“Does he fear that they seek for him also?” Kettricken asked wonderingly.
“So it seems to me. Though I have felt no tremor of their presence, he seems to believe they will seek him out, either by the Skill or in the flesh.”
“Why should Regal bother to do so, when all believe Verity dead?” Kettricken asked me.
I shrugged. “Perhaps to make certain that he never returns to prove them all wrong. I do not truly know, my queen. I sense that my king conceals much from me. He warned me that the powers of the coterie are many and strong.”
“But surely Verity is as strong?” Kettricken asked with a child’s faith.
“He masters a storm of power such as I have never witnessed, my lady. But it takes all his will to control it.”
“All such control is an illusion,” Kettle mumbled to herself. “A trap to deceive the unwary.”
“King Verity is scarcely unwary, Dame Kettle!” Kettricken retorted angrily.
“No, he is not,” I agreed in a conciliatory tone. “And the words were mine, not Ver . . . King Verity’s, my lady. I only seek to make you understand that what he now does is beyond my comprehension. All I can do is trust that he knows what he is about. And do as he has ordered me.”
“To find him,” Kettricken agreed. She sighed. “Would that we could leave now, this very minute. But only a fool defies a storm such as this one.”
“While we bide here, FitzChivalry is in constant danger,” Kettle informed us. All eyes turned to her.
“What makes you say so, Kettle?” Kettricken asked.
She hesitated. “Anyone can see it is so. Unless he is kept talking, his thoughts drift, his eyes become empty. He cannot sleep at night without the Skill coming upon him. It is obvious that the road is at fault.”
“While these things are so, it is not at all obvious to me that the road is the problem. A lingering fever from his injury could be at fault, or . . .”
“No.” I risked interrupting my queen. “It is the road. I have no fever. And I did not feel this way before I traveled on it.”
“Explain this to me,” Kettricken commanded.
“I don’t understand it myself. I can only suppose that Skill was somehow used to construct that road. It runs straighter and more level than any road I have ever known. No tree intrudes upon it, despite how little it is used. There are no animal tracks upon it. And did you mark the one tree we passed yesterday, the log that had fallen across the road? The stump and the uppermost branches were still almost sound . . . but all of the trunk that had fallen upon the road itself was rotted away to almost nothing. Some force moves still in that road, to keep it so clear and true. And I think whatever it is, it is related to the Skill.”
Kettricken sat a moment considering this. “What do you suggest we do?” she asked me.
I shrugged. “Nothing. For now. The tent is well pitched here. We’d be foolish to try to move it in this wind. I must simply be aware of the danger to myself, and endeavor to avoid it. And tomorrow, or whenever the wind falls, I should walk beside the road instead of upon it.”
“That will be little better for you,” Kettle grumbled.
“Perhaps. But as the road is our guide to Verity, it would be foolish to leave it. Verity survived this path, and he walked it alone.” I paused, thinking that I now understood better some of the fragmented Skill dreams I had had of him. “I will manage, somehow.”
The circle of faces doubtfully regarding me were not reassuring. “You must, I suppose,” Kettricken concluded dolefully. “If there is any way we can assist you, FitzChivalry . . .”
“There is none that I can think of,” I admitted.
“Save to keep his mind occupied as best we can,” Kettle offered. “Do not let him sit idly, nor sleep overmuch. Starling, you have your harp, have you not? Could not you play and sing for us?”
“I have a harp,” Starling corrected her sourly. “It’s a poor thing compared to my old one that was taken from me at Moonseye.” For a moment her face emptied and her eyes turned inward. I wondered if that was how I looked when the Skill pulled at me. Kettle reached to pat her softly on one knee, but Starling flinched to the touch. “Still, it’s what I have, and I’ll play it, if you think it will help.” She reached behind her for her pack and drew from it a bundled harp. As she drew the harp from its wrappings, I could see that it was little more than a framework of raw wood with strings stretched across it. It had the essential shape of her old harp, but with none of its grace and polish. It was to Starling’s old harp what one of Hod’s practice blades was to a fine sword; a thing of utility and function, no more than that. But she settled it on her lap and began tuning it. She began the opening notes of an old Buck ballad when she was interrupted by a snowy nose poking its way into the tent door.
“Nighteyes!” The Fool welcomed him.
I’ve meat to share. This came as a proud announcement. More than enough to gorge well on.
It was not an exaggeration. When I crawled out of the tent to see his kill, it was a sort of boar. The tusks and coarse hair were much the same as those I had hunted before, but this creature had larger ears and the coarse hair was mottled black and white. When Kettricken joined me, she exclaimed over it, saying she had seen few of them before, but they were known to roam the forests and had a reputation as vicious game best left alone. She scratched the wolf behind the ear with a mittened hand and praised him overmuch for his bravery and skill, until he fell over in the snow overcome with pride in himself. I looked at him, lolling near on his back in the snow and wind, and could not help but grin. In an instant he had flipped to his feet, to give me a nasty pinch on the leg and demand that I open its belly for him.
The meat was fat and rich. Kettricken and I did most of the butchering, for the cold savaged the Fool and Kettle mercilessly and Starling begged off for the sake of a harpist’s hands. Cold and damp were not the best things for her still-healing fingers. I did not much mind. Both the task and the harsh conditions kept my mind from wandering as I worked, and there was an odd pleasure to being alone with Kettricken, even under such circumstances, for in sharing this humble work, we both forgot station and past and became but two people in the cold rejoicing in a richness of meat. We cut off long skewering strips that would cook swiftly over the little brazier in sufficient quantity for all of us to gorge. Nighteyes took the entrails for himself, reveling in the heart and liver and guts and then a front leg with the satisfaction of bones to crack. He brought this gristly prize into the tent with him, but no one made comment on the snowy, bloody wolf that lay along one side of the tent wall and noisily chewed his meat save to praise him. I thought him insufferably satisfied with himself and told him so; he but informed me that I had never made so difficult a kill alone, let alone dragged it back intact to share. All the while the Fool scratched his ears.
Soon the rich smell of cooking filled the tent. It had been some days since we had had fresh meat of any kind, and the cold we had endured made the fat taste doubly rich to us. It brought our spirits up and we could almost forget the howling of the wind outside and the cold that pressed so fiercely against our small shelter. After we were all sated with meat, Kettle made tea for us. I know of nothing more warming than hot meat and tea and good fellowship.
This is pack, Nighteyes observed in contentment from his corner. And I could do no more than agree.