“That’s the most convoluted logic I have ever heard. ” It wasn’t. The Fool could do much better than that to get his own way.
Perseverance said nothing. I thought of ordering him even more sternly to return. And if he still refused, what then? Kick him? Poke him with my sword? The boy was more than stubborn. He was intent on becoming a man. Soon enough, Fleeter and I would outdistance both of them. And then he could be helpful to Lant in returning to Buckkeep. A fine prince I was. I could not get even a stable boy to obey me. I tried to summon the will to insist.
My Wit made me aware of her a heartbeat before her weight hit my shoulder. I flinched at that landing, and Fleeter flicked an ear back in a query.
“Fitz—Chivalry,” the crow announced. She set her feet more firmly in the fabric of my coat and used her beak to push the flap of my collar out of her way.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded of her, not really expecting an answer.
“It spoke!” Perseverance exclaimed.
“It’s a crow!” Lant exclaimed as if perhaps we had not noticed. Breathlessly he asked, “Is she your Wit-beast?”
“No. She’s not my Old Blood companion. ” I had never demanded the current usage of anyone and I did not have time to wonder why I did so now, for Per immediately pleaded, “Would she come to me, do you think? She is such a beauty. ”
Motley leaned forward and pecked my cheek lightly. “Nice boy!” she squawked.
Eyes wide, Per extended his forearm hopefully to her, as if she were a falcon. She hopped from my shoulder to the offered perch with the barest lift of her wings.
“Aren’t you fine?” Per breathed as he drew his arm in to admire her.
“Fine,” she agreed in mutual admiration, and I suddenly dared to hope she’d found a more permanent home than the Fool or I could offer her.
“Would you like the care of her? She’s got a few white feathers and because of them the other crows mob her. You’ll have to ink them black for her if they start to fade. ”
“Truly?” Per looked as if I’d conferred an honor on him. “The poor thing! What’s her name? How did you come to have her?”
“We call her Motley. Her owner died and a mutual friend asked if I could look after her for a time. ”
“Motley. Well. Aren’t you fine? Would you ride on my shoulder, do you think?”
The bird’s bright gaze met mine for an instant, almost as if she begged pardon or asked permission. Then as Perseverance slowly lowered his wrist, she climbed up his arm until she sat on his shoulder. Per shot me a grin and then, as he recalled our mission, it faded. “Sir? What are we riding into? Has Bee been found? Is she well?” He tipped his head toward the axe that rode across my back. “It doesn’t need a new handle, does it?”
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“No. It doesn’t. And I don’t know what we’re riding into, or what condition Bee is in. Which is why I don’t think either of you should be accompanying me. ” The words felt like stones as they fell from my lips.
Lant spoke up suddenly from my other side. “Well, whatever you do know, I’d like to know as well. Did you receive more tidings since we last spoke? I’ve only Lord Chade’s directive that I follow you. ”
I spoke more to the boy than to him. “We’ve had reports of her captors riding toward the coast. The ship they hoped to escape on has been seized. We believe we know the path they intend, and the king’s forces are on their way to cut them off. We may discover her captors before they do. Or after. In either case, I know I must be there. ” I recounted the details tersely. Then we all rode silently for a time.
When Per spoke, his words came slowly. “So. We’re actually riding ahead of your guard, aren’t we? Are you hoping to get to the soldiers and Bee before the king’s soldiers do? You hope we can fight them and rescue her ourselves?”
“That would be insane!” Lant declared. “There were at least a score of mercenaries, not counting the pale folk. ”
Per had a more pragmatic worry. “All I’ve brought with me is my belt-knife. ”
Lant snorted. “Lad, we are not going to charge into a band of trained mercenary soldiers with nothing but your belt-knife and FitzChivalry’s axe. I’m sure he has a better intention than that. ”
But I didn’t.
