And what could that entail? What would they ask? Would they demand that the Queen strictly enforce the laws that prohibited Witted ones from being put to death simply for carrying the bloodlines for that magic? Would they want more? They’d be fools if they did not try to secure some power for themselves. If there were dukes or nobles who also were Old Blood, perhaps the Piebalds would endeavor to bring them into royal favor. I wondered if the Bresingas had come to court for the betrothal ceremony. That would be worth investigating. The mother and son were definitely Old Blood, and had cooperated with the Piebalds in luring the Prince away. Would they take a more active role now? And how would the Piebalds persuade Kettricken that their threats were in earnest? Who or what could they destroy to demonstrate their power?

Simple answer. Tom Badgerlock. I was but a playing piece on the board as far as they were concerned, a minor servant, but an unpleasant fellow who had already upset their plans and maimed one of their leaders. They’d showed themselves to me last night, confident that I would pass the “message” to those actually in power in Buckkeep. And then, to prove to the Farseers that they were vulnerable, the Piebalds would pull me down as hounds pull down a stag. I would be the object lesson to Kettricken and Dutiful.

I lowered my face into my hands. My best course of action was to flee. Yet having returned to Buckkeep, even so briefly, I hated to leave again. This cold castle of stone had been home once, and despite the illegitimacy of my birth, the Farseers were my family.

A whisper of sound caught my ear. I sat up straight, and then realized that it was a young girl’s voice, penetrating the thick stone wall to reach me in my hidden spy-place. With a weary curiosity, I leaned forward to the peephole and peered through it. A bedchamber, lavishly furnished, greeted my gaze. A dark-haired girl stood with her back to me. Next to the hearth, a grizzled old warrior lounged in a chair. Some of the scarring on his face was deliberate, fine lacerations rubbed with ash, considered decorative by the Outislanders, but some of it was the track of an earnest blade. Gray streaked his hair and peppered his short beard. He was cleaning and cutting his nails with his belt knife while the girl practiced a dance step before him.

“. . . and two to the side, one back, and turn,” she chanted breathlessly as her small feet followed her own instructions. As she spun lightly about in a whirl of embroidered skirts, I glimpsed her face for an instant. It was the Narcheska Elliania, Dutiful’s intended. No doubt she practiced for their first dance together tonight.

“And again, two steps to the side, and two steps back and—”

“One step back, Elli,” the old man interrupted her. “And then the turn. Try it again.”

She halted where she stood and said something quickly in her own language.

“Elliania, practice the farmers’ tongue. It goes with their dance,” he replied implacably.

“I don’t care to,” the girl announced petulantly. “Their flat language is as insipid as this dance.” She dropped her hold on her skirts, clasped her elbows, and folded her arms on her chest. “It’s stupid. All this stepping and twirling. It’s like pigeons bobbing their heads up and down and pecking each other before they mate.”

“Yes. It is,” he agreed affably. “And for exactly the same reason. Now do it. And do it perfectly. If you can remember the steps of a sword exercise, you can master this. Or would you have these haughty farmers think that the God’s Runes have sent them a clumsy little boat-slave to wed their pretty prince?”

She showed her very white teeth to him in a grimace. Then she snatched up her skirts, held them scandalously high to reveal that she was barefoot and bare-legged, and went through the steps in a frenzy. “Two-steps-to-the-side-and-one-step-back-and-spin -and-two-steps-to-the-side-and-one-step-back-and-spin-and-two-steps-to-the-side-” Her furious chant changed the graceful dance to a frantic cavorting. The man grinned at her prancing, but did not intervene. The God’s Runes, I thought to myself, and unearthed the familiar ring of the words. It was what the Outislanders called the scattered isles that made up their domain. And the single Outislander chart that I had ever seen did impart a runic rendering to each of the small pieces of land that broke their icy waters.

“Enough!” the warrior suddenly snorted.

The girl’s face was reddened with her efforts, her breath coming swift. But she did not stop until the man came suddenly to his feet and caught her up in an embrace. “Enough, Elliania. Enough. You have shown me that you can do it, and do it perfectly. Let it go for now. But tonight, you must be all grace and beauty and charm. Show yourself as the little spitfire that you are, and your pretty prince may decide to take a tamer bride. And you wouldn’t want that.” He set her down on her feet and resumed his chair.