Robin Hobb - Tawny Man 1 - Fool's Errand

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Book Information:

Genre: Fantasy

Author: Robin Hobb

Name: Fool’s Errand

Series: Book One of The Tawny Man

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Fool’s Errand

Book One of The Tawny Man

Written by Robin Hobb

Chapter

CHADE FALLSTAR

Is time

the wheel that

turns, or

the

track it

leaves behind?

-KELSTAR'S RIDDLE

He came one late, wet spring, and brought the wide world back to my doorstep. I was

thirty-five that year. When I was twenty, I would have considered a man of my current

age to be teetering on the verge of dotage. These days, it seemed neither young nor

old to me, but a suspension between the two. I no longer had the excuse of callow

youth, and I could not yet claim the eccentricities of age. In many ways, I was no

longer sure what I thought of myself. Sometimes it seemed that my life was slowly

disappearing behind me, fading like footprints in the rain, until perhaps I had always

been the quiet man living an unremarkable life in a cottage between the forest and the

sea.

I lay abed that morning, listening to the small sounds that sometimes brought me

peace. The wolf breathed steadily before the softly crackling hearth fire. I quested

toward him with our shared Wit magic, and gently brushed his sleeping thoughts. He

dreamed of running over snow-smooth rolling hills with a pack. For Nighteyes, it was a

dream of silence, cold, and swiftness. Softly I withdrew my touch and left him to his

private peace.

Outside my small window, the returning birds sang their challenges to one another.

There was a light wind, and whenever it stirred the trees, they released a fresh shower

of last night's rain to patter on the wet sward. The trees were silver birches, four of

them. They had been little more than sticks when I had planted them. Now their airy

foliage cast a pleasant light shade outside my bedroom window. I closed my eyes and

could almost feel the flicker of the light on my eyelids. I would not get up, not just yet.

I had had a bad evening the night before, and had had to face it alone. My boy,

Hap, had gone off gallivanting with Starling almost three weeks ago, and still had not

returned. I could not blame him. My quiet reclusive life was beginning to chafe his

young shoulders. Starling's stories of life at Buckkeep, painted with all the skill of her

minstrel ways, created pictures too vivid for him to ignore. So I had reluctantly let her

take him to Buckkeep for a holiday, that he might see for himself a Springfest there, eat

a carris-seed-topped cake, watch a puppet show, mayhap kiss a girl. Hap had grown

past the point where regular meals and a warm bed were enough to content him. I had

told myself it was time I thought of letting him go, of finding him an apprenticeship with

a good carpenter or joiner. He showed a knack for such things, and the sooner a lad

took to a trade, the better he learned it. But I was not ready to let him go just yet. For

now I would enjoy a month of peace and solitude, and recall how to do things for

myself. Nighteyes and I had each other for company. What more could we need?

Yet no sooner were they gone than the little house seemed too quiet. The boy's

excitement at leaving had been too reminiscent of how I myself had once felt about

Springfests and the like. Puppet shows and carris-seed cakes and girls to kiss all brought

back vivid memories I thought I had long ago drowned. Perhaps it was those memories

that birthed dreams too vivid to ignore. Twice I had awakened sweating and shaking

with my muscles clenched. I had enjoyed years of respite from such unquiet, but in the

past four years, my old fixation had returned. Of late, it came and went, with no pattern

I could discern. It was almost as if the old Skill magic had suddenly recalled me and was

reaching to drag me out of my peace and solitude. Days that had been as smooth and

alike as beads on a string were now disrupted by its call. Sometimes the Skill-hunger ate

at me as a canker eats sound flesh. Other times, it was no more than a few nights of

yearning, vivid dreams. If the boy had been home, I probably could have shaken off the

Skill's persistent plucking at me. But he was gone, and so yesterday evening I had given

in to the unvanquished addiction such dreams stirred. I had walked down to the sea

cliffs, sat on the bench my boy had made for me, and stretched out my magic over the

waves. The wolf had sat beside me for a time, his look one of ancient rebuke. I tried to

ignore him. "No worse than your penchant for bothering porcupines," I pointed out to

him.

