The corner of my eye caught a movement. The swaying lanterns made the trees at the edge of the drive seem to cast iron bars of blackness on the snow. But this was not a movement born of that light. This motion was standing snow, gripped by a hand black with blood, and above all a pale face with staring eyes. I did not turn my head, or cry out, or catch my breath. I let nothing in me betray to anyone that Perseverance stood in my Elderling cloak and watched us pass him by.

Chapter Four

The Fool’s Tale

When winter’s clutch is cold and dark

And game is scarce and forest stark,

This songster to the hearth retreats

To warm his cheeks and icy feet.

But on the hill and in the glen

Are hunters hardier than men.

With lolling tongues and eyes that gleam

They surge through snow with breath like steam.

For in the hunt there is no morrow,

Time does not wait. There is no sorrow

As blood spills black and snarls are rife.

For life is meat, and death brings life.

—A song for Nighteyes and his friend, Hap Gladheart

The stairs seemed steeper than I remembered. When I reached my old bedchamber, I entered it as cautiously as befit an erstwhile assassin. I closed and locked my door, put wood on the fire, and for a short time considered simply getting into the bed and going to sleep. Then I drew the curtains shut and inspected the area where they were fastened to the rod. Yes. I saw it now, as I had not in all those years. Another tug on the drapery pull triggered the door panel, but no sound or crack betrayed it. Only when I pushed on it did it swing silently open and the narrow black staircase appear before me.

I climbed the risers, stumbling once when my curly toe hooked on the step. Up in Chade’s old workroom, Ash had come and gone. Our dirty dishes had been tidied away, and a different pot simmered at the edge of the hearth. The Fool had not moved since I left him, and I crossed the room anxiously to lean over him. “Fool?” I said softly, and with a cry he flung his arms wide and sat up to cower behind his raised hands. One flying hand glanced off my cheek. As I stepped back from his bed, he cried, “I’m sorry! Don’t hurt me!”

“It’s only me. Only Fitz.” I spoke calmly, trying to keep the anguish from my voice. Eda and El, Fool, will you ever recover from what you endured?

“I’m sorry,” he repeated breathlessly. “So sorry, Fitz.” He was breathing hard. “When they had me … they never woke me gently. Or allowed me to sleep until I woke. I so feared sleep I would bite myself to stay awake. But always, eventually, one sleeps. And then they would wake me, sometimes just a few moments later. With a little barbed blade. Or a hot poker.” His grimace had barely the semblance of a smile. “I hate the smell of fire now.” He dropped his head back on the pillow. Hatred surged in me and then passed, leaving me empty. I could never undo what they had done to him. After a time, he rolled his head toward me and asked, “Is it day now?”

My mouth had gone dry and wordless. I cleared my throat. “It’s either very late at night or very early in the morning, depending on how you think of such things. We spoke last in early afternoon. Have you been sleeping all this time?”

“I don’t exactly know. Sometimes it’s hard for me to tell. Give me a few moments, please.”

“Very well.”

I retreated to the far end of the room and studiously ignored him as he tottered from the bed. He found his way to the garderobe, was there for some time, and when he emerged called to ask if there was wash-water.

“In a pitcher next to the bowl on the stand by your bed. But I can warm some for you if you wish, too.”

“Oh, warm water,” he said, as if I had offered him gold and jewels.

“Shortly,” I replied. I set about my task. He groped his way to the chair by the fireside and sat down. I marveled at how quickly he had learned the room. When I brought the warmed water and a washing cloth, he reached for it immediately and I realized that he had been silent so he could track my activity by what he could hear. I felt as if I spied on him as he washed his scarred face and then repeatedly scrubbed his eyes to clear the gummy mucus from his lashes. When he had finished, his eyes were clean but reddened at the rims.

I spoke without apology or preamble. “What did they do to your eyes?”

He set the cloth back in the bowl and clutched his damaged hands together, gently rubbing the swollen knuckles. He was silent as I cleared the table. Very well, then. Not yet. “Are you hungry?” I asked him.

“Is it time for a meal?”