Golden Fool

I reached for him, and in a moment felt his acknowledgment. Where are you and what are you doing?

I’m sitting and listening to an Old Blood minstrel sing songs from olden days. We’re at a sort of shelter at the head end of a valley. From the look of it, I would say it was thrown together especially for this purpose. I guess they did not want to take us to any of their real homes for fear of later reprisals.

Are you comfortable?

A bit cold, and the food is very basic. But it’s no worse than an overnight hunt would be. They are treating us well. Let my mother know I am safe.

I shall.

And how goes it at Buckkeep?

Slowly. I’m sitting behind a wall watching Old Bloods watch a juggler. Dutiful, I doubt that any real progress will be made in the next three days.

I suspect you are right. I think we should take the attitude of one old man here. He keeps telling everyone it will be a triumph if we have these talks at all without bloodshed. That that will be more than any Farseer has offered Old Blood in his lifetime.

Hm. Perhaps he has something there.

The Old Bloods I watched made an early night of it. Doubtless they were weary both from the journey and the tension. I was glad to seek my own bed but first decided on a trip down to the guardroom to see what gossip might be offered. The guardroom, I had long ago discovered, was the best place to hear rumor and innuendo, and to judge the temper of the folk at large.

On my way there, I was shocked to encounter Web wandering about in the quiet night halls of the castle. He greeted me warmly by name. “Are you lost?” I asked him courteously.

“No. Only curious. And my head too full of thoughts to sleep. Where are you going?”

“To find a late meal,” I told him, and he suddenly decided that was the very thing he needed himself. I was reluctant to take one of our Old Blood emissaries into the guardroom, but he refused the suggestion that he find a quiet hearth in the Great Hall and wait there for me. As he walked beside me, dread rose in me that we might face some sort of encounter there, but he seemed immune to such fears, asking me endless questions about the tapestries, banners, and portraits we passed.

When we entered the guardroom, all talk died for a moment. My heart sank at the hostile glances we received, and sank still more when I saw Blade Havershawk at the end of the table nearest the hearth. I averted my face as I observed, “Our queen’s guest would like a slice off the joint, fellows, and a mug of ale.” I made this heavy-handed reminder of the hospitality we owed in the hopes it would warm the room. It didn’t.

“Rather we was sharing it with our prince,” someone said portentously.

“As would I,” Web agreed heartily. “For I scarce got the chance to say two words to him before he rode off with my comrades. But as he dines with them tonight and listens to their tales, so I would break bread with you and hear the stories of Buckkeep Castle.”

“Don’t know as we feed Witted at the table round here,” someone observed snidely.

I took breath, knowing I must make some reply and find some way to get Web out of the room uninjured, but Blade spoke before me. “Once we did,” he said slowly. “And he was one of our own and we loved him well, until we were stupid enough to let Regal take him from us.”

“Oh, not that old tale!” someone groaned, and another chimed in with “Even after he killed our king, Blade Havershawk? Did you love him well then?”

“FitzChivalry didn’t kill King Shrewd, you young knothead. I was there and I know what happened. I don’t care what a drove of snake-tongued minstrels have sung since. Fitz didn’t kill the King he loved. He did kill those Skill-users, and I warrant it was as he claimed. They killed Shrewd.”

“Aye. That’s how I always heard the tale, too.” Web sounded enthused. As I watched in horror, he squeezed past men who pointedly did not step out of his way until he reached Blade’s side. “Is there room beside you on that bench, old warrior?” he asked him amiably. “For I would hear it told again, from the lips of a man who was there.”

There followed for me the longest evening I’d ever spent in the guardroom. Web was full of curiosity, and stopped Blade a hundred times in his telling of that fateful night to pose piercing questions that soon had the men around the table making queries of their own. Had the torches truly burned blue and the Pocked Man been seen on that night when Regal claimed the throne was rightfully his? And the Queen had fled that night of blood, had she not? And when she returned to Buckkeep, had she shed no light on those events?

Full strange it was to hear that debate, and know that speculation still raged after all the years. The Queen had always asserted FitzChivalry had murdered in justified rage the true killers of the King, but no proof had ever been offered that it was so. Still, the men agreed, their queen was no fool, nor had she reason to lie on that topic. As if one Mountain-bred as she was would ever lie! And from there they clambered on to the hoary tale of how I had clawed my way out of the grave, leaving an empty coffin behind. The empty coffin at least had been shown, though no man could say if my body had been spirited away or if I had truly transformed into a wolf and escaped it. The gathered guards were skeptical of Web’s claim that no Witted one could transform that way. From there, the talk went to his own beast, a gull of some sort. Again, he extended the invitation that any who wished might meet his bird on the morrow. A few shook their heads in superstitious fear, but others were plainly intrigued and said they would come.