Save that their quills can be pulled out. What stabs you only goes deeper and

festers.

His deep eyes glanced past mine as he shared his pointed thoughts.

Why don't you go hunt a rabbit?

You've sent the boy and his bow away.

"You could run it down yourself, you know. Time was when you did that."

Time was

when you went with me to hunt. Why don't we go and do that, instead of

this fruitless seeking? When will you accept that there is no one out there who can hear

you?

just have

to ... try.

Why? Is my companionship not enough for you?

It is enough for me.

You

are always enough for me.

I opened myself wider to the

Wit-bond we shared and tried to let him feel how the Skill tugged at me. It is

the magic

that wants this, not me.

Take it away. I do not want to see that.

And when I had closed that part of myself

to him, he asked piteously,

Will it never leave us alone?

I had no answer to that. After a time, the wolf lay down, put his great head on his

paws, and closed his eyes. I knew he would stay by me because he feared for me.

Twice the winter before last, I had overindulged in Skilling, burning physical energy in

that mental reaching until I had been unable even to totter back to the house on my

own. Nighteyes had had to fetch Hap both times. This time we were alone.

I knew it was foolish and useless. I also knew I could not stop myself. Like a

starving man who eats grass to appease the terrible emptiness in his belly, so I reached

out with the Skill, touching the lives that passed within my reach. I could brush their

thoughts and temporarily appease the great craving that filled me with emptiness. I

could know a little of the family out for a windy day's fishing. I could know the worries

of a captain whose cargo was just a bit heavier than his ship would carry well. The mate

on the same ship was worried about the man her daughter wished to marry; he was a

lazy fellow for all of his pretty ways. The ship's boy was cursing his luck; they'd get to

Buckkeep Town too late for Springfest. There'd be nothing left but withered garlands

browning in the gutters by the time he got there. It was always his luck.

There was a certain sparse distraction to these knowings. It restored to me the

sense that the world was larger than the four walls of my house, larger even than the

confines of my own garden. But it was not the same as true Skilling. It could not

compare to that moment of completion when minds joined and one sensed the

wholeness of the world as a great entity in which one's own body was no more than a

mote of dust.

The wolf's firm teeth on my wrist had stirred me from my reaching. Come on. That's

enough. If you collapse down here, you'll spend a cold wet night. am not the boy, to

drag you to your feet. Come on, now.

I had risen, seeing blackness at the edges of my vision when I first stood. It had

passed, but not the blackness of spirit that came in its wake. I had followed the wolf

back through the gathering dark beneath the dripping trees, back to where my fire had

burned low in the hearth and the candles guttered on the table, I made myself elfbark

tea, black and bitter, knowing it would only make my spirit more desolate, but knowing

also that it would appease my aching head. I had burned away the nervous energy of

the elfbark by working on a scroll describing the stone game and how it was played. I

had tried several times before to complete such a treatise and each time given it up as

hopeless. One could only learn to play it by playing it, I told myself. This time I was

adding to the text a set of illustrations, to show how a typical game might progress.

When I set it aside just before dawn was breaking, it seemed only the stupidest of my

latest attempts. I went to bed more early than late.

I awoke to half the morning gone. In the far corner of the yard, the chickens were

scratching and gossiping among themselves. The rooster crowed once. I groaned. I

should get up. I should check for eggs and scatter a handful of grain to keep the poultry

tamed. The garden was just sprouting. It needed weeding already, and I should reseed

the row of fesk that the slugs had eaten. I needed to gather some more of the purple

flag while it was still in bloom; my last attempt at an ink from it had gone awry, but I

wanted to try again. There was wood to split and stack. Porridge to cook, a hearth to

sweep. And I should climb the ash tree over the chicken house and cut off that one

cracked limb before a storm brought it down on the chicken house itself.

