Royal Assassin - Страница 57

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I longed to open myself up and tell Verity everything. But it might be too revealing. To possess a Prince’s secrets does not give one the right to divulge them. I glanced at Burrich. He was studying the wall. I spoke formally. “Thank you, my prince. You could not have come faster. And even if you had, it would have been too late. She died at almost the same instant I saw her.”

Verity looked down at his hands. “I knew that. Knew it better than you did. My concern was for you.” He looked up at me and tried for a smile. “The most distinctive part of your fighting style is the incredible way you have of surviving it.”

From the corner of my eye, I saw Burrich shift, open his mouth to speak, then close it again. Cold dread uncoiled in me. He had seen the bodies of the Forged ones, seen the tracks. He knew I hadn’t fought alone against them. It was the only thing that could have made the day worse. I felt as if my heart were suddenly caught in a cold stillness. That Burrich had not spoken of it yet, that he was reserving his accusations for a private time only made it worse.

“FitzChivalry?” Verity called my attention back to him.

I started. “I beg your pardon, my prince.”

He laughed, almost, a brief snort. “Enough of ‘my prince.’ Rest assured that I do not expect it of you just now, and neither does Burrich. He and I know each other well enough; he did not ‘my prince’ my brother at moments like this. Recall that he was king’s man to my brother. Chivalry drew on his strength, and oftentimes not gently. I am sure Burrich knows that I have used you likewise. And knows also that I rode with your eyes today, at least as far as the top of that ridge.”

I looked to Burrich, who nodded slowly. Neither of us was certain why he was being included here.

“I lost touch with you when you went into a battle frenzy. If I am to use you as I wish, that cannot happen.” Verity drummed his fingers lightly on his thighs for a moment, in thought. “The only way I can see for you to learn this thing is to practice it. Burrich. Chivalry once told me that in a tight spot, you were better with an ax than a sword.”

Burrich looked startled. Plainly he had not expected Verity to know this about him. He nodded again, slowly. “He used to mock me about it. Said it was a brawler’s tool, not a gentleman’s weapon.”

Verity permitted himself a tight smile. “Appropriate for Fitz’s style, then. You will teach him to use one. I don’t believe it’s something Hod teaches as a general rule. Though no doubt she could if I asked her. But I’d rather it was you. Because I want Fitz to practice keeping me with him while he learns it. If we can tie the two lessons together, perhaps he can master them both at once. And if you are teaching him, then he’ll not be too distracted about keeping my presence a secret. Can you do it?”

Burrich could not completely disguise the dismay that crept over him. “I can, my prince.”

“Then do so, please. Beginning tomorrow. Earlier is better for me. I know you have other duties as well, and few enough hours to yourself. Don’t hesitate to pass some of your duties on to Hands while you are busy with this. He seems a very capable man.”

“He is,” Burrich agreed. Guardedly. Another tidbit of information that Verity had at his fingertips.

“Fine, then.” Verity leaned back in his chair. He surveyed us both as if he were briefing a whole roomful of men. “Does anyone have any difficulties with any of this?”

I saw the question as a polite closing.

“Sir?” Burrich asked. His deep voice had gone very soft and uncertain, “If I may . . . I have . . . I do not intend to question my prince’s judgment, but . . .”

I held my breath. Here it came. The Wit.

“Speak it out, Burrich. I thought I had made it clear that the ‘my princing’ was to be suspended here. What worries you?”

Burrich stood up straight, and met the King-in-Waiting’s eyes. “Is this . . . fitting? Bastard or no, he is Chivalry’s son. What I saw up there, today . . .” Once started, the words spilled out of Burrich. He was fighting to keep anger from his voice. “You sent him . . . He went into a slaughterhouse situation, alone. Most any other boy of his age would be dead now. I . . . try not to pry into what is not my area. I know there are many ways to serve my King, and that some are not as pretty as others. But up in the Mountains . . . and then what I saw today. Could not you find someone besides your brother’s child for this?”

