Fool's Quest
I studied his face for signs of a jest. Then I waited for him to mock me for my gullibility. Finally I begged him, “Can you just explain?”
He blew out a breath. “I’m tired, Fitz. And I’ve told you as clearly as I can what I think may be happening. You seem to think we are becoming or were ‘one thing,’ as you so gracefully put it. I think that our essences may be seeping across to the other, creating a bridge between us. Or perhaps it’s a vestige of the Skill-bond we once shared.” He leaned his poor head back on the pillows. “I can’t sleep. I’m weary and tired, but not sleepy. What I am is bored. Horribly bored with pain and darkness and waiting.”
“I thought you just said that being bored—”
“Is lovely. Horribly lovely.”
Well, at least he was showing signs of his old self. “I wish I could help you. Sadly, there isn’t much I can do about your boredom.”
“You already did something for me. The sores on my back are much better. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. And now I fear I must leave you for a time. I’m supposed to meet with Lady Kettricken, as Lord Feldspar of Spiretop. I will need to dress for that role.”
“I should, if I’m to be properly dressed and in line for a private audience with her. I’ll come back afterward. Try to rest.”
With regret, I turned away. I knew how the time must drag for him. He had always been a lively fellow, a juggler, a tumbler, adept at sleight of hand, with a mind as quick and clever as his fingers. He had cavorted through King Shrewd’s court, quick with a witty retort, always a part of the gay whirl that Buckkeep society had been when I was very young. Now sight and clever fingers and agile body had all been taken from him. Darkness and pain were his companions.
“After Prilkop’s benefactor bought me from my ‘owner,’ at an insultingly low price I might add, we were fairly well treated. His new patron was not a noble but a fairly wealthy landowner. It was only by the greatest of good fortune that the man was well versed in the lore of the White Prophets.”
He paused. He knew I had halted, intrigued by his words. I tried to calculate how much time had passed. It was difficult to tell in the perpetual twilight of the room. “I have to leave soon,” I reminded him.
“I do.”
I turned.
“For ten days, we rested and were well fed in his home. He arranged new garments for us, packed provisions, and then he himself drove the horse and cart to Clerres. It was a journey of nearly a month to get there. Sometimes we camped, and at other times we were able to stay at inns. Both Prilkop and I worried greatly at what the man was sacrificing of pocket and time to get us there, but he would always say he was honored to do it. Our road led us through a mountain pass, nearly as frozen and cold as a Buckkeep winter, and then down, down we went. I began to recognize the scents of the trees, and I knew the names of the wayside flowers from my boyhood. Clerres itself had grown a great deal since last I had seen it, and Prilkop was astounded that the place he remembered as a simple village had grown to an edifice of walls and towers and gardens and gates.
“Yet so it was. The school had prospered, and in turn the city had prospered, for there was a trade now in the searching of prophecies to give advice to merchants and would-be brides and builders of sailing ships. From far and near they came, to pay a fee in the hope of getting an audience with the Head Servant, and then to tell their tale to him. And if he judged them worthy, they could buy a license for a day or three or twenty, and cross the causeway to the White Island. There, one of the acolyte Servants would be put to researching the prophecies to see if any pertained to that particular venture or wedding or voyage.
“But I am getting ahead of myself.”
I clenched my teeth and then let him win. “Actually, you’ve gone backward in your telling, as you well know. Fool, I desperately want to hear this story, but I must not be late to my audience.”
“As you wish.”
“Fool! Why are you being like this?”
“Do you really want to know?” The old lilt of mockery was back in his voice.
“Yes.”
He spoke more softly and soberly than he had before. “Because I know it makes you feel better when I mock you.”
I turned to look back at him, denial on my lips. But some trick of the firelight showed him to me as he was. Not at all like my friend of old. He looked like a badly carved puppet of himself, something as battered and ragged as a beloved old toy. The light touched the scars on his face, the gray-painted eyes, and the straw-thatch of hair on his skull. I couldn’t utter a word.