The Golden Fool. Робин Хобб
she told me so,’ he replied a bit testily.
After that I kept silent and followed him. I suspected his head throbbed, as mine did. I knew he had an antidote to a night’s hard drinking, and knew also how difficult it was to compound. Sometimes it was easier to put up with the throbbing headache than to grind one’s way through creating a cure.
We entered the Queen’s private chambers as we had before. Chade paused to peer and listen to be sure there were no witnesses, then admitted us to a privy chamber, and from there to the Queen’s sitting room, where Kettricken awaited us. She looked up with a weary smile as we entered. She was alone.
We both bowed formally. ‘Good morning, my queen,’ Chade greeted her for us, and she held out her hands in welcome, gesturing us in. The last time I had been here, an anxious Kettricken had awaited us in an austere chamber, her thoughts centred solely on her missing son. This time, the room displayed her handiwork. In the middle of a small table, six golden leaves had been arranged on a tray of gleaming river pebbles. Three tall candles burning there gave off the scent of violets. Several rugs of wool eased the floor against winter’s oncoming chill, and the chairs were softened with sheepskins. A day-fire burned in the hearth, and a kettle puffed steam above it. It reminded me of her home in the Mountains. She had also arranged a small table of food. Hot tea exhaled from a fat pot. I noticed there were only two cups as Kettricken said, ‘Thank you for bringing FitzChivalry here, Lord Chade.’
It was a dismissal, smoothly done. Chade bowed again, perhaps a bit more stiffly than he had the first time, and retreated by way of the privy chamber. I was left standing alone before the Queen, wondering what all this was about. When the door closed behind Chade, she gave a sudden great sigh, sat down at the table and gestured at the other chair. ‘Please, Fitz,’ and her words were an invitation to drop all formality as well as to be seated.
As I took my place opposite her, I studied her. We were nearly of an age, but her years rode her far more graciously than mine did me. Where the passage of time had scarred me, it had brushed her, leaving a tracery of lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth. She wore a green gown today, and it set off the gold of her hair as well as carrying her eyes to the jade end of their spectrum. Her dress was simple, as was the plaiting of her hair; she wore no jewellery or cosmetics.
And she did not indulge in any kind of ceremony as she poured tea for me and set my cup before me. ‘There are cakes, too, if you wish,’ she said, and I did, for I had not yet broken my fast that day. Yet something in her voice, an edge of hoarseness, made me set down the cup I’d started to lift. She was looking aside from me, avoiding my eyes. I saw the frantic fluttering of her eyelashes, and then a tear brimmed over and splashed down her cheek.
‘Kettricken?’ I asked in alarm. What had gone awry that I did not know about? Had she discovered the Narcheska’s reluctance to wed her son? Had there been another Wit-threat?
She caught her breath raggedly and suddenly looked me full in the face, ‘Oh, Fitz, I did not call you here for this. I meant to keep this to myself. But … I am so sorry. For all of us. When first I heard, I already knew. I woke that dawn, feeling as if something had broken, something important.’ She tried to clear her throat and could not. She croaked out her words, tears coursing down her face. ‘I could not put my finger on the loss, but when Chade brought your tidings to me, I knew instantly. I felt him go, Fitz. I felt Nighteyes leave us.’ And then a sob wracked her, and she dropped her face into her hands and wept like a devastated child.
I wanted to flee. I had almost succeeded in mastering my grief, and now she tore the wound afresh. For a time I sat woodenly, numbed by pain. Why couldn’t she just leave it alone?
But she seemed not to notice my coldness. ‘The years pass, but you never forget a friend like him.’ She was speaking to herself, her head bowed into her hands. Her words came muffled and thick with tears. She rocked a little in her chair. ‘I’d never felt so close to an animal, before we travelled together. But in the long hours of walking, he was always there, ranging ahead and coming back and then checking behind us. He was like a shield for me, for when he came trotting back, I always knew that he was satisfied no danger awaited us. Without his assurance, I am sure my own poor courage would have failed a hundred times. When we began our journey, he seemed just a part of you. But then I got to know him for himself. His bravery and tenacity, even his humour. There were times, especially at the quarry, when we went off to hunt and he alone seemed to understand my feelings. It was not just that I could hold tight to him and cry into his fur and know he would never betray my weakness. It was that he rejoiced in my strengths, too. When we hunted together and I made a kill, I could feel his approval like … like a fierceness that said I deserved to survive, that I had earned my place in this world.’ She drew breath raggedly. ‘I think I will always miss him. And I didn’t even get to see him again before …’
My mind reeled. Truly, I had not known how close they had been. Nighteyes also had kept his secrets well. I had known that Queen Kettricken had a predilection for the Wit. I had sensed faint questing from her when she meditated. I had often suspected that her Mountain ‘connection’ with the natural world would have a less kindly name in the Six Duchies. But she and my wolf?
‘He spoke to you? You heard Nighteyes in your mind?’
She shook her head, not lifting her face from her hands. Her fingers muffled her reply. ‘No. But I felt him in my heart, when I was numb to all else.’
Slowly I rose. I walked around the small table. I had intended only to pat her bent shoulders, but when I touched her, she abruptly stood and stumbled into my embrace. I held her and let her weep against my shoulder. Whether I would or not, my own tears welled. Then her grief, not sympathy for me but true grief at Nighteyes’ death gave permission to mine, and my mourning ripped free. All the anguish I had been trying to conceal from those who could not understand the depth of loss I felt suddenly demanded vent. I think I only realized that our roles had changed when she pushed me gently down into her chair. She offered me her tiny, useless handkerchief and then gently kissed my brow and both my cheeks. I could not stop crying. She stood by me, my head cradled against her breast, and stroked my hair and let me weep. She spoke brokenly of my wolf and all he had been to her, words I scarcely heard.
She did not try to stop my tears or tell me that everything would be all right. She knew it would not. But when my weeping finally had run its course, she stooped and kissed me on my mouth, a healing kiss. Her lips were salt with her own tears. Then she stood straight again.
She gave a sudden deep sigh as if setting aside a burden. ‘Your poor hair,’ she murmured, and smoothed it to my head. ‘Oh, my dear Fitz. How hard we used you! Both of you. And I can never …’ She seemed to feel the uselessness of words. ‘But … well … drink your tea while it is still hot.’ She moved apart from me, and after a moment I felt I again had control of myself. As she took my chair, I lifted her cup and drank from it. The tea was still steaming hot. Only a short time had elapsed, yet I felt as if I had passed some important turning point. When I took a breath, it seemed to fill my lungs more deeply than it had in days. She took up my cup. When I looked up at my queen, she gave me a small smile. Her tears had left her pale eyes outlined in red, and her nose was pink. She had never looked lovelier to me.
So we shared some time. The tea was a spice tea, friendly and enlivening. There were flaky rolls stuffed with sausage, and little cakes with tart fruit filling, and plain oatcakes, simple and hearty. I don’t think either of us trusted our voices to speak, and we didn’t have to. We ate in silence. I got up once to replenish the hot water in the teapot. When the herbs had steeped, I poured more tea for both of us. After a time of silence, she leaned back in her chair and said quietly, ‘So, you see, this supposed “taint” in my son comes from me.’
She spoke it as if we were continuing a conversation. I had wondered if she would make the connection. Now that she did, I grieved for the guilt and chagrin I heard in her voice. ‘There have been Witted Farseers before Dutiful,’ I pointed out. ‘Myself among them.’
‘And you had a Mountain mother. It’s possible that she was the source of your Wit. Perhaps Mountain blood carries it.’
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