Fool's Quest - Страница 133

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And I knew in that moment that they were the four I would kill. I pushed on with my questions. “There were others. Shine said Dwalia called them her luriks.”

He pinched his lips tightly together. “They can be seen as benighted children who believe too firmly in all they are told.” The set of his mouth told me he did not agree with that assessment. In a deadlier voice he added, “Or you can see them as traitors to their own kind. They are the children of the Whites who did not breed true, or showed their talent for precognition in strange ways. Vindeliar is an example of that. Some see nothing of the future but are adept at remembering every dream they have ever read. They are like walking libraries of the dream-scrolls, able to cite what they read and tell who dreamed it and when. Others are adept at interpreting an event and listing the dreams that foretold it in various forms. The ones who followed Dwalia and died deserved to die. On that, you can absolutely believe me.”

“So you have said. Do you remain certain of that?”

“I speak of the ones who held and passed the tools of my misery. The ones who pushed the needles into my back to shoot the burning colors under my skin. The ones who so meticulously incised the slices in my face. The ones who cut the Skill from my fingertips.” He took a shuddering breath. “Ones who chose to live free of inconvenience by tolerating the agony and degradation of others.”

I had begun to tremble but not as badly as he did. He shook. I went to him, drew him to his feet, and held him tightly, as much to still my own shaking as his. We had both known the torturer’s touch, and that creates a common ground that is hard for other to understand. “You killed them,” he reminded me. “The ones who tormented you in Regal’s dungeon. When you had the chance, you killed them.”

“I did.” My tongue stilled. I recalled a youngster, the last of his patrol, dying of poison. Did I regret him? Perhaps. But if I were in that situation again, I’d still do as I’d done. I squared my shoulders and renewed my promise. “And when I gain the chance, Fool, I will do the same to those who tormented you. And to those who gave you over to torture.”

“Dwalia,” he said and his voice went deep with hatred. “She was there. In the gallery, watching. Mimicking my screams.”

“Gallery?” I asked, confused.

He set his palms against my chest and pushed me suddenly away. I took no offense. I knew that sudden need not to be touched. When he spoke, his voice had gone high and he sounded as if he would laugh, but he did not. “Oh, yes, they have a gallery. It’s a much more sophisticated arena for torment than you Buckmen could ever imagine. There they might cut open the chest of a strapped-down child who shows no promise, to show the beating heart and swelling lungs to those who would later learn to be healers. Or torturers. Many come to witness torture, some to record every word that is spoken, and others to while away a tiresome afternoon. Fitz, when you can control the course of events, when you can precipitate a famine or bring wealth to a seaport and all who live near it, the suffering of one individual comes to mean less and less. We Whites are chattel to them, to be bred or slaughtered as they please. Yes, there is a gallery. And Dwalia looked down on me as I bled.”

“I wish I had been able to kill her for you, then, Fool. And for me as well.”

“So I wish also. But there are others. Those who raised and shaped her. Those who gave her power and permission.”

“Yes. So tell me of them.”

More the Fool told me that afternoon, and I listened well. The more he talked, the calmer he became. There were things he knew that might be useful. He knew of the deep spring that supplied the palace with water, and he knew of the four towers where the Council members slept. He knew of the horns that sounded when folk could cross the causeway and enter the fortified city that was the White Island, and of the bell that tolled to warn folk that they must leave or risk being caught by the rising tides. He knew of the walled garden and the great house where the Whites and part-Whites were housed, knowing no other world than that. “Raised like penned cattle thinking the pen is the world. When I first came to Clerres, the Servants kept me apart from their Whites, and I truly believed that I was the only White left in the world. The only White Prophet for this generation.” He sat silent, and then he sighed. “Then the Pale Woman, at that time little more than a girl, demanded to meet me. She hated me from the time she saw me, for I was so certain I was all she was not. She decreed that I must be tattooed as I was. And when they were done, they put me in with the others. Fitz, they hoped I would breed for them. But I was young, too young to be interested in such things, and the tales I told the others of my home and my family, of market days and cows to milk, and pressing grapes for wine … Oh. How they envied me those memories, and how they insisted they must only be tales. By day they mocked me and set me apart, but in the evenings they would gather round me and ask me questions and listen to my tales. They scoffed, even then, but I felt their hunger. At least for a time, I had had all that they had never known. The love of my parents. My sisters’ fond teasing. A little white cat that trotted at my heels. Ah, Fitz, I had been such a happy child.