I glanced back to Verity. For the first time in my life I saw full anger on his face. Not expressed in a sneer or a frown, but simply as two hot sparks deep in his dark eyes. The line of his lips was flat. But he spoke evenly. “Look again, Burrich. That’s no child sitting there. And think again. I did not send him alone. I went with him, into a situation that we expected to be a stalk and a hunt, not a direct confrontation. It didn’t turn out that way. But he survived it. As he has survived similar things before. And likely will again.” Verity stood suddenly. The whole air of the room was abruptly charged to my senses, boiling with emotion. Even Burrich seemed to feel it, for he gave me a glance, then forced himself to stand still, like a soldier at attention while Verity stalked about the room.

“No. This isn’t what I would choose for him. This isn’t what I would choose for myself. Would that he had been born in better times! Would that he had been born in a marriage bed, and my brother still upon the throne! But I was not given that situation, nor was he. Nor you! And so he serves, as I do. Damn me, but Kettricken has had it right all along. The King is the sacrifice of the people. And so is his nephew. That was carnage up there today. I know of what you speak; I saw Blade go aside to puke after he saw that body, I saw him walk well clear of Fitz. I know not how the boy . . . this man survived it. By doing whatever he had to, I suppose. So what can I do, man? What can I do? I need him. I need him for this ugly, secret battling, for he is the only one equipped and trained to do it. Just as my father sets me in that tower, and bids me burn my mind out with sneaking, filthy killing. Whatever Fitz must do, whatever skills he must call upon—”

(My heart stood still, my breath was ice in my lungs.)

“— then let him use. Because that is what we are about now. Survival. Because—”

“They are my people.” I did not realize I had spoken until they both swung to stare at me. Sudden silence in the room. I took a breath. “A long time ago an old man told me that I would someday understand something. He said that the Six Duchies people were my people, that it was in my blood to care about them, to feel their hurts as my own.” I blinked my eyes, to clear Chade and that day at Forge from my vision. “He was right,” I managed to say after a moment. “They killed my child today, Burrich. And my smith, and two other men. Not the Forged ones. The Red-Ship Raiders. And I must have their blood in return, I must drive them from my coast. It is as simple now as eating or breathing. It is a thing I must do.”

Their eyes met over my head. “Blood will tell,” Verity observed quietly. But there was a fierceness in his voice, and a pride that stilled the daylong trembling of my body. A deep calm rose in me. I had done the right thing today. I suddenly knew it as a physical fact. Ugly, demeaning work, but it was mine, and I had done it well. For my people. I turned to Burrich, and he was looking at me with that considering gaze usually reserved for when the runt of a litter showed unusual promise.

“I’ll teach him,” he promised Verity. “What few tricks I know with an ax. And a few other things. Shall we begin tomorrow, before first light?”

“Fine,” Verity agreed before I could object. “Now let us eat.”

I was suddenly famished. I rose to go to the table, but Burrich was suddenly beside me. “Wash your face and hands, Fitz,” he reminded me gently.

The scented water in Verity’s basin was dark with the smith’s blood when I was through.

14
Winterfest

...

WINTERFEST IS AS much a celebration of the darkest part of the year as a festival of the returning light. For the first three days of Winterfest, we pay homage to the darkness. The tales told and puppet shows presented are those that tell of resting times and happy endings. The foods are salt fish and smoked flesh, harvested roots and fruit from last summer. Then, on the midday of the festival, there is a hunt. New blood is shed to celebrate the breaking point of the year, and new meat is brought fresh to the table, to be eaten with grain harvested from the year before. The next three days are days that look toward the coming summer. The looms are threaded with gayer thread, and the weavers take over an end of the Great Hall to vie among themselves for the brightest patterns and lightest weave. The tales told are ones that tell of beginnings of things, and of how things came to be.

*

I tried to see the King that afternoon. Despite all that had transpired, I had not forgotten my promise to myself. Wallace turned me away, saying that King Shrewd felt poorly and was seeing no one. I longed to hammer on the door and shout for the Fool to make Wallace admit me. But I did not. I was not so sure of the Fool’s friendship as I had once been. We’d had no contact since that last mocking song of his. Thinking of him put me in mind of his words, and when I went back to my room, I once more rooted through Verity’s manuscripts.

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