Fool’s Quest

The roan was a pleasure to bestride.

I did not leave the stables at a gallop, though I had that desire in my heart. No. I rode like a man on a pleasant and casual errand, a bemused look on my face. I nodded graciously to the guards who bade Prince FitzChivalry a good day as he rode out of the gates. I took the road that led away from Buckkeep Town toward the River Road. Even there, I set an easy pace. I could feel my horse’s impatience. She sensed my desire for speed and was very willing to deliver it to me.

Soon, I promised her.

We will run and then we will fight! As one!

My heart smote me. Unfaithful.

Unfaithful to whom?

Horse. I am sorry. I did not mean to start this. This is not a good bond for me.

I am not “horse.” I am Fleeter.

I held stillness. She did not.

I have waited for you for a long time. Five humans have claimed to own me, but none did. And all of them, I think, knew that. Why else would they sell me for money, as perfect a mount as I am? They could not buy my heart and so they sold me again and again. And then you saw me and in that moment, you knew I was for you. In two strides you claimed me and we both know that was right and is right. Do not say to me that you can undo what is done.

I guarded my thoughts. I did not want this attachment. There could not be this attachment. I groped within me for my wolf, for Nighteyes, but nothing stirred. I sat on her back as still as if I were a sack of grain. I thought of everything else. How far I would travel before I pushed her into a gallop. I reviewed my mental map of where I would leave the king’s highway and go cross-country to Salter’s Deep. I’d memorized that bit of the map and hoped it was accurate. I was fairly certain the roan could handle a long cross-country gallop. If I was wrong—

I can. For a time, I was used as a hunter’s mount.

I began a meticulous catalog of the weapons I had selected. I had tried to provide for every exigency. Sword and knife. A dust poison that could be flung. One suitable for poisoning food if the opportunity presented itself. Six tiny darts tipped with a very potent poison. A sling. I wondered if I could hit anything with it; I hadn’t practiced in years.

I am your best weapon. The man who trained me was like you. He refused me. I was young then, and did not know there were three other horses he spent just as much time with. They were all stallions. His friends mocked him for training me, saying I would never learn the kicks and jumps. That only stallions know how to fight. He proved them wrong. And he collected the wagers and before the summer was over, he sold me.

How does a horse know of such things as wagers? The thought escaped me before I could quell it.

She tossed her head, taking a bit more of the reins. I gave it to her. What do you think stable boys do when they are waiting for their orders? They roll bones and shout and pass coins. And that was what I was to the man who trained me to fight. Bones to roll.

I felt a pang of sympathy for her. Horse, we can be—

Fleeter. I am not “horse” nor “roan.” I am Fleeter.

Fleeter. I accepted the name reluctantly, felt the binding go tighter as I did so. We can be friendly with each other. But I am not seeking—

What is your name?

I breathed out slowly.

I feel the shape of it in how you think. Must I guess it?