them down to the camp.
When we got down to the fireside, I was almost shocked to see that Kettricken had returned. She sat by the fire, staring dispassionately into it. Nighteyes lay almost across her feet. His ears pricked toward me as I approached the fire, but he made no move to leave the Queen.
Kettle guided Verity directly to the makeshift tent that had been pitched for him. She nodded to the Fool, and without a word he took up a steaming basin of water from beside the fire and followed her. When I ventured to enter the tiny tent also, the Fool shooed both me and Kettle away. 'He will not be the first king I have tended to,' he reminded us. 'Trust him to me.'
'Touch not his hands nor forearms!' Kettle warned him sternly. The Fool looked a bit taken aback by that, but after a moment he gave a bobbing nod of agreement. As I left he was untying the much-knotted thong that closed Verity's worn jerkin, speaking all the while of inconsequential things. I heard Verity observe, 'I have missed Charim so. I should never have let him come with me, but he had served me so long … He died slowly, with much pain. That was hard for me, watching him die. But, he, too, has gone into the dragon. It was necessary.'
I felt awkward when I returned to the fire. Starling was stirring the pot of stew that was bubbling merrily. A large chunk of meat on a spit was dripping fat into the fire, making the flames leap and hiss. The smell of it reminded me of my hunger so that my belly growled. Kettle was standing, her back to the fire, staring off into darkness. Kettricken's eyes flickered toward me.
'So,' I said suddenly, 'How was the hunting?'
'As you see,' Kettricken said softly. She gestured at the pot, and then tossed a hand casually to indicate a butchered out wood sow. I stepped over to admire it. It was not a small animal.
'Dangerous prey,' I observed, trying to sound casual rather than horrified that my queen would take on such a beast alone.
'It was what I needed to hunt,' she said, her voice still soft. I understood her only too well.
It was very good hunting. Never have I taken so much meat with so little effort, Nighteyes told me. He rubbed the side of his head against her leg in true affection. She dropped a hand to pull gently at his ears. He groaned in pleasure and leaned heavily against her.
'You'll spoil him,' I mock-warned her. 'He tells me he has never taken so much meat with so little effort.'
'He is so intelligent. I swear, he drove the game toward me. And he has courage. When my first arrow did not drop her, he held her at bay while I nocked another one to my bow.' She spoke as if she had nothing else on her mind but this. I nodded to her words, content to let our conversation be thus. But she suddenly asked me, 'What is wrong with him?'
I knew she did not speak of the wolf. 'I am not sure,' I said gently. 'He has known a great deal of privation. Perhaps enough to … weaken his mind. And …'
'No.' Kettle's voice was brusque. 'That is not it at all. Though I will grant you he is weary. Any man would be, to do what he has done alone. But-'
'You cannot believe he has carved that whole dragon himself!' I interrupted her.
'I do,' the old woman replied with certainty. 'It is as he told you. He must do it himself, and so he has done it.' She shook her head slowly. 'Never have I heard such a thing. Even King Wisdom had the help of his coterie, or what was left of it when he reached here.'
'No one could have carved that statue with a sword,' I said stubbornly. What she was saying was nonsense.
For answer, she rose and stalked off into the darkness. When she returned, she dropped two objects at my feet. One had been a chisel, once. Its head was peened over into a lump, its blade gone to nothing. The other was an ancient iron mallet head, with a relatively new wooden handle set into it. 'There are others, scattered about. He probably found them in the city. Or discarded hereabouts,' she observed before I could ask the question.
I stared at the battered tools, and considered all the months that Verity had been gone. For this? For the carving of a stone dragon?
'I don't understand,' I said faintly.
Kettle spoke clearly, as if I were slow. 'He has been carving a dragon, and storing all his memories in it. That is part of why he seems so vague. But there is more. I believe he used the Skill to kill Carrod, and has taken grievous hurt in so doing.' She shook her head sadly. 'To have come so close to finishing, and then to be defeated. I wonder how sly Regal's coterie is. Did they send one against him, knowing that if Verity killed