And we should go down to the river and see if the early fish runs have begun yet.

Fresh fish would be good.

Nighteyes added his own concerns to my mental list.

Last year you nearly died from eating rotten fish.

All the more reason to go now, while they are fresh and jumping. You could use the

boy's spear.

And get soaked and chilled.

Better soaked and chilled than hungry.

I rolled over and went back to sleep. So I'd be lazy one morning. Who'd know or

care? The chickens? It seemed but moments later that his thoughts nudged me.

My brother, awake. A

strange

horse comes.

I was instantly alert. The slant of light in my window -SA, told me that hours had

passed. I rose, dragged a robe over my head, belted it, and thrust my feet into my

summer shoes. They were little more than leather soles with a few straps to keep them

on my feet. I pushed my hair back from my face. I rubbed my sandy eyes. "Go see who

it is," I bade Nighteyes.

See for yourself. He's nearly to the door.

I was expecting no one. Starling came thrice or four times a year, to visit for a few

days and bring me gossip and fine paper and good wine, but she and Hap would not be

returning so soon. Other visitors to my door were rare. There was Baylor who had his

cot and hogs in the next vale, but he did not own a horse. A tinker came by twice a

year. He had found me first by accident in a thunderstorm when his horse had gone

lame and my light through the trees had drawn him from the road. Since his visit, I'd

had other visits from similar travelers. The tinker had carved a curled cat, the sign of a

hospitable house, on a tree beside the trail that led to my cabin. I had found it, but left

it intact, to beckon an occasional visitor to my door.

So this caller was probably a lost traveler, or a road-weary trader. I told myself a

guest might be a pleasant distraction, but the thought was less than convincing.

I heard the horse halt outside and the small sounds of a man dismounting.

The Gray One,

the wolf growled low.

My heart near stopped in my chest. I opened the door slowly as the old man was

reaching to knock at it. He peered at me, and then his smile broke forth. "Fitz, my boy.

Ah, Fitz!"

He reached to embrace me. For an instant, I stood frozen, unable to move. I did not

know what I felt. That my old mentor had tracked me down after all these years was

frightening. There would be a reason, something more than simply seeing me again. But

I also felt that leap of kinship, that sudden stirring of interest that Chade had always

roused in me. When I had been a boy at Buckkeep, his secret summons would come at

night, bidding me climb the concealed stair to his lair in the tower above my room.

There he mixed his poisons and taught me the assassin's trade and made me

irrevocably his. Always my heart had beaten faster at the opening of that secret door.

Despite all the years and the pain, he still affected me that way. Secrets and the

promise of adventure clung to him.

So I found myself reaching out to grasp his stooping shoulders and pull him to me in

a hug. Skinny, the old man was getting skinny again, as bony as he had been when I

first met him. But now I was the recluse in the worn robe of gray wool. He was dressed

in royal blue leggings and a doublet of the same with slashed insets of green that

sparked off his eyes. His riding boots were black leather, as were the soft gloves he

wore. His cloak of green matched the insets in his doublet and was lined with fur. White

lace spilled from his collar and sleeves. The scattered scars that had once shamed him

into hiding had faded to a pale speckling on his weathered face. His white hair hung

loose to his shoulders and was curled above his brow. There were emeralds in his

earrings, and another one set squarely in the center of the gold band at his throat.

The old assassin smiled mockingly as he saw me take in his splendor. "Ah, but a

queen's councillor must look the part, if he is to get the respect both he and she

deserve in his dealings."

"I see," I said faintly, and then, finding my tongue, "Come in, do come in. I fear you

will find my home a bit ruder than what you have obviously become accustomed to, but

you are welcome all the same."

"I did not come to quibble about your house, boy. I came to see you."

"Boy?" I asked him quietly as I smiled and showed him in.

