The Farseer Series Books 2 and 3: Royal Assassin, Assassin’s Quest. Robin Hobb

       SEVENTEEN

       Interludes

      ‘Of stone were their bones made, of the sparkling veined stone of the mountains. Their flesh was made of the shining salts of the earth. But their hearts were made of the hearts of wise men.

       ‘They came from afar, those men, a long and trying way. They did not hesitate to lay down the lives that had become a weariness to them. They ended their days and began eternities, they put aside flesh and donned stone, they let fall their weapons and rose on new wings. Elderlings.’

      When the King finally summoned me, I went to him. True to my promise to myself, I had not voluntarily gone to his chambers since that afternoon. Bitterness still ate at me over his arrangements with Duke Brawndy concerning Celerity and me. But a summons from one’s king was not a thing to be ignored, regardless of what anger churned inside me still.

      King Shrewd sent for me on an autumn morning. It had been at least two months since I had last stood before him. I had ignored the wounded looks the Fool flung at me when I encountered him, and turned aside Verity’s occasional query as to why I had not sought out Shrewd’s chamber. It was easy enough. Wallace still guarded his door like a serpent on the hearth, and the King’s poor health was no secret from anyone. No one was admitted to his rooms before noon any more. So I told myself this morning summons betokened something important.

      I had thought the morning would belong to me. An unseasonably early and vicious autumn storm had pounded us for two days. The driving wind was merciless, while drenching rain promised that anyone in an open boat would be fully occupied with bailing. I had spent the evening before in the tavern with the rest of the Rurisk’s crew, toasting the storm and wishing the Red Ships the full kiss of it. I had come back to the keep to tumble suddenly into my bed, certain that I could sleep as long as I wished the next morning. But a determined page had battered my door until sleep forsook me, and then delivered to me the King’s formal summons.

      I washed, shaved, smoothed my hair back into a tail and donned clean clothes. I steeled myself to betray nothing of my smouldering resentment. When I was confident I was master of myself, I left my chamber. I presented myself at the King’s door. I fully expected Wallace to sneer and turn me aside. But this morning he opened the door promptly to my knock. His glance was still disapproving, but he immediately ushered me into the King’s presence.

      Shrewd sat before his hearth in a cushioned chair. Despite myself, my heart sank at how wasted he had become. His skin was papery and translucent as parchment, his fingers gone to bone. His face sagged, skin drooping where flesh had once held it firm. His dark eyes were sunken into his face. He clasped his hands in his lap in a gesture I knew well. Thus did I hold my hands to conceal the trembling that occasionally overtook me still. A small table at his elbow supported a censer, and Smoke rose from it. The fumes already made a bluish haze about the rafters. The Fool sprawled disconsolately at his feet.

      ‘FitzChivalry is here, your majesty,’ Wallace announced me.

      The King started as if poked, then shifted his gaze to me. I moved to stand before him.

      ‘FitzChivalry,’ the King acknowledged me.

      There was no force behind the words, no presence at all. My bitterness was still strong in me, but it could not drown the pain I felt to see him so. He was still my king.

      ‘My king, I have come as you ordered,’ I said formally. I tried to cling to my coldness.

      He looked at me wearily. He turned his head aside, coughed once into his shoulder. ‘So I see. Good.’ He stared at me for a moment. He took a deep breath that whispered into his lungs. ‘A messenger arrived from Duke Brawndy of Bearns last night. He brought the harvest reports and such, mostly news for Regal. But Brawndy’s daughter Celerity also sent this scroll. For you.’

      He held it out to me. A small scroll, bound with a yellow ribbon and sealed with a blob of green wax. Reluctantly I stepped forward to take it.

      ‘Brawndy’s messenger will be returning to Bearns this afternoon. I am sure that by that time you will have created an appropriate reply.’ His tone did not make this a request. He coughed again. The roil of conflicting emotions I felt for him soured in my stomach.

      ‘If I may,’ I requested, and when the King did not object, I broke the seal on the scroll and untied the ribbon. I unwound it to discover a second scroll coiled inside it. I glanced over the first one. Celerity wrote with a clear, firm hand. I unrolled the second one and considered it briefly. I looked up to find Shrewd’s eyes on me. I met them without emotion. ‘She writes to wish me well, and to send me a copy of a scroll she found in the Ripplekeep libraries. Or, properly, a copy of what was still legible. From the wrapping, she believed it pertained to Elderlings. She had noted my interest in them during my visit to Ripplekeep. It looks to me as if the writing was actually philosophy, or perhaps poetry.’

      I offered the scrolls back to Shrewd. After a moment, he took them. He unfurled the first one and held it out at arm’s length. He furrowed his brow, glared at it briefly, then set it down in his lap. ‘My eyes are befogged, sometimes, of a morning,’ he said. He rerolled the two scrolls together, carefully, as if it were a difficult task. ‘You will write her a proper note of thanks.’

      ‘Yes, my king.’ My voice was carefully formal. I received once more the scrolls he proffered me. When I had stood before him for some moments longer while he stared through me, I ventured, ‘Am I dismissed, my king?’

      ‘No.’ He coughed again, more heavily. He took another long sighing breath. ‘You are not dismissed. Had I dismissed you, it would have been years ago. I would have let you grow up in some backwater village. Or seen that you did not grow up at all. No, FitzChivalry, I have not dismissed you.’ Something of his old presence came back into his voice. ‘Some years ago, I struck a bargain with you. You have kept your end of it. And kept it well. I know how I am served by you, even when you do not see fit to report to me personally. I know how you serve me, even when you are brimming with anger at me. I could ask little more than what you have given me.’ He coughed again, suddenly, a dry wracking cough. When he could speak, it was not to me.

      ‘Fool, a goblet of the warmed wine, please. And ask Wallace for the … spicing herbs to season it.’ The Fool rose immediately, but I saw no willingness on his face. Instead, as he passed behind the King’s chair, he gave me a look that should have drawn blood. King Shrewd made a small gesture at me to wait. He rubbed his eyes, and then stilled his hands once more in his lap. ‘I but seek to keep my end of the bargain,’ he resumed. ‘I promised to see to your needs. I would do more than that. I would see you wed to a lady of quality. I would see you … ah. Thank you.’

      The Fool was back with the wine. I marked how he filled the goblet but halfway, and how the King picked it up with both hands. I caught a waft of unfamiliar herbs mingled with the rising scent of the