Fool’s Quest

“I went to see him, of course.” Dutiful took up his tale. “Whatever strength and life he’d had left he’d expended battling my mother’s healer. He was unresponsive. I tried to reach him with the Skill, and could not. And to my Wit, he remains invisible. My mother was at his side, tending him. And Chade’s lad, Ash. And a crow?”

There was the slightest inflection of a question on his last words. I ignored it. Later, perhaps, there would be time to explain the crow. For now she did not matter.

“The lad was grieved beyond telling. Nearly prostrate with remorse, I thought. I tried to comfort him, telling him that no one blamed him and that I would intercede with Lord Chade to be sure he was not held responsible. But I was mistaken. It was not fear that he had failed in his duty but genuine mourning. My mother told him that we had done all that could be done, and that the Fool himself had decided to let go of this life. The lad kept saying that the Fool was a hero and should not die in such an ignoble way. He wept. We agreed with him but I could tell he was heartsick and our agreement brought him no comfort.

“I knew they would keep a good watch on him, and that I would be summoned if needed. My mother told me that all we could do was comfort his body, and this she was doing, with cool damp cloths to ease the burning of his fever. There was nothing I could do for him. And so I left them there.”

The Fool with a fever. Serious indeed for a man who was usually chill to the touch. Dutiful’s words were an apology. I could not imagine why. He paused in his telling and exchanged a look with Nettle.

“What?” I demanded.

Riddle lifted his head and spoke. “To make it short, Lady Kettricken left to come to the Skill-pillar. And while we were gone, Ash took it upon himself to give Lord Golden something. Evidently it was an elixir or potion or some rare healing draught. He won’t reveal what it was, but only repeats that Lord Chade told him to give the man whatever he might need, and so he did. Whatever he gave him . . . it changed him.”

Now they were all staring at me as if they expected me to understand something they did not. “It revived him? It killed him?” I was sick of useless words, such thin slices of meaning. “I’m going to him.”

Dutiful opened his mouth, but Riddle was bold enough to shake his head at his king. “Let him go. Words won’t explain it. What a man doesn’t understand, he cannot tell. Let him see.”

I stood, staggered sideways a few steps, and was glad to catch myself before Dutiful could seize my arm. When a man’s pride is all he has left, he holds it closely. I did not care that they watched as I went to the drapes and triggered the hidden door. I was sick of secrets. Let them all spill out into the daylight. But it wasn’t daylight now. It was night. Let the secrets spill into the night? I shook my head. I had been doing something. Going to the Fool. I clutched my thoughts tightly.

I ascended the stairs. I knew they followed. The room above was yellow with candlelight and hearth fire. I smelled the resinous fragrance of the Mountain forests and suspected that Kettricken burned incense from her home. It cleared my mind and as I entered the chamber, it struck me that I had never seen it so warm and welcoming. My eyes swept over the changes. The crow perched on one of the chairbacks, dozing in the warmth from the fire. “Fitz—Chivalry!” she greeted me. Ash sat on the floor by the hearth at Kettricken’s feet. He gave me a doleful look and then turned his gaze back to the fire. My former queen was ensconced in Chade’s old chair. She had draped a colorful Mountain coverlet over it. On the table beside her, a fat blue teapot painted with leaping hares steamed. Her braided hair was pinned high on her head, and the cuffs of her simple blue gown were folded back as if she were ready to do the day’s scrubbing. She turned to me, a mug of aromatic tea in her hands. Her eyes were concerned but her mouth smiled. “Fitz! I am so relieved you have returned to us, and so worried for little Bee! And for Chade’s daughter!”

I made no answer to her greeting. My gaze was snagged on the man who sat beside her. He was slender and upright, but his posture was still uncertain. An invalid still, he was robed in soft gray wool; a loose hood covered his head. I could not tell if he could see me or not. The eyes he turned on me were no longer clouded and gray; they gleamed a faint gold as if the firelight reflected in them. He extended a hand toward me. The knuckles were still swollen and his hands were bone-gaunt, but his fingers moved with a shadow of their old grace. He turned his hand palm up and reached toward me. “Fitz?” he asked, and I knew then he could not see me. Yet I had the uncanny feeling he could sense me.