“He lives?” she asked softly.

“Yes.” It was all I could manage.

“He lives!” She cried it out aloud to the others, joy in her voice.

“My father!” Regal shouted the words. He stood swaying in the door, face red with drink and anger. Behind him I glimpsed his guard, and little Rosemary peeping around the corner, wide-eyed. Somehow she managed to slip past the men, to race to Kettricken and clutch at her skirts. For an instant our tableau held.

Then Regal swept into the room, ranting, demanding, questioning, but giving no one a chance to speak. Kettricken kept a protective crouch beside me, or I swear Regal’s guards would have had me again. Above me, in his chair, the King had a bit of color again in his face. Burrich put another spoonful of tea to his lips, and I was relieved to see him sip at it.

Regal was not. “What are you giving him? Stop that! I won’t have my father poisoned by a stable hand!”

“The King had another attack, my prince,” the Fool said suddenly. His voice cut through the chaos in the room, made a hole that became a silence. “Elfbark tea is a common restorative. I am sure that even Wallace has heard of it.”

The Prince was drunk. He was not sure if he was being mocked or conciliated. He glared at the Fool, who smiled benignly back.

“Oh.” He said it grudgingly, not really wishing to be mollified. “Well, what, then, of him?” He gestured at me in anger.

“Drunk.” Kettricken stood up, letting my head drop to the floor with a convincing thump. Flashes of light marred my vision. There was only disgust in her voice. “Stablemaster. Get him out of here. You should have stopped him before he got this far. Next time, see that you use your judgment when he has none of his own.”

“Our stablemaster is well-known for having his own taste for the cup, lady queen. I suspect they have been at it together.” Regal sneered.

“The news of Verity’s death hit him hard,” Burrich said simply. He was true to himself, offering an explanation, but no excuse. He took hold of my shirtfront, jerked me from the floor. With no effort at playacting, I swayed on my feet until he gripped me more firmly. I caught a passing glimpse of the Fool hastily spooning another dose of elfbark into the King. I prayed no one would interrupt him. As Burrich ushered me roughly out of the room, I heard Queen Kettricken rebuking Regal, saying he should be below with his guests, and promising that she and the Fool could get the King to bed. As we were going up the stairs I heard Regal and his guard going down. He was still muttering and then ranting, complaining that he was not stupid, he could tell a plot when he saw one. It worried me, but I was fairly certain he had no real idea of what had been going on.

At my door, I was well enough to work my latches. Burrich followed me in. “If I had a dog that was sick as often as you are, I’d put it down,” he observed kindly. “Do you need more elfbark?”

“It wouldn’t hurt me any. But in a gentler dose. Do you have any ginger or mint or rose hips?”

He gave me a look. I sat on my chair while he poked at the pathetic embers in my fireplace until he got them to glow. He built up a fire, put water in the kettle, and set it to heat. He found a pot and put in the flaked elfbark, then found a mug and wiped the dust out of it. He set the things out ready, then looked about himself. Something like disgust was on his face. “Why do you live like this?” he demanded.

“Like what?”

“In so bare a room, with so little care for it? I’ve seen winter-quarter tents that were homier than this room. It’s as if you’ve never expected to stay here more than a night or two longer.”

I shrugged. “I’ve never given it much thought.”

There was a silence for a bit. “You should,” he said unwillingly. “And you should think about how often you’re hurt, or sick.”

“This, what happened tonight, this couldn’t be helped.”

“You knew what it would do to you, but you went ahead with it anyway,” he pointed out.

“I had to.” I watched him pour steaming water over the elfbark in the pot.

“Did you? It seemed to me the Fool had a pretty convincing argument against it. Yet you went ahead. You and King Shrewd, both of you.”

“So?”

“I know a bit about the Skill,” Burrich said quietly. “I was king’s man to Chivalry. Not often, and it did not leave me as bad as you are now, save for once or twice. But I’ve felt the excitement of it, the—” He groped for words, sighed. “The completion of it. The oneness with the world. Chivalry once spoke to me about it. A man can get addicted, he said. So that he looks for excuses to Skill, and then finally he is absorbed into it.” He added after a moment, “It is not unlike the rush of battle, in some ways. The sense of moving unhampered by time, of being a force more powerful than life itself.”