Lying was suddenly too much effort and rather pointless. “I don’t have a plan, really. When and if I locate them, I’ll decide what to do. And that is why you should both go back. Now. ” I turned to look at Lant. “Ride with my guard tomorrow. You can let Foxglove know that I’ve ridden ahead to scout. That would actually be a very useful thing for you to do, if you’d carry that message to Foxglove for me. ”
Lant appeared to consider it. I hoped it would offer him a dignified way out of following me into what was, truly, an ill-considered venture. For that brief time, there was only the sound of the horses’ hooves on the packed snow of the road, the creaking of saddle leather, and the wind shushing as it smoothed the coverlet of snow that covered the meadow. I looked at the distant trees and then at the sky. Overcast. No snow tonight, I hoped fervently.
We topped a small rise and looked down the broad moving waters of the Buck River. The edges of the moving water were frozen but a stripe of dark water still showed at the center of the current. Just past that crossing I’d leave the road and cut across country. I could see the trail I’d follow. I watched a farmer’s wagon pulled by a heavy team of grays come down to the ferry on the other side. Good timing. There were three houses and a barn and several large pens on the far side of the river. The ferry was a rickety old one, used mostly by farmers and shepherds wanting to move flocks. We rode down to the splintery timbers of the landing and sat our horses in silence as the ferry bumped and sloshed its way across to us. I glanced at my companions. Lant looked dismayed and Per uncertain. The nose of the ferry dock was coated with ice. Priss bridled as we approached it.
The ferry slowly drew closer and then thumped against the landing. A lad leapt off and made it fast, first one line and then the other. The wagon driver lifted a hand in greeting and nodded to us without curiosity as his team stoically thudded across the wooden timbers of the landing. The wagon followed with a lurch and a thud. The sounds of the creaking wagon and the rushing river masked the hoofbeats of another horse. Only my Wit made me turn to see who came.
Yes. I could have more problems today.
“Fitz!” Riddle exclaimed, half-angrily, as he pulled in a rangy white gelding. “What are you thinking, to bring these two? Lant should be resting and healing! And that lad is no more than a boy!”
“I didn’t ‘bring’ them. They’ve followed me. ” I took in the light leather armor he wore under his heavy wool cloak. The sword he bore was nothing like the elegant gentleman’s accessory that graced Lant’s hip. Riddle was dressed for serious fighting. “Nettle sent you?” I guessed.
He dropped his head guiltily. “No. She doesn’t know I’ve gone. I told her I wanted to ride with you tomorrow and she agreed to that. Reluctantly. When I couldn’t find you and the roan was gone from the stables, I knew. And here I am. ” His expression changed abruptly. “Thank El! I’m so tired of sitting and waiting and worrying. ”
Any fears that he’d been sent to bring me back were dispersed. I returned his grin despite my effort to restrain it. “You are going to confront a very angry woman when you get back to Buckkeep Castle. ”
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“Don’t I know it. My only hope of mercy is to have her small sister with me. ”
The smiles we exchanged were tense. We might jest about it but we both knew that Nettle’s anger was going to be a very real storm we’d have to weather. In some dim corner of my mind, I suspected her anger would be justified. I knew that my charging off to save Bee could be seen as foolhardy; what could one man do against a band of mercenaries? I was not directly disobeying my king, I excused myself. I’d stopped arguing before D
utiful felt he had to absolutely command me to follow his plan. I could not trust a band of guardsmen to rescue my child. I could not stand idly and wait for her to be restored to me.
And so I’d defied my king. But now I had three followers, two of them noblemen, and somehow that seemed very different to me. As it well might to King Dutiful. A lone kinsman disobeying his king is one thing; this appeared closer to a mutiny. I cast a sidelong glance at Riddle. In the set line of his jaw and pinched lips, I read much the same sentiments. He spoke without looking at me. “Not far past that ferry, there’s a cart track that goes up toward summer pasturage. If we leave the road there and follow the track, we can probably overnight in the shepherds’ huts in the hills before we push on toward Salter’s Deep. ”
“Or not spend the night. Just push on,” I suggested.
“Leave the road?” Lant asked in dismay.
Riddle has always had a talent for sharing a glance without being obvious. He spoke kindly to Lant. “I think you should turn back now. Take the boy with you. If you must, ride with Foxglove tomorrow. If we’re riding into direct conflict, then four of us are not enough to do battle with a mercenary troop. It’s more likely Fitz and I will be doing something more … covert. And in that situation, two of us are less visible than four of us with five horses. ”
Lant said nothing. I wondered where his true inclination lay. He had to be in moderate pain still. Which hurt worse, his injured pride that he had done nothing when Bee and Shine were taken, or the wound to his body? And how much did he dread encountering Shine not as her suitor but as her brother? I think he was on the point of turning back when Perseverance spoke.