"Ah, well. To me, always, perhaps. It is one of the advantages of age, I can call

anyone almost anything I please, and no one dares challenge me. Ah, you have the wolf

still, I see. Nighteyes, was it? Up in years a bit now; I don't recall that white on your

muzzle. Come here now, there's a good fellow. Fitz, would you mind seeing to my

horse? I've been all morning in the saddle, and spent last night at a perfectly wretched

inn. I'm a bit stiff, you know. And just bring in my saddlebags, would you? There's a

good lad."

He stooped to scratch the wolf's ears, his back to me, confident I would obey him.

And I grinned and did. The black mare he'd ridden was a fine animal, amiable and

willing. There is always a pleasure to caring for a creature of that quality. I watered her

well, gave her some of the chickens' grain, and turned her into the pony's empty

paddock. The saddlebags that I carried back to the house were heavy and one sloshed

promisingly.

I entered to find Chade in my study, sitting at my writing desk, poring over my

papers as if they were his own. "Ah, there you are. Thank you, Fitz. This, now, this is

the stone game, isn't it? The one Kettle taught you, to help you focus your mind away

from the Skill-road? Fascinating. I'd like to have this one when you are finished with it."

"If you wish," I said quietly. I knew a moment's unease. He tossed out words and

names I had buried and left undisturbed. Kettle. The Skill-road. I pushed them back into

the past. "It's not Fitz anymore," I said pleasantly. "It's Tom Badgerlock."

"Oh?"

I touched the streak of white in my hair from my scar. "For this. People remember

the name. I tell them I was born with the white streak, and so my parents named me."

"I see," he said noncommittally. "Well, it makes sense, and it's sensible." He leaned

back in my wooden chair. It creaked. "There's brandy in those bags, if you've cups for

us. And some of old Sara's ginger cakes... I doubt you'd expect me to remember how

fond you were of those. Probably a bit squashed, but it's the taste that matters with

those." The wolf had already sat up. He came to place his nose on the edge of the

table. It pointed directly at the bags.

"So. Sara is still cook at Buckkeep?" I asked as I looked for two presentable cups.

Chipped crockery didn't bother me, but I was suddenly reluctant to set it out for Chade.

Chade left the study and came to my kitchen table. "Oh, not really. Her old feet

bother her if she stands too long. She has a big cushioned chair, set up on a platform in

the corner of the kitchen. She supervises from there. She cooks the things she enjoys

cooking, the fancy pastries, the spiced cakes, and the sweets. There's a young man

named Duff does most of the daily cooking now." He was unpacking the saddlebags as

he spoke. He set out two bottles marked as Sandsedge brandy. I could not remember

the last time I'd tasted that. The ginger cakes, a bit squashed as foretold, emerged,

spilling crumbs from the linen he'd wrapped them in. The wolf sniffed deeply, then

began salivating. "His favorites too, I see," Chade observed dryly, and tossed him one.

The wolf caught it neatly and carried it off to devour on the hearthrug.

The saddlebags gave up their other treasures quickly. A sheaf of fine paper, pots of

blue, red, and green inks. A fat ginger root, just starting to sprout, ready to be potted

for the summer. Some packets of spices. A rare luxury for me, a round ripe cheese. And

in a little wooden chest, other items, hauntingly strange in their familiarity. Small things

I had thought long lost to me. A ring that had belonged to Prince Rurisk of the Mountain

Kingdom. The arrowhead that had pierced the Prince's chest and nearly been the death

of him. A small carved box, made by my hands years ago, to contain my poisons. I

opened it. It was empty. I put the lid back on the box and set it down on the table. I

looked at him. He was not just one old man come to visit me. He brought all of my past

trailing along behind him as an embroidered train follows a woman into a hall. When I

let him into my door, I had let in my old world with him.

"Why?" I asked quietly. "Why, after all these years, have you sought me out?"

