Fool’s Quest

Did you ask Dutiful if he had any idea what is brewing?

Dutiful does not know. I felt him throw his Skilling wide, including Dutiful in our mental conversation.

Perhaps Dutiful does not think there is anything wrong with his queen so obviously enjoying herself this evening, the king suggested sarcastically.

There is something in the wind. I feel it! Chade replied.

Perhaps I might know my wife’s moods better than you do? Dutiful retorted.

I wanted no more of their fractiousness. I will be down as soon as I can, but not as Lord Feldspar. The wig is ruined, I fear.

At the least, dress fashionably, Chade ordered me irritably. If you come down in a tunic and trousers, you will turn every head. Nor can you wear what was ordered for Lord Feldspar. There must be items in Lord Feldspar’s wardrobe that he has not yet worn. Choose from among them, and quickly.

I shall.

“You have to go.” The Fool spoke into the silence after my Skilling.

“I do. How did you know?”

“I learned to read your exasperated little sighs long ago, Fitz.”

“The wig is ruined. And with it, my identity as Lord Feldspar. I must go to my room, sort through clothing, dress, and go down as someone entirely different. I can do it. But I do not delight in it as Chade does.”

“And as I once did.” It was his turn to sigh. “How I would love to have your task tonight! To choose clothing and go down well dressed, with rings and earrings and scent, and mingle with a hundred different folk, and eat well-prepared food. Drink and dance and make jests.” He sighed again. “I wish I could be alive again before I have to die.”

“Ah, Fool.” I began to reach for his hand, and then stopped. He would startle back in terror if I touched him, and when he did that, it woke hurt in both of us.

“You should go right now. I’ll keep the bird company.”

“Thank you,” I said, and meant it. I hoped she would not panic suddenly and dash herself against the chamber walls. As long it was mostly darkened, I thought she would be fine. I had nearly reached the top of the stairs when his query reached me.

“What does she look like?”

“She’s a crow, Fool. A grown crow. Black beak, black feet, black eyes. The only thing that sets her apart from a thousand other crows is that she was hatched with some white upon her feathers.”

“Where is she white?”

“Some of her pinions are white. When she opens her wings, they are almost striped. And there were a few tufts of white on her back or head, I think. The others ripped out some of her feathers.”

“Ripped,” the Fool said.

“White! White! White!” the bird cried out in the darkness. Then, in a soft little mutter, so that I was barely sure I heard it, she muttered, “Ah, Fool.”

“She knows my name!” he exclaimed in delight.

“And mine. More’s the pity. It was how she forced me to stop for her. She was shouting ‘FitzChivalry! FitzChivalry!’ in the middle of Tailors Street.”

“Clever girl,” the Fool murmured approvingly.

I snorted my disagreement and hurried down the stairs.

Chapter Eight Farseers

And back-to-back those brothers stood
And bade farewell their lives,
For round them pressed the Red Ship wolves,
A wall of swords and knives.

They heard a roar and striding came
The bastard Buckkeep son.
Like rubies flung, the drops of blood
That from his axe-head spun.

A path he clove, like hewing trees,
As bloody axe he wielded.
Blood to his chest, the bastard came,
And to his blade they yielded.

’Twas Chivalry’s son,
His eyes like flame,
Who shared his blood
If not his name.

A Farseer son,
But ne’er an heir
Whose bloodied locks
No crown would bear.

—“Antler Island Anthem,” Starling Birdsong