Fool’s Quest

“How did I know?” He made a small incredulous sound. “Oh, Fitz. Why do you think I left? To leave you to find a life as close as possible to the one that I had always foreseen would follow my death. In so many futures, after my death, I saw you court Molly tirelessly, win her back, and finally take for yourself some of the happiness and peace that had always eluded you when I was near. In so many futures, I foresaw that she would die and you would be left alone. But that does not undo what you had, and that was the best I could wish for you. Years with your Molly. She loved you so.”

He resumed eating. I sat very still. My throat was clenched so tight that the pain nearly choked me. It was difficult even to breathe past that lump. Blind as he was, I think he still knew of my distress. For a long time he ate very slowly, as if to stretch out both the meal and the silence I needed. Slowly he wiped the last of the meat juices from his plate with his final bite of bread. He ate it, wiped his fingers on the napkin, and then walked his hand over to his wine. He lifted it and sipped, his face almost beatific. He set the cup down and then said quietly, “My memories of yesterday are very confusing to me.”

I held my silence.

“I had walked through most of the previous night, I think. I remember the snow, and knowing that I must not stop until I found some sort of shelter. I had a good stick, and that helps more than I can say when a man has no eyes, and bad feet. It’s hard for me to walk without a stick now. I knew I was on the road to Oaksbywater. Now I remember. A cart passed me, with the driver cursing and shouting at me to get out of the way. So I did. But I found his cart tracks in the snow and knew that if I followed them, they had to lead to some sort of shelter. So I walked. My feet got numb, and that meant less pain, but I fell more often. I think it was very late when I reached Oaksbywater. A dog barked at me, and someone shouted at it. The cart tracks led to a stable. I could not get inside, but there was a pile of straw and manure outside.” He folded his lips for a moment and then said wryly, “I’ve learned that dirty straw and manure are often warm.”

I nodded, then realized he could not see me. “They are,” I conceded.

“I slept a bit, and then woke when the town started to stir around me. I heard a girl singing and recognized one of the old Winterfest songs from when I lived at Buckkeep. And so I knew it might be a good day to beg. Holidays bring out the kindness in some people. I thought I would beg and try to get some food in me and then, if I encountered someone who seemed kind, I would ask them to put me on the path to Withywoods.”

“So you were coming to find me.”

He nodded slowly. His hand crept back to his wine cup. He found it, drank sparingly, and set it down. “Of course I was coming to find you. So. I was begging, but the shopkeeper kept ranting at me to move on. I knew I should. But I was so tired, and the place where I had settled was out of the wind. Wind is a cruel thing, Fitz. A day that is cold but bearable when the air is still becomes a constant torment when a wind rises.” His voice fell away and he hunched his shoulders as if even the memory of wind could freeze him now.

“Then, hmm. A boy came by. He gave me an apple. Then the shopkeeper cursed me and shouted at her husband to come and drive me off. And the boy helped me to move away from the door. And . . .” The Fool’s words trailed away. His head moved, wagging from side to side. I did not think he was aware of it. It reminded me of a hound casting about for a lost scent. Then plaintive words burst from him. “It was so vivid, Fitz! He was the son I was seeking. The boy touched me and I could see with his vision. I could feel the strength he might have, someday, if he was trained, if he was not corrupted by the Servants. I’d found him and I could not contain my joy.” Yellowish tears spilled slowly from his eyes and began to track down his scarred face. All too well, I recalled the request that he had sent his messengers to give me: that I search for the “Unexpected Son.” His son? A child he had fathered, despite all I knew of him? In the time since his messenger had reached me and then died, I’d mulled over a dozen possibilities as to who the mother of such a son might be.

“I found him,” the Fool continued. “And I lost him. When you stabbed me.”

Shame and guilt washed over me in a wave. “Fool, I am so sorry. If only I had recognized you, I never would have hurt you.”

He shook his head. One clawlike hand found his napkin. He mopped his face with it. His words came out as hoarse as a crow’s caw. “What happened, Fitz? What . . . provoked you to try to kill me?”

“I mistook you for someone dangerous. Someone that would hurt a child. I came out of the tavern, looking for my little girl.”

“Your little girl?” His words broke through my explanation in an incredulous shout.