"Oh, well." Chade drew a chair up to the table and sat down with a sigh. He

unstoppered the brandy and poured for both of us. "A dozen reasons. I saw your boy

with Starling. And I knew at once who he was. Not that he looks like you, any more

than Nettle looks like Burrich. But he has your mannerisms, your way of holding back

and looking at a thing, with his head cocked just so before he decides whether he'll be

drawn in. He put me so much in mind of you at that age that "

"You've seen Nettle," I cut in quietly. It was not a question.

"Of course," he replied as quietly. "Would you like to know about her?"

I did not trust my tongue to answer. All my old cautions warned me against evincing

too great an interest in her. Yet I felt a prickle of foreknowledge that Nettle, my

daughter whom I had never seen except in visions, was the reason Chade had come

here. I looked at my cup and weighed the merits of brandy for breakfast. Then I

thought again of Nettle, the bastard I had unwillingly abandoned before her birth. I

drank. I had forgotten how smooth Sandsedge brandy was. Its warmth spread through

me as rapidly as youthful lust.

Chade was merciful, in that he did not force me to voice my interest. "She looks

much like you, in a skinny, female way," he said, then smiled to see me bristle. "But,

strange to tell, she resembles Burrich even more. She has more of his mannerisms and

habits of speech than any of his five sons."

"Five!" I exclaimed in astonishment.

Chade grinned. "Five boys, and all as respectful and deferential to their father as any

man could wish. Not at all like Nettle. She has mastered that black look of Burrich's and

gives it right back to him when he scowls at her. Which is seldom. I won't say she's his

favorite, but I think she wins more of his favor by standing up to him than all the boys

do with their earnest respect. She has Burrich's impatience, and his keen sense of right

and wrong. And all your stubbornness, but perhaps she learned that from Burrich as

well."

"You saw Burrich then?" He had raised me, and now he raised my daughter as his

own. He'd taken to wife the woman I'd seemingly abandoned. They both thought me

dead. Their lives had gone on without me. To hear of them mingled pain with fondness.

I chased the taste of it away with Sandsedge brandy.

"It would have been impossible to see Nettle, save that I saw Burrich also. He

watches over her like, well, like her father. He's well. His limp has not improved with the

years. But he is seldom afoot, so it seems to bother him little. It is horses with him,

always horses, as it always was." He cleared his throat. "You do know that the Queen

and I saw to it that both Ruddy's and Sooty's colts were given over to him? Well, he's

founded his livelihood on those two stud horses. The mare you unsaddled, Ember, I got

her from him. He trains as well as breeds horses now. He will never be a wealthy man,

for the moment he has a coin to spare, it goes for another horse or to buy more

pasturage. But when I asked him how he did, he told me, 'Well enough.' "

"And what did Burrich say of your visit?" I asked. I was proud I could speak with an

unchoked voice.

Chade grinned again, but there was a rueful edge to it. "After he got over the shock

of seeing me, he was most courteous and welcoming. And as he walked me out to my

horse the next morning, which one of the twins, Nim I think, had saddled for me, he

quietly promised that he'd kill me before he'd brook any interference with Nettle. He

spoke the words regretfully, but with great sincerity. I didn't doubt them from him, so I

don't need them repeated from you."

"Does she know Burrich is not her father? Does she know anything of me?" Question

after question sprang to my mind. I thrust them away. I hated the avidity with which I

had asked those two, but I could not resist. It was like the Skill addiction, this hunger to

know, finally

know

these things after all the years.

Chade looked aside from me and sipped his brandy. "I don't know. She calls him

Papa. She loves him fiercely, with absolutely no reservations. Oh, she disagrees with

him, but it is about things rather than about Burrich himself. I'm afraid that with her

mother, things are stormier. Nettle has no interest in bees or candles, but Molly would

like to see her daughter follow her in her trade. As stubborn as Nettle is, think Molly will

have to be content with a son or two instead." He glanced out the window. He added

quietly, "We did not speak your name when Nettle was present."

I turned my cup in my hands. "What things do interest her?"

"Horses. Hawks. Swords. At fifteen, I expected at least some talk of young men from

her, but she seems to have no use for them. Perhaps the woman in her hasn't wakened

yet, or perhaps she has too many brothers to have any romantic illusions about boys.

