him think he must kill me.’
Something akin to pity came into her face. ‘You truly believe that, don’t you? That Chade could kill you. That I would help by luring the boy away.’
‘I know Chade.’
‘And he knows you.’ The words were almost an accusation. ‘He once told me that you were incapable of entirely trusting anyone. That wanting to trust, and fearing to, would always divide your soul. No. I think the old man simply wanted to see you alone so he could speak freely to you. To have you to himself, and to see for himself how you were doing, after all your years of silence.’
She had a minstrel’s way with words and tone. She made it seem as if my avoiding Buckkeep had been both rude and cruel to my friends. The truth was that it had been a matter of survival.
‘What did Chade talk about with you?’ she asked, too casually.
I met her gaze steadily. ‘I think you know,’ I replied, wondering if she did.
Her expression changed and I could see her mind working. So. Chade hadn’t entrusted the truth of his mission to her. However, she was bright and quick and had many of the pieces. I waited for her to put it together.
‘Old Blood,’ she said quietly. ‘The Piebald threats.’
There have been many times in my life when I have been shocked and have had to conceal it. That time, I think, was most difficult for me. She watched my face carefully as she spoke. ‘It is a trouble that has been brewing for a time, and looks to be coming to a boil now. At Springfest, on the Night of the Minstrels, where all vie to perform for their monarch, one minstrel sang the old song about the Piebald Prince. You recall it?’
I did. It told of a princess carried off by a Witted one in the form of a piebald stallion. Once they were alone, he took his man’s shape and seduced her. She gave birth to a bastard son, mottled dark and light just as his sire had been. By treachery and spite, her bastard came to the throne, to rule cruelly with the aid of his Witted cohorts. The entire kingdom had suffered, until, so the song said, his cousin, of pure Farseer blood, had rallied six nobles’ sons to his cause. At the summer solstice, when the sun stood at noon and the Piebald Prince’s powers were weakest, they fell upon him and slew him. They hanged him, then chopped his body to pieces, and then burned the pieces over water, to wash his spirit far away lest it find a home in some beast’s body. The song’s method of dealing with the Piebald Prince had become the traditional way to be surely rid of Witted ones. Regal had been very disappointed that he had not been able to serve me so.
‘Not my favourite song,’ I said quietly.
‘Understandably. However, Slek sang it well, to much applause, more than his voice truly merits. He has that quaver at the end of his notes that some find endearing, but in truth is the sign of a voice with poor control …’ She suddenly realized she was wandering from her topic. ‘Feelings run high against the Witted these days. The Witted ones have been restless of late, and one hears wild tales. I have heard that in one village where a Witted man was hanged and burned, all the sheep died four days later. Just dropped in the fields. Folk said it was his family’s revenge. But when they went for vengeance against his kin, they found them long gone. There was a scroll left tacked to the door of their house. All it said was, “You deserved it.” There have been other incidents as well.’
I met her eyes. ‘So Hap told me,’ I admitted.
She nodded curtly. She rose from the table and stepped clear of it. A minstrel to the bone, she had a story to tell, and demanded a stage for it. ‘Well. After Slek sang “The Piebald Prince”, another minstrel came forwards. He was very young, and perhaps that was why he was so foolish. He doffed his cap to Queen Kettricken, and then said he would follow “The Piebald Prince” with another song, of more recent vintage. When he said he had heard it first in a hamlet of Witted folk, muttering ran through the crowd. All have heard rumours of such places, but never have I heard someone claim to have been to one. When the mutter died, he launched into a song I had never heard before. The tune was derivative, but the words were new to me, as raw as his voice.’ She cocked her head at me and regarded me speculatively. ‘This song was of Chivalry’s Bastard. It touched on all he had done before his Witted taint was revealed. He even stole a phrase or two from my song of “Antler Island Tower”, if you can believe the gall of that! Then, this song went on that this “Farseer’s son with Old Blood blessed, of royal blood and wild, the best” had not died in the Pretender’s dungeon. According to this song, the Bastard had lived, and been true to his father’s family. The minstrel sang that when King Verity went off to seek the Elderlings, the Bastard rose from his grave to rally to his rightful King’s aid. The minstrel sang a stirring scene of how the Bastard called Verity back through the gates of death, to show him a garden of stone dragons that could be wakened to the Six Duchies cause. That, at least, had the ring of truth to it. It made me sit up and wonder, even if his voice was growing hoarse by then.’ She paused, waiting for me to speak, but I had no words. She shrugged, then observed caustically, ‘If you wanted a song made of those days, you might have thought of me first. I was there, you know. In fact, it was why I was there. And I am a far better minstrel than that boy was.’ There was a quiver of jealous outrage in her voice.
‘I had nothing to do with that song, as I’m sure you must realize. I wish no one had ever heard it.’
‘Well, you’ve little enough to worry about there.’ She said the words with deep satisfaction. ‘I’d never heard it before that day, nor since. It was not well made, the tune did not fit the theme, the words were ragged, the –’
‘Starling.’
‘Oh, very well. He gave the song the traditional heroic ending. That if ever the Farseer crown demanded it, the true-hearted Witted Bastard would return to aid the kingdom. At the end of the song, some of the Springfest crowd yelled insults at him and someone said he was likely Witted himself and fit for burning. Queen Kettricken commanded them to silence, but at the end of the evening, she gave him no purse as she did the other minstrels.’
I kept silent, passing no judgement on that. When I did not rise to her bait, Starling added, ‘Because he had vanished when it came time for her to reward those who had pleased her. She called his name first, but no one knew where he had gone. His name was unfamiliar to me. Tagsson.’
Son of Tag, grandson of Reaver, I could have told her. And both Reaver and Tag had been very able members of Verity’s Buckkeep guard. My mind reached back through the years to find Tag’s face as he knelt before Verity in the Stone Garden before the gates of death. Yes, so I supposed it had looked to him, Verity stepping out from the stark black Skill-pillar and into the uncertain circle of the firelight. Tag had recognized his king, despite all hardship had done to Verity. He had proclaimed his loyalty to him, and Verity had sent him on his way, bidding him return to Buckkeep and tell all there that the rightful king would return. In thinking back on it, I was almost certain that Verity had arrived at Buckkeep before the soldier did. Dragons a-wing are a deal faster than a man on foot.
I had not known Tag had recognized me as well. Who could ever have foreseen he would pass on that tale, let alone that he would have a minstrel for a son?
‘I see that you know him,’ Starling said quietly.
I glanced at her to find her eyes reading my face greedily. I sighed. ‘I know no Tagsson. I’m afraid my mind wandered back to something you said earlier. The Witted have grown restless. Why?’
She lifted an eyebrow at me. ‘I thought you would better know than I.’
‘I lead a solitary life, Starling, as well you know.