“You can go back if you need to, Scribe Lant. No one would blame you. But I can’t go with you. When we find Bee, she will want her horse. And as she was in my care when I lost her, I have to be the one to bring her back. ” He looked at me and perhaps realized he had been less than tactful. “Or at least, I have to be one of the ones who is there,” he added lamely.
The ferryman spoke. “You want to cross or not?”
“I do,” I said. I dismounted. He held out his hand and I dropped my fare into it. I led Fleeter. Her hooves thudded on the timbers of the landing. She eyed the gap between it and the ferry, but when I stepped across, she followed me. The ferry bobbed slightly at our weight and I led her to the center of the flat vessel. I didn’t look back at any of them. I hoped they would all turn back.
But then I heard Riddle speaking to his mount and felt the mild lurch as they boarded. Perseverance led both of his horses. Priss was unhappy and jigged a bit, but he spoke to her and his own mount boarded calmly. “I’m with them,” he said to the ferryman, and he let him pass without paying. I allowed myself one glance back.
Lant was shaking his head. Then he sighed. “I’m coming,” he said, and gave the ferryman his coins. He boarded with his horse, and the ship’s lad cast off the lines.
I watched the water and the far shore. The current pushed and surged against the vessel, but the ferryman and his boys moved us steadily across the river. Fleeter stood steady but Priss was white-eyed, tugging on her reins.
Riddle led his horse to stand beside me.
As the ferry approached the far bank, Riddle spoke to Lant. “Our horses are swifter and we can’t wait for you and the lad,” he said bluntly. “You can follow, or you can go back to Buckkeep. But we can’t wait. Ready, Fitz?”
I was already swinging back up into Fleeter’s saddle. “I’m ready,” I replied.
“Wait!” Perseverance cried out, and I felt disloyal as I shook my head. Lant said something that I didn’t catch but I heard Riddle say to him, “Follow as you can, then,” and we were off, our horses lunging up from ferry to landing, and off we went through the tiny settlement, hooves clattering on icy cobbles. Beyond the little cluster of houses, a cart track diverged from the main road. Fleeter did not wait for me to guide her. She diverted, stretching into first a lope and then a gallop. The roan had been waiting for this all afternoon, and having the nose of Riddle’s horse at my stirrup only urged her on. The packed snow of the wagon tracks gave both horses good purchase and my cheeks began to burn from the wind.
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Go! I said to Fleeter and felt her joyous assent. She surged forward, and the world swept past us.
In a short time, I heard the beat of hooves behind us. I glanced back to see Perseverance urging his horse on and actually gaining on us. Lant came behind, one hand on the reins and one clutching his shoulder, his face grim. Nothing I could do about that, I decided, and we rode on.
My body settled into the rhythm of Fleeter’s motion and we moved as one creature. She was a magnificent mount, and I could not prevent my admiration seeping through to her. We go well together, we two, she said, and I could not deny it. I felt her take joy in our headlong run, stretching her stride and pulling ahead of Riddle and his mount. My mind leapt many years, to another cross-country gallop. I’d been little more than a youth and had followed Chade as we tore through forest and over hills to the town of Forge and my first encounter with Forged ones. I reined my thoughts away from that memory and immersed myself in the day, the horse, and the wind on my face.
I let go. We were just running, we two. Nothing more. Think only of how well we moved together. I let her set her pace. We slowed, she breathed, and then she ran again. We startled a fox with a rabbit limp in his jaws. At the bottom of a small incline, she leapt a trickling brook rather than fording it. I am Fleeter! She rejoiced and I with her.
The early winter evening began to shadow the snow with pale blues. We encountered a wagon drawn by a team of heavy black horses and driven by a boy scarcely older than Perseverance. It was loaded with firewood and we gave way to the steaming team. Fleeter broke trail through the deeper snow beside the track, and Riddle and his mount followed in her wake.
