I wondered if I would have recognized my old lover without that call. Her body had changed with the years, her waist thickening and her curves growing. In the be-buttoned layers of lush fabrics that made up her gown, I did not recognize the tough and pragmatic wandering minstrel who had also followed Verity into the Mountain Kingdom to wake the Elderlings. She had let her hair grow long, and the streaks in it were silver, not gray. She wore jewels on her ears and wrists and fingers, but as she advanced, she was stripping the rings from her hands.
The look of disappointment on Kettricken’s face had been replaced with one of delight. “Well, here is a minstrel of yore who has let many years pass since we last heard her lift her voice. Our own Starling Birdsong, now Lord Fisher’s lady wife! Do you remember the song of which I spoke?”
Despite her years, Starling flourished a curtsy and then rose gracefully. Age had lowered the timbre of her voice, but the music had not left it. “Lady Kettricken, King Dutiful, and Queen Elliania, if it please you, I have heard the song sung but once. And do not think me a jealous minstrel when I say, while the threads of truth ran strong through it, the words rattled against one another as painfully as gravel in a boot, and the tune was stolen from an ancient ballad.” She shook her head, lips folded, and then said, “Even if I recalled every word and note, I would not think it a kindness to you if I sang it.”
She paused, head lowered respectfully. Despite all my misgivings, I almost smiled. Starling. So well she knew how to whet the appetite of an audience! She waited until precisely the moment when Kettricken drew breath to speak; then she raised her head and offered, “But I can sing you a better song, if you would, my lady and once my queen. If you with a nod allow me, if my king and my queen grant permission, my tongue can be freed from its long-imposed silence, and sing to you I shall, of all I know of the Witted Bastard. Of FitzChivalry Farseer, son to Chivalry, loyal to King Verity, and, to the last breath of his days, a truehearted Farseer, despite his ignoble birth!”
The music rose and fell in her words: she was tuning and preparing her voice. I saw her husband now, Lord Fisher, standing at the edge of the crowd, a proud smile on his face. His shoulders were as broad as ever; he wore his graying hair in a warrior’s tail. Ever he had gloried in the popularity of his wild minstrel wife. The look of enjoyment on his face was not feigned; he basked in her reflected glory. She had not come to the festival tonight as Starling the minstrel but as Lady Fisher. And yet this was the moment she had dreamed of, for all those years. She would not let it pass her by, and he would rejoice in it with her. She looked round at her audience as if to ask them,
“Does my harp come?” Starling turned to her husband, and he in turn gestured wide. The doors to the Great Hall opened and two healthy lads appeared, a grand harp supported between them. I had to smile. For it to appear so quickly, she must have ordered it the moment Kettricken asked if any recalled that song. And such a harp! This was no wandering minstrel’s harp! Sweat stood out on the boys’ faces, and I wondered how far and fast they had lugged the beast. She had timed her delaying perfectly for its arrival. They brought it forward and set it down: It stood as high as Starling’s shoulder. She glanced toward the minstrel gallery, but someone had already stepped forward, bearing his own stool. He placed it before the harp, and then I saw the only awkward moment in her performance. Her gown had never been cut for her to be seated behind a harp with the instrument leaned back on her shoulder. With a fine disregard for modesty, she lifted her skirts and bundled them out of the way, displaying legs still shapely and stockinged in bright green, and dainty blue slippers with silver buttons. She woke the harp, running her fingers lightly up and down the strings, letting them barely speak, as if they whispered to her that they were in tune and waiting for her.
Then she plucked three strings, one after another, as if she were dropping gold coins on a path and bidding us follow. The notes became a chord, and her other hand began to pluck a lilting melody. Then she lifted her voice.
This, I knew, was the song she had waited a lifetime to sing. Always, always, she had wanted to leave a song that would linger in Six Duchies memory and be sung over and over. When first I had met her, she had spoken with hungry ambition of how she would follow me and record my deeds and fate so that she might be witness to a turning point in Six Duchies history. And witness she had, but her lips had been stilled and her song unsung, by royal decree that what had happened in the Mountains must ever after be kept secret. I was dead and must remain so until the Farseer throne was returned to stability.
