The Complete Farseer Trilogy. Robin Hobb
I had spoken aloud. ‘Oh, Fitz, my son, be careful, be wise.’ And for a moment I wondered, for it sounded as if he feared for me. But then he added, ‘Don’t shame me, boy. Or your father. Don’t let Galen say that I’ve let my prince’s son grow up a half-beast. Show him that Chivalry’s blood runs true in you.’
‘I’ll try,’ I muttered. And I went to bed that night wretched and afraid.
The Queen’s Garden was nowhere near the Women’s Garden or the kitchen garden or any other garden in Buckkeep. It was, instead, on top of a circular tower. The garden walls were high on the sides that faced the sea, but to the south and west, the walls were low and had seats along them. The stone walls captured the warmth of the sun and fended off the salt winds from the sea. The air was still there, almost as if hands were cupped over my ears. Yet there was a strange wildness to the garden founded on stone. There were rock basins, perhaps bird-baths or water gardens at one time, and various tubs and pots and troughs of earth, intermingled with statuary. At one time, the tubs and pots had probably overflowed with greenery and flowers. Of the plants, only a few stalks and the mossy earth in the tubs remained. The skeleton of a vine crawled over a half-rotted trellis. It filled me with an old sadness colder than the first chill of winter that was also here. Patience should have had this, I thought. She would bring life here again.
I was the first to arrive. August came soon after. He had Verity’s broad build, much as I had Chivalry’s height, and the dark Farseer colouring. As always, he was distant but polite. He dealt me a nod and then strolled about, looking at the statuary.
Others appeared rapidly after him. I was surprised at how many – over a dozen. Other than August, son of the King’s sister, no one could boast as much Farseer blood as I could. There were cousins and second cousins, of both sexes and both younger and older than I. August was probably the youngest, at two years my junior, and Serene, a woman in her mid-twenties, was probably the oldest. It was an oddly subdued group. A few clustered, talking softly, but most drifted about, poking at the empty gardens or looking at the statues.
Then Galen came.
He let the door of the stairwell slam shut behind him. Several of the others jumped. He stood regarding us, and we in turn looked at him in silence.
There is something I have observed about skinny men. Some, like Chade, seem so preoccupied with their lives that they either forget to eat, or burn every bit of sustenance they take in the fires of their passionate fascination with life. But there is another type, one who goes about the world cadaverously, cheeks sunken, bones jutting, and one senses that he so disapproves of the whole of the world that he begrudges every bit of it that he takes inside himself. At that moment, I would have wagered that Galen had never truly enjoyed one bite of food or one swallow of drink in his life.
His dress puzzled me. It was opulently rich, with fur at his collar and neck, and amber beading so thick on his tunic it would have turned a sword. But the rich fabrics strained over him, the clothing tailored so snugly to him that one wondered if the maker had lacked sufficient fabric to finish the suit. At a time when full sleeves slashed with colours were the mark of a wealthy man, he wore his shirt as tight as a cat’s skin. His boots were high and fitted to his calves, and he carried a little quirt, as if come straight from riding. His clothing looked uncomfortable and combined with his thinness to give an impression of stinginess.
His pale eyes swept the Queen’s Garden dispassionately. He considered us, and immediately dismissed us as wanting. He breathed out through his hawk’s nose, as does a man facing an unpleasant chore. ‘Clear a space,’ he directed us. ‘Push all this rubbish to one side. Stack it there, against that wall. Quickly, now. I have no patience with sluggards.’
And so the last lines of the garden were destroyed. The arrangements of the pots and beds that had been shadows of the little walks and arbours that had once existed here were swept aside. The pots were moved to one side, the lovely little statues stacked crookedly on top of them. Galen spoke only once, to me. ‘Hurry up, bastard,’ he ordered me as I struggled with a heavy pot of earth, and he brought down his riding crop across my shoulders. It was not much of a blow, more a tap, but it seemed so contrived that I stopped in my efforts and looked at him. ‘Didn’t you hear me?’ he demanded. I nodded, and went back to moving the pot. From the corner of my eye, I saw his odd look of satisfaction. The blow, I felt, had been a test, but I was not sure if I had passed or failed it.
The tower roof became a bare space, with only the green lines of moss and old runnels of dirt to indicate the garden that had been. He directed us to form ourselves into two lines. He ordered us by age and size, and then separated us by sex, putting the girls behind the boys and off to the right. ‘I will tolerate no distractions or disruptive behaviour. You are here to learn, not dally,’ he warned us. He then spaced us out, having us stretch our arms in all directions to show that there we could not touch one another, not even so much as a fingertip. From this, I expected physical exercises would follow, but instead he directed us to stand still, hands at our sides, and attend to him. So as we stood on the cold tower-top he lectured us.
‘For seventeen years, I have been Skillmaster of this keep. Before this, my lessons were given to small groups, discreetly. Those who failed to show promise were turned away quietly. During that time the Six Duchies had no need for more than a handful to be trained. I trained only the most promising, wasting no time on those without talent or discipline. And, for the last fifteen years, I have not initiated any into the Skill.
‘But evil times are upon us. The Outislanders ravage our shores and Forge our people. King Shrewd and Prince Verity turn their Skills to protecting us. Great are their efforts and many their successes, though the common folk never even guess at what they do. I assure you, against the minds I have trained, the Outislanders stand small chance. A few paltry victories they may have won, coming upon us unprepared, but the forces I have created to oppose them will prevail!’
His pale eyes burned and he lifted his hands to the heavens as he spoke. He held a long silence, staring upward, his arms stretched out above his head, as if he clawed down power from the sky itself. Then he let his arms slowly fall.
‘This I know,’ he went on in a calmer voice. ‘This I know. The forces I have created will prevail. But our king, may all gods honour and bless him, doubts me. And as he is my king, I bow to his will. He requires that I seek amongst you of lesser blood, to see if there are any with the talent and will, the purity of purpose and sternness of soul, to be trained in the Skill. This I will do, for my king has commanded. Legends say in days of old there were many trained in the Skill, who worked alongside their kings to avert dangers from the land. Perhaps it was truly so; perhaps the old legends exaggerate. In any case, my king has commanded me to attempt to create such a surplus of Skilled ones, and so I will try.’
He totally ignored the five or so women of our group. Not once did his eyes turn toward them. The exclusion was so obvious that I wondered how they had offended him. I knew Serene slightly, for she also had been an apt pupil of Fedwren. I could almost feel the warmth of her displeasure. In the row beside me, one of the boys shifted. In a flash Galen had leaped in front of him.
‘Bored, are we? Restless with an old man’s talk?’
‘Just a cramp in my calf, sir,’ the boy rejoined, foolishly.
Galen slapped him, a backhand that rocked the boy’s head. ‘Be quiet, and stand still. Or leave. It’s all one to me. It’s already obvious that you lack the stamina to achieve the Skill. But the King has found you worthy to be here, and so I will attempt to teach you.’
I trembled inside. For when Galen spoke to the boy, it was me he stared at. As if the boy’s movement had been my fault, somehow. A strong distaste for Galen flooded through me. I had taken blows from Hod in the course of my instruction in staves and swords, and endured discomfort even from Chade as he demonstrated touch-spots and strangling techniques, and ways to silence a man without disabling him. I’d had my share of cuffs, boots and swats from Burrich, some justified, some the vented frustration of a busy man. But I’d never seen a man strike a boy with such apparent relish as Galen had. I strove to keep my face impassive, and to look at him without appearing to stare. For I knew that if I glanced away I’d be accused