“And telling them my tales sharpened my own hunger, until I had to take action. And so I escaped. And made my slow way to Buckkeep.” He shrugged his thin shoulders. “To wait to discover you. To begin our tasks.”

And so he spoke, and I was entranced, as he shared so much I had never known of him. I sat and I listened to him, afraid to break the spell of such honesty. When he ceased speaking, I realized the day was dimming to a close. There was still so much I needed to do.

I persuaded him then to let me ring for Ash and have food brought, and perhaps ask for a bath. For I guessed now that he had neither bathed nor changed his clothes since he had returned from his misadventure. When I rose to leave, he smiled at me.

“We’re going there. We’re going to stop them.” It sounded like a promise.

“I am but one man, Fool. Your quest demands an army.”

“Or the father of a stolen and murdered child.”

So he described me, and for a moment my pain and my fury were one emotion. I did not speak but I felt that thin shiver of awareness between us. And he replied to that.

“I know,” he said. “I know.”

Later that day I tapped at Chade’s door, and when no one answered, I slipped inside. He was dozing in a cushioned chair before the fire with his stocking feet up on a stool. I stepped to the door of his bedchamber, expecting to find some attendant there, Shine or Steady or a Skill-apprentice.

“We’re alone. For once.”

I startled at his words and turned to look at him. He had not opened his eyes. “Chade?”

“Fitz.”

“You sound much better than the last time I saw you. Almost like your old self.”

He drew a deeper breath and opened his eyes. Awake, he looked more aged than he had asleep. “I am not better. I cannot Skill. Nothing in my body feels right anymore. My joints ache and my stomach seems angry no matter what I eat.” He stared at his feet, propped up in front of the fire. “It’s all catching up with me, my boy. All the years.”

I do not know what made me do it. I went to his chair and sat on the floor beside it, as if I were eleven again and he my master. He set his bony hand on my head and ruffled my hair. “Oh, my boy. My Fitz. There you are. Now. When are you leaving?”

He knew. And for that moment, he was Chade as he had been always to me, knowing everything. It was a relief to speak to someone who understood me from the bones out. “As soon as I can. I’ve waited for weather, I’ve gathered my information and regained my Skill. I’ve tightened my muscles and renewed some skill with a blade. So much time I had to waste.”

“Sharpening your knife is never a waste of time. You’ve finally learned that. Not an apprentice any longer, nor even a journeyman. This makes you a master.”

“Thank you,” I said quietly and was surprised at the heart I took from his words. “I’ll have to go part of the way by the pillars, and from there I’ll have to travel overland, and then take a ship. It will be a very long journey.”

He nodded. His hand still rested on my head. “My son wants to go with you,” he said quietly.

“Lant?”

“Yes. He has spoken of it to me often, when he thought he was talking to my empty shell. He wants to go. And I want him to as well. Take him with you. Let him prove himself to himself and bring him back to me a man.”

“Chade, I can’t. He’s not …”

“He’s not like us. He lacks our capacity for hate. Or vengeance. He was appalled at what befell his so-called stepmother, but it had to be done. I know that, but he can’t see it. He would have gone to her and promised that he would make no claim on Vigilant’s estates. He believed he could calm her.” Chade shook his head. “He doesn’t recognize evil, even when it’s delivered a rib-cracking beating to him. He’s a good man, Fitz. Probably better than either of us. But he doesn’t feel as if he’s a man. Take him with you.”

“I don’t understand why he’d want to go.”

Chade gave a huff of laughter. “You are as close as he has to an elder brother. And who was my boy before he was? The tales I told of that nameless boy fired him with rivalry and with a desire to be like him. And be liked by him. In his early training, I made you the rival for my regard that he could never best. The one he determined he would equal. He longed to step up, to be in our company. Then he met you, and he failed. And failed again, and again. Fitz. I cannot give him what he seeks. I know you mean to go alone. That would be a mistake. Trust me in this, and take Lant. Until he wins your regard, he has none for himself. So take him. Let my son prove himself a man to you and to himself. Let both of you set aside all rivalry and jealousy.”

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