Now I stood and I listened to my own tale. How long had she honed those words, how many times had she practiced the music that flowed effortlessly and faultlessly from her fingers? This was her highest achievement. I knew that before she was two verses into the song. I had heard her sing other minstrels’ work, and I had heard her sing songs and play music of her own composing. Starling was good. No one could ever deny that.
But this was better than good. Even the minstrel who had earlier scowled seemed bespelled by her words and notes. This was the music she had saved, and these were the words she had turned and shaped as if she were a wood carver. I knew the story of my own life, and most of the court would know at least some of it. But she sang me from an abandoned bastard child to a hero, to a shameful death in a dungeon and a crawl out of a forgotten grave, until I stood before a stone dragon, one that had drunk the life from King Verity, and looked up at her as she and Queen Kettricken departed.
For a time she plucked strings and wove chords, letting that part of the tale sink in. It was not how it had been sung before, and many a face was puzzled. Then, with a sudden sweep of her fingers, she struck up a martial air and finished the tale. I myself had told her what happened after they had departed astride a single dragon with the heart of a king bearing them back to Buckkeep. Verity-as-Dragon had set out to pit himself against the whole of the Outislander fleet, to save his queen, his unborn child, and his entire beloved kingdom from the ravages of the Red Ships. Tears rolled down Kettricken’s cheeks as she listened, and King Dutiful was rapt, his mouth slightly ajar.
And so it was me and my Wit-companion—my wolf Nighteyes—who had woken the other sleeping dragons. We had battled Regal’s corrupt Skill-coterie and their hapless apprentices, and in shedding blood we had woken the stone dragons to a semblance of life and sent them winging after Verity, a veritable army at his back. She gave three verses to how the dragons had followed the king, describing half a dozen of their varied shapes, and then recounted how swiftly the Red Ships had been driven from our shores. Verity-as-Dragon had led and the other dragons had followed, taking the battle to their islands. Queen Elliania, of Outislander blood, listened with her face grave and nodded as if to confirm all that Starling told of those bloody days.
Again, an interlude of only music. Gradually, the tempo slowed and the chords deepened. She sang then of how the Bastard and his wolf, knowing they were dead to all, knowing that the name of FitzChivalry Farseer would ever be tarnished with shame and accusations of treachery and cowardice, walked away into the depths of the Mountain forests. Never again, she sang, would they hunt the green hills of Buck. Never could they come home. Never would their deeds be known. Never. Never. The tale and the song slowed, and became a trickle of wistful notes. They dwindled. Silence.
I do not know how long the song lasted. I came back to the Great Hall and the gathered nobles of the Six Duchies as if I had been on a long journey. Starling sat before her tall harp, her head bent forward and her brow resting on its dark wood. Her face glowed with perspiration. She breathed as if she had run over nine hills. I stared at her. She had been a stranger, a lover, a nemesis, and a betrayer to me. And now she was my historian.
When the applause came, it began as a whisper and rose to a roar. Starling lifted her head slowly and I followed her gaze as she looked around at the faces of her audience. Tears tracked down the faces of many, and anger sat on some. I saw a stony-faced woman sneer at the emotion of the lady next to her. Another noble shook his head and leaned close to whisper to his companion. Two young women were embracing each other, overcome with the romance of the story. The Duchess of Bearns hugged herself tight, her clasped hands under her chin, her head bent over her hands. The Duke of Rippon appeared to be telling the people around him, “I knew it. I always knew it,” as his big hands beat against each other.
And I? How to describe that vindication? I stood among them, unknown and unseen, but feeling as if we had finally come home, my wolf and I. I felt a sharp pang that the Fool had not been here to hear this, and realized I was trembling, as if I had come in from somewhere very cold and was shaking as the warmth finally came back into my body. I was not weeping, and yet the water ran from my eyes until I could scarcely see.
Dutiful’s gaze scanned the crowd, and I knew he was looking for me, but he was searching for me in the guise of Lord Feldspar. Lord Chade stood and moved slowly from his place at the high table. I thought he was going to Kettricken, but then his steps wavered and he began to wend his way through the crowd. I watched him, puzzled, and then with horror realized that he had seen me and was coming straight toward me.
He looked at me. His cheeks were wet with tears. “It’s time, Fitz. Time and past time. Come. Come with me.”
The people standing closest to me were watching and listening. I saw one man’s eyes widen and his face transform from puzzlement to shock. We were in the midst of the crowd. If they turned on me now, they could tear me apart. There was no retreat here. And so, as Chade tugged at my arm, I let myself be led. My knees felt loose: I felt as if I walked like a puppet, jouncing with every step.
No one had expected this. Queen Elliania smiled joyously, but all color had drained from Nettle’s face. Kettricken’s chin trembled and then her face crumpled and she wept as if I were King Verity himself walking toward her. As we passed Starling, she lifted her head. When she saw me her hands flew to her mouth. Her eyes went wide and greedy, and some part of me thought,
The empty space between the crowd and the king and queen’s dais was an endless desert we crossed. King Dutiful’s face was white and stark
Dutiful saved us all.
He shook his head slowly as I stared up at him. “Never is over,” he proclaimed to the crowd. He looked down at my upturned face. I stared up at him. I saw King Shrewd and King Verity there. My kings, looking down at me with earnest sympathy. “FitzChivalry Farseer, too long have you sojourned among the Elderlings, your memory spurned by the very people you saved. Too long have you been in a place where the months pass as if days. Too long have you walked among us in false guise, deprived of your name and your honor. Rise. Turn and face the folk of the Six Duchies, your folk, and be welcomed home at last.” He bent and took my arm.
“You’re shaking like a leaf,” he whispered by my ear. “Can you stand up?”
“I think so,” I muttered. But it was his strength that pulled me to my feet. I stood. I turned. I faced them all.
The roar of acclaim broke over me like a wave.
I could not sleep.
I remained perfectly still on my bed. I heard only what I expected to hear, the winter wind outside my window, the soft sounds of the fire, my own breathing. I smelled nothing beyond my own smells. I opened my eyes to slits, feigning sleep still, and studied what I could of the room. Nothing. With Wit and Skill, I sensed all around me. There was nothing to alarm me. And yet I could not shake my anxiety. I closed my eyes. Sleep. Sleep.
I slept, but I did not rest. My heart was a wolf, hunting over snow hills, not for prey but for his lost pack. Hunting and hunting and hunting. Howling out my pain to the night, I ran and ran and ran. I woke sweaty and still in my clothes. I had a moment of stillness and then heard the tiny scratch at my door. My senses remained wolf-sharpened from my dream. I crossed the room and opened the door while Ash was still poking at the lock.
Without a trace of embarrassment, he removed the pick from the lock, stooped, picked up the breakfast tray, and carried it into my room. Moving efficiently, he set out my breakfast. Then he moved a small table that had been by my bed. He unslung a pouch from his shoulder, removed papers from it, and laid them out in orderly rows.
“What are those? Are they from Chade?”
He pointed to each category. “Letters of congratulation. Invitations. Petitions for you to use your influence. I did not read them all, only the ones that looked useful. I expect you will have a host of them every day now.”
My unwanted correspondence arranged, he looked around my chamber for his next task. I was still grasping that reading my private correspondence was part of what he considered his duty. I saw only a shadow of disapproval in his eyes as he took in my rumpled clothes before he offered, “Have you any washing, my lord? I should be happy to take it to the laundry folk.”
“Yes, I suppose I do. But I don’t think guests use the washerfolk that way. And I am not your lord.”
“Sir, I do believe all of that changed last night. Prince FitzChivalry, I should be greatly honored to convey your dirty smallclothes to the washerfolk.” A grin twitched and then disappeared.
“Are you being cheeky with me?” I was incredulous.
He lowered his eyes and observed quietly, “Not cheeky, sir. But one bastard may rejoice at another lowborn’s good fortune, and dream of better days for himself.” He cocked his head at me. “Chade has had me hard at learning the history of the Six Duchies. Did you know that one queen-in-waiting actually gave birth to a bastard, and that he rose to be King of the Six Duchies?”
“Not quite. You are thinking of the Piebald Prince. And that did not end well for him at all.” His cousin had killed him for being Witted and had taken the throne.