it … political to take direct action himself. So I have granted the request, but grudgingly. Have not we enough to face with the Raiders at our doorstep, without internal strife? Still. They have the right to ask it of me, and I the duty to oblige any who asks. Once more you will bear the King’s Justice, Fitz.’
He told me concisely of the situation in Bearns. A young woman from Sealbay had come to Ripplekeep to offer herself to Brawndy as a warrior. He had been pleased to accept her, for she was both well-muscled and adept, skilled at staves, bows and blades. She was beautiful as well as strong, small and dark and sleek as a sea otter. She had been a welcome addition to his guard, and soon was a popular figure in his court as well. She had, not charm, but that courage and strength of will that draws others to follow. Brawndy himself had grown fond of her. She enlivened his court and instilled new spirit in his guard.
But lately she had begun to fancy herself a prophetess and soothsayer. She claimed to have been chosen by El the sea-god for a higher destiny. Her name had been Madja, her parentage unremarkable, but now she had renamed herself, in a ceremony of fire, wind and water, and called herself Virago. She ate only meat she had taken herself, and kept in her rooms nothing that she had not either made herself or won by show of arms. Her following was swelling, and included some of the younger nobles as well as many of the soldiers under her command. To all she preached the need to return to El’s worship and honour. She espoused the old ways, advocating a rigorous, simple life that glorified what a person could win by her own strength.
She saw the Raiders and Forging as El’s punishment for our soft ways, and blamed the Farseer line for encouraging that softness. At first she had spoken circumspectly of such things. Of late, she had become more open, but never so bold as to voice outright treason. Still, there had been bullock sacrifices on the sea cliffs, and she had blood-painted a number of young folk and sent them out on spirit-quests as in the very old days. Brawndy had heard rumours that she sought a man worthy of herself, who would join her to throw down the Farseer throne. They would rule together, to begin the time of the Fighter and put an end to the days of the Farmer. According to Bearns, quite a number of young men were ready to vie for that honour. Brawndy wished her stopped, before he himself had to accuse her of treason and force his men to choose between Virago and himself. Shrewd offered the opinion that her following would probably drop off drastically were she to be bested at arms, or have a severe accident or become victim to a wasting illness that depleted her strength and beauty. I was forced to agree that was probably so, but observed that there were many cases where folks who died became like gods afterwards. Shrewd said certainly, if the person died honourably.
Then, abruptly, he changed the topic. In Ripplekeep, on Seal Bay, there was an old scroll that Verity wished copied, a listing of all those from Bearns who had served the King in the Skill, as coterie members. It was also said that at Ripplekeep there was a relic from the days of the Elderling defence of that city. Shrewd wished me to leave on the morrow, to go to Seal Bay and copy the scrolls and to view the relic and bring him a report of it. I would also convey to Brawndy the King’s best wishes and his certainty that the Duke’s unease would soon be put to rest.
I understood.
As I stood to leave, Shrewd raised a finger to bid me pause. I stood, waiting.
‘And do you feel I am keeping my bargain with you?’ he asked. It was the old question, the one he had always asked me after our meetings when I was a boy. It made me smile.
‘Sir, I do,’ I said as I always had.
‘Then see that you keep your end of it as well.’ He paused, then added, as he never had before, ‘Remember, FitzChivalry. Any injury done to one of my own is an injury to me.’
‘Sir?’
‘You would not injure one of mine, would you?’
I drew myself up. I knew what he asked for, and I ceded it to him. ‘Sir, I will not injure one of yours. I am sworn to the Farseer line.’
He nodded slowly. He had wrung an apology from Regal, and from me my word that I would not kill his son. He probably believed he had made peace between us. Outside his door, I paused to push the hair back from my eyes. I had just made a promise, I reminded myself. I considered it carefully and forced myself to look at what it could cost me to keep it. Bitterness flooded me, until I compared what it would cost me should I break it. Then I found the reservations in myself, crushed them firmly. I formed a resolve, to keep my promise cleanly to my king. I had no true peace with Regal, but at least I could have that much peace with myself. The decision left me feeling better, and I strode purposefully down the hall.
I had not replenished my stocks of poisons since I had returned from the mountains. Nothing green showed outside now. I’d have to steal what I needed. The wool dyers would have some I might use, and the healer’s stock would yield me others. My mind was busy with this planning as I started down the stairs.
Serene was coming up the stairs. When I saw her, I halted where I was. The sight of her made me quail as Regal had not. It was an old reflex. Of all Galen’s coterie, she was now the strongest. August had retired from the field, gone far inland to live in orchard country and be a gentleman there. His Skill had been entirely blasted out of him during the final encounter that marked the end of Galen. Serene was now the key Skill-user of the coterie. In summers, she remained at Buckkeep, and all the other members of the coterie, scattered to towers and keeps up and down our long coast, channelled all their reports to the King through her. During winter, the entire coterie came to Buckkeep to renew their bonds and fellowship. In the absence of a Skillmaster, she had assumed much of Galen’s status at Buckkeep. She had also assumed, with great enthusiasm, Galen’s passionate hatred of me. She reminded me too vividly of past abuses, and inspired in me a dread that would not yield to logic. I had avoided her since my return but now her gaze pinned me.
The staircase was more than sufficiently wide to allow two people to pass, unless one person deliberately planted herself in the middle of a step. Even looking up at me, I felt she had the advantage. Her bearing had changed since we had been Galen’s students together. Her whole physical appearance reflected her new position. Her midnight blue robe was richly embroidered. Her long midnight hair was bound back intricately with burnished wire strung with ivory ornaments. Silver graced her throat and ringed her fingers. But her femininity was gone. She had adopted Galen’s ascetic values, for her face was thinned to bone, her hands to claws. As he had, she burned with self-righteousness. It was the first time she had accosted me directly since Galen’s death. I halted above her, with no idea of what she wanted from me.
‘Bastard,’ she said flatly. It was a naming, not a greeting. I wondered if that word would ever lose its sting with me.
‘Serene,’ I said, as tonelessly as I could manage.
‘You did not die in the mountains.’
‘No. I did not.’
Still she stood there, blocking my way. Very quietly she said, ‘I know what you did. I know what you are.’
Inside, I was quivering like a rabbit. I told myself it was probably taking every bit of Skill strength she had to impose this fear on me. I told myself that it was not my true emotion, but only what her Skill suggested I should feel. I forced words from my throat.
‘I, too, know what I am. I am a King’s Man.’
‘You are no kind of a man at all,’ she asserted calmly. She smiled up at me. ‘Some day everyone will know that.’
Fear feels remarkably like fear, regardless of the source. I stood, making no response. Eventually, she stepped aside to allow me to pass. I made a small victory of that, though in retrospect