She would like to run away to Buckkeep and join one of the guard companies. She

knows Burrich was Stablemaster there once. One of the reasons I went to see him was

to make Kettricken's offer of that position again. Burrich refused it. Nettle cannot

understand why."

"I do."

"As do I. But when visited, I told him that could make a place for Nettle there, even

if he chose not to go. She could page for me, if nothing else, though I am sure Queen

Kettricken would love to have her. Let her see the way of a keep and a city, let her have

a taste of life at Court, told him. Burrich turned it down instantly, and seemed almost

offended that I'd offered it."

Without intending, I breathed out softly in relief. Chade took another sip of his

brandy and sat regarding me. Waiting. He knew my next question as well as I did. Why?

Why did he seek out Burrich, why did he offer to take Nettle to Buckkeep? I took more

of my own brandy and considered the old man. Old. Yes, but not as some men get old.

His hair had gone completely white, but the green of his eyes seemed to burn all the

fiercer beneath those snowy locks. I wondered how hard he fought his body to keep the

stoop in his shoulders from becoming a curl, what drugs he took to prolong his vigor

and what those drugs cost him in other ways. He was older than King Shrewd, and

Shrewd was all these many years dead. Bastard royalty of the same lineage as myself,

he seemed to thrive on intrigue and strife as I had not. I had fled the court and all it

contained. Chade had chosen to stay, and make himself indispensable to yet another

generation of Farseers.

"So. And how is Patience these days?" I chose my question with care. News of my

father's wife was well wide of what I wished to know, but I could use his answer to

venture closer.

"Lady Patience? Ah, well, it has been some months since I have seen her. Over a

year, now that I think of it. She resides at Tradeford, you know. She rules there, and

quite well. Odd, when you think of it. When she was indeed queen and wed to your

father, she never asserted herself. Widowed, she was well content to be eccentric Lady

Patience. But when all others fled, she became queen in fact if not by title at Buckkeep.

Queen Kettricken was wise to give her a domain of her own, for she never again could

have abided at Buckkeep as less than queen."

"And Prince Dutiful?"

"As like his father as he can be," Chade observed, shaking his head. I watched him

closely, wondering how the old man intended the remark. How much did he know? He

frowned as he continued. "The Queen needs to let him out a bit. The folk speak of

Dutiful as they did of your father, Chivalry. 'Correct to a fault,' they say and almost have

the truth of it, I fear."

There had been a very slight change in his voice. "Almost?" I asked quietly.

Chade gave me a smile that was almost apologetic. "Of late the boy has not been

himself. He has always been a solitary lad but that goes with being the sole prince. He

has always had to keep his position in mind, always had to take care that he was not

seen to favor one companion over another. It has made him introspective. But recently

he has shifted to a darker temperament. He is distracted and moody, so caught up in

his inner thoughts that he seems completely unaware of what is going on in the lives of

those around him. He is not discourteous or uncaring; at least, not deliberately. But . .

"He's what, fourteen?" I asked. "He does not sound so different from Hap, of late.

I've been thinking much the same things about him; that I need to let him out a bit. It's

time he got out and learned something new, from someone other than myself."

Chade nodded. "I think you are absolutely correct. Queen Kettricken and I have

reached the same decision about Prince Dutiful."

His tone made me suspect I had just run my head into the snare. "Oh?" I said

carefully.

"Oh?" Chade mimicked me, and then leaned forward to tip more brandy into his

glass. He grinned, letting me know the game was at an end. "Oh, yes. You've no doubt

guessed it. We would like to have you come back to Buckkeep and instruct the Prince in

the Skill. And Nettle too, if Burrich can be persuaded to let her go and if she has any

aptitude for it."

