the gray arrow. "You said it came from the Rain Wilds. I've never seen wood such as this."

  The Fool's eyes flickered to me and then away. "It's wizardwood, a very rare wood. Even more rare than the fabric of this tent, which is finer than silk, and stronger than silk. I can crush all the fabric into a wad I could hold concealed inside my hand, yet stretched over the poles of the tent, it is sturdy, and so strongly woven that it holds warmth in and wind out."

  Swift reached out to run a wondering finger down one wall. "It's nice in here. Warmer than I had thought a tent could be. And I like the dragons on the walls."

  "So do I," the Fool said. He reclined on his pallet again as he stared into the firepot. The tiny flames found twin homes in his eyes. I leaned back, away from the light, and studied him. There were planes and angles to his face that had never been there when we were children. His hair had seemed to gain substance with color. It no longer floated wildly around his face when it was loose, as it was now. Sleek as a horse's mane but far finer, it hung to his shoulders. "The dragons are why I am here."

  For a fraction of a moment, his eyes flickered to mine. I crossed my arms on my chest and leaned back deeper into the shadows.

  "There are dragons in the Rain Wilds," he went on, speaking to Swift. "But only one that is hearty and strong. Tintaglia is her name."

  The boy edged even closer to him. "Then the Bingtown Traders spoke truth? They have a dragon?"

  The Fool cocked his head as if considering the answer. Again, that ghost of a smile bent his mouth. Then he shook his head. "That is not something I would say. Rather, I would say that there is a dragon in the Rain Wilds, and Bingtown falls within the territory she claims as her own. She is a magnificent creature, blue as good steel and silver as a gleaming ring."

  "Have you seen her, your own self?"

  "Indeed I have." The Fool smiled at the boy's wonder. "And had words with her."

  Swift drew his breath in. He seemed to have forgotten my hulking presence. Yet I wondered to which of us the Fool spoke as he said, "This tent is one of the gifts she persuaded the Rain Wild folk to give me."

  "Why did she ask them to give you gifts?"

  "She told them to give me gifts because she knew that I would serve her purpose unswervingly. For we have known each other, in other days and shapes."

  "What do you mean?" The boy suspected he was being teased. I feared he was not.

  "I am not the first of my kind to have dealings with dragonkind. And she has all the memories of her race. They cascade through her mind like bright beads sliding on a string. Back they go, past the serpent she was once to the egg that serpent came from, to the dragon that laid that egg, to the serpent that dragon was, to the egg that serpent hatched from, to the dragon that laid that egg, to the serpent that dragon—"

  "Enough!" the boy laughed breathlessly. The Fool's tongue juggled the words like pins.

  "Back to where she knew another such as I. And perhaps, had I a dragon's memory, I might have been able to say to her, 'Ah, yes, I do recall, and that is exactly how it was. Such a pleasure to meet you again.' But I have not a dragon's memory. And so I had to take her word for it that I was as trustworthy a fellow as she was ever likely to meet."

  His words had fallen into the artful cadence of the storyteller. The boy was enraptured. "And what is her purpose that you shall serve?" Swift asked eagerly.

  "Ah!" The Fool swept his hair back from his face, then stretched, but suddenly his long forefinger was pointing unerringly at me. "He knows. For he has promised to help me. Haven't you, Badgerlock?" Frantically, I scrambled through my memories. Had I promised to aid him? Or had I only said that I would decide when the time came for it? I smiled, and with a wittiness I did not feel, I replied, "When the time comes, I'll serve my purpose."

  I knew he marked my distancing from his words, but he smiled as if I had agreed and said, "As shall we all. Even young Swift, Burrich's son and Molly's son."

  "Why do you name me so?" In that instant, the boy was stung. "My father is nothing to me. Nothing!"

  "Whatever he is to you, you are still son to him. Perhaps you can deny him, but you cannot make him deny you. Some ties cannot be severed by a word. Some ties simply are. Such ties are what bind the world and time together."

  "Nothing binds me to him," the boy insisted sullenly. A little time passed. He perceived he had broken the string of the story, and that the Fool was not going to knot it back together for him. After a pause, he conceded, asking again, "What is the dragon's purpose in your being here?"

  "Oh, you know what it is!" The Fool sat up. "You've heard what was said back on the beach, and I know how swiftly gossip travels in a small group like this. You ha
ve come to slay the dragon. I am here to see that you don't."

  "Unless it's a righteous battle. Unless the dragon attacks us first."

  The Fool shook his head. "No. I am simply here to see that the dragon survives."

  Swift's eyes traveled from the Fool to me and back again. He spoke hesitantly. "Then you are our enemy here? To battle us if we try to kill the dragon? But there is only one of you! How can you think to challenge us?"

  "I challenge no one. I make no one my enemy, though some may consider me theirs. Swift, it is simply as I say it is. I am here to see that no one slays the dragon under the ice."

  The boy shifted uncomfortably. I could almost see the thought pass through his mind, and when he spoke it, he sounded so like Burrich that it nearly broke my heart. "I am sworn to serve my prince." He took a breath, but when he spoke his voice was still troubled. "If you oppose him, sir, then I must oppose you." The Fool had kept his eyes fixed on the boy's face all the while. "I am sure you will, if you believe it is the right thing to do," he said quietly. "And if that is so when the time comes, well, that will be soon enough for us to be opponents. I am sure you will respect the duty of my heart just as I respect yours. For now, however, we travel all together in the same direction, and I see no reason why we should not share what Tom Badgerlock came to seek here. Fellowship."

  Again Swift's eyes traveled between us. "Then you are friends, you two?"

  "For many years," I said, at almost the same instant that the Fool said, "Far more than friends, I would say." It was at precisely that moment that Civil Bresinga flung open the tent flap and thrust his head inside. "I feared as much!" he declared angrily. Swift looked up at him, his mouth a round O of surprise. The Fool gave an exasperated sigh. I was the first to find my tongue.

  "Your fears are groundless," I said quietly, while Swift, entirely mistaking Civil's declaration, retorted, "I would never be disloyal to my prince, no matter who tempted me!"