Fool's Fate
“What herb? I'm not sick! It's mine, it's mine! You said we were friends and wouldn't hurt each other. Let go! Not fair, it's not polite to grab!”
In his love of sweets, he struggled with me for it. I dared not let him have even a taste. Never had I had such a strong reaction to the herb. I felt the rush of its energy through me, and wondered how deeply would I fall into the inevitable trough of despair that followed elfbark use. Then I had scooped the handful of cake from his grasp. He sat down flat on the floor, gave one angry sob, and then went off in a coughing fit. I handed the cake hastily to Chade with the improvised warning, “I wouldn't eat this in front of him, sir. I know how he is about sweets. If he sees you having some without him, well, I'd predict a disruption that would deafen us all.”
I wondered if Chade and Dutiful reached toward me with the Skill. I wondered if Thick tried to make me stumble into the fire in revenge. But I felt absolutely nothing. No touch of them brushed against my senses. My Wit knew they were still there, and that was a comfort. But the Skill-threads that had run amongst us were all severed. Peottre scowled, looking on the verge of affront. Chade reacted more swiftly than I could have hoped, saying, “Ah, yes, I recall what an effect it had on you last time, Thick. It wouldn't be good for you, now, don't fuss, there's a good fellow. I'm sure we can find something just as nice for you.” He turned to Peottre with a conspiratorial wink. “The Prince's good fellow stayed awake a day and a night, and then fell into such a black mood that nothing could cheer him for several days. Not the sort of thing to invite on such an expedition as ours. Come, Thick, don't scowl like that. I think Prince Dutiful has some sugar barley sticks that he has been saving for you.”
The Prince was already rummaging in his pack and Chade hastily took the mashed handful of cake from me, deftly returned it to the rest of the cake and wrapped it up again. He tucked it immediately into his pack. “I'm sure the Prince and I will enjoy a bit of this later, perhaps after Thick has fallen asleep,” he confided to Peottre in a lowered voice. “I, for one, will appreciate what an herb like elfbark can do for an old man. I wasn't aware that it was used in the Out Islands.”
“Elfbark?” Did Peottre feign his ignorance? “We have no plant by such an odd name. There are herbs in the cake but each mothershouse has her own recipe for it, and the ingredients are jealously guarded. But I can tell you that this is from my own home, the same mothershouse the Narcheska shares. This ‘courage cake' has been a food that has sustained the Narwhal Clan for generations.”
I essayed a grin I didn't feel. “That's true, Lord Chade, sir. No matter how long you might lecture me, doubtless I'd not hear a word you said.” A tiny change in his eyes suggested he understood me only too well.
He poured weak tea for himself, sipped it, and then coughed loudly, nearly gagging, and vigorously thumping himself on the chest. In a wheezing voice, he added, “You are dismissed, Tom Badgerlock. Get yourself a bit of food, but please report back here before you sleep. I think Thick will wish to sleep here tonight.”
“Yes, my lord.” His mimed action had not been lost on me.
I left the tent, and by a roundabout route, walked to the far corner of the camp. The rain had stopped, but the wind still blew. At the outskirts of camp, I thrust two fingers down my throat and tried desperately to gag up the bite of cake I'd eaten. It didn't work. I'd fasted too long and my belly had taken it down too swiftly. What little I brought up left me shuddering with its bitterness. I ate a handful of wet snow to try to clear the bile from my mouth, kicked loose snow over my vomit, and went shaking back toward the tents. More than mere cold chilled me. I think that once a man has experienced the insidious treachery of poison, he never fully recovers from it. To know that you have taken something into your body, to be aware that it is working changes, debilitating changes, with every beat of your heart, is an excursion into horror that is hard to describe. I had tasted the elfbark and I already felt its impact. What if there had been other drugs in there, ones I had not tasted, working damage I did not yet suspect? I tried to rein my mind away from that precipice. It made no sense, I told myself. The cake had been a gift from Peottre, delivered without apparent guile. We were here to accomplish his mission of slaying the dragon; why would he attempt to poison one of us? Yet I could not quite dismiss it as a perverse twist of luck that he had fed me such a form of the herb strong enough to obliterate my magic.