"No." I said the word quickly before I could be seduced. I am not sure how definitive

my answer sounded. No sooner had Chade broached the idea than desire for it surged

in me. It was the answer, the so-simple answer after all these years. Train up a new

coterie of Skill-users. I knew Chade had the scrolls and tablets relating to the Skill

magic. Galen the Skillmaster and then Prince Regal had wrongfully withheld them from

us, so many years ago. But now I could study them, I could learn more and I could train

up others, not as Galen had done, but correctly. Prince Dutiful would have a Skilled

coterie to aid and protect him, and Iwould have an end to my loneliness. There would

be someone to reach back when I reached out.

And both my children would know me, as a person if not as their father.

Chade was as sly as ever. He must have sensed my ambivalence. He left my denial

hanging alone in the air between us. He held his cup in both hands. He glanced down at

it briefly, putting me sharply in mind of Verity. Then he looked up again, his green eyes

meeting mine without hesitation. He asked no questions, he made no demands. All he

had to do was wait.

Knowing his tactic did not shield me against it. "You know I cannot. You know all the

reasons I should not."

He shook his head slightly. "Not really. Why should Prince Dutiful be denied his

birthright as a Farseer?" More softly he added, "Or Nettle?"

"Birthright?" I tried for a bitter laugh. "It's more like a family disease, Chade. It's a

hunger, and when you are taught how to satisfy it, it becomes an addiction. An

addiction that can become strong enough eventually to set your feet on the paths that

lead past the Mountain Kingdom. You saw what became of Verity. The Skill devoured

him. He turned it to his own ends; he made his dragon and poured himself into it. He

saved the Six Duchies. But even if there had been no Red Ships to battle, Verity would

eventually have gone to the Mountains. That place called him. It is the ordained end for

any Skilled one."

"I understand your fears," he confessed quietly. "But I think you are wrong. I believe

Galen deliberately instilled that fear in you. He limited what you learned, and he

battered fear into you. But I've read the Skill-scrolls. I haven't deciphered all that they

tell, but I know it is so much more than simply being able to communicate across a

distance. With the Skill, a man can prolong his own life and health. It can enhance a

speaker's powers of persuasion. Your training ... I don't know how far it went, but I'll

wager Galen taught you as little as he could." I could hear the excitement building in

the old man's voice, as if he spoke of a hidden treasure. "There is so much to the Skill,

so much. Some scrolls imply that the Skill can be used as a healing tool, not only to find

out exactly what is wrong with an injured warrior, but actually to encourage the healing

of those hurts. A strong Skilled one can see through another's eyes, hear what that

other hears and feels. And "

"Chade." The softness of my voice cut him off. I had known a moment of outrage

when he admitted he'd read the scrolls. He'd had no right, I'd thought, and then known

that if his Queen gave them to him to read, he had as much right as anyone. Who else

should read them? There was no Skillmaster anymore. That line of ability had died out.

No. I had killed it. Killed off, one by one, the last trained Skill-users, the last coterie ever

created at Buckkeep. They had been faithless to their King, so I had destroyed them

and the magic with them. The part of me that was rational knew that it was magic

better left dead. "I am no Skill-master, Chade. It's not only that my knowledge of the

Skill is incomplete, but that my talent was erratic. If you've read the scrolls, then I'm

sure you've discovered for yourself, or heard from Kettricken, that using elfbark is the

worst thing a Skilled one can do. It suppresses or kills the talent. I've tried to stay away

from it; I don't like what it does to me. But even the bleakness it brings on is better

than the Skill-hunger. Sometimes I've used elfbark steadily for days at a time, when the

craving was bad." I looked away from the concern on his face. "Whatever talent I ever

had is probably stunted beyond recall now."

His voice was soft as he observed, "It seems to me that your continued craving

would indicate the opposite, Fitz. I'm sorry to hear you've been suffering; we truly had

no idea. I had assumed the Skill-hunger would be like a man's craving for drink or

smoke, and that after a period of enforced abstinence, the longing would grow less."

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Robin Hobb - Tawny Man 1 - Fool's Errand

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