I did not have to push her. She knew I wanted speed and her heart was in giving it to me. Lant was soon left far behind us, and then Perseverance. Riddle kept up, somewhat. He was no longer at our side but whenever I glanced back, I saw his face, red and set with cold, his dark eyes determined. Each time I glanced back, he’d give me a stiff nod, and on we would go. Light bled slowly from the day, color seeping away with it. The cold deepened around us and the wind woke. Why, I wondered, did it seem that always I rode into a cold wind, never pushed by it? The skin of my face grew stiff, my lips cracked, and the ends of my fingers grew distant with cold.
But on we went. Fleeter’s pace dropped as we rode up into the hills. The skies were overcast, and I relied more on Fleeter’s vision than my own. We followed the wagon trail as much by feel as by sight. We entered a stretch of forest, and the looming trees made the night much darker. The trail was more uneven here. I began to feel old, cold, and foolish. Had I imagined myself afire with carris seed, galloping away the night to go to Bee’s rescue? I could barely see my hand in front of my face, and the full length of my spine ached with cold. We passed a woodcutter’s clearing. Beyond it, the trail we had been following became a shallow indentation in the snow.
The wind rose as we left the forested slope behind. The cold slapped me but the wind pushed some of the clouds aside. Light from the stars seeped down to show the windswept snow that covered the summer sheep- and goat-pastures. Fleeter slowed as she moved forward through the unbroken snow. She lowered her head and pushed stubbornly on.
I smelled a barn. No, Fleeter smelled a barn or some sort of animal shelter, and shared that sensation with me. It was different from when Nighteyes had conveyed information to me. For the wolf, it had always been about hunting and killing and food. The horse smelled something familiar, something that was possibly shelter and rest. Yes, rest. She was tired. And cold. It was time to be out of this wind, and time to find water. Ahead of us on the white-coated hillside there was a huddle of structures: a stock pen and a slant-roofed, three-sided shelter. Beside it was a snow-covered mound,
a haystack. And sharing a wall with the animal pen was the shape of a humble cabin.
I did not have to pull Fleeter in. She halted of her own will and stood, sides heaving softly, taking in the scents. Sheep, old dung. Straw. I dismounted stiffly and walked first to the pen, feeling my muscles moving differently, feeling warmth trying to seep back into my feet. My hips hurt, and my back shouted at me with every step. Had I imagined I could ride all night and be capable of stealth, let alone fighting?
I was an idiot.
I found the gate to the corral, moved the bar, and dragged it open, fighting the snow that blocked it. When it was one horse wide, I led her in. She stabled herself as I burrowed past snow to get an armful of hay. I carried it into the shelter and made three more trips to heap the manger full. She was grateful to be standing out of the wind. I fumbled the sack of grain free of my saddlebag.
Water?
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I’ll see what I can do.
I left her standing in the shelter as I explored the area. I beat my hands against my thighs as I walked, trying to stir enough warmth into them that I could unsaddle Fleeter. The overcast thinned and pale moonlight opened the night around me. There was a well, with a bucket and windlass. When I lowered the bucket, I heard it break thin ice before it tipped and filled. I brought the bucket up as Riddle arrived. I lifted a hand in silent greeting. He dismounted, led his horse into the shelter, and I followed. I held the bucket while Fleeter drank and then offered it to his mount.
“I’ll get a fire going in the cabin,” he offered.
“I’ll take care of the horses,” I replied.
My stiff fingers struggled with stiffer leather and buckles. The two horses moved close together, sharing the warmth of their bodies. By the time I had both made comfortable for the night, a dim light was showing through the cracks around the door frame of the cabin. I drew another bucket of water and headed for the cabin with my saddle-pack slung over my shoulder. Inside, the cabin was a humble but mostly snug retreat from the night. It had a plank floor; a stone fireplace took up one wall. Riddle had laid a fire and it was beginning to burn well. The furnishings were simple. A table and two stools. A raised platform spanned one end of the cabin and was intended as sleeping space. A shelf held two pots with bales for cooking over the fire. A candle-lantern. Two earthenware cups and two bowls. The shepherds had left a supply of firewood in the lea of the cabin. I went back to the hayrick and raided it ruthlessly to cushion the sleeping platform while Riddle heated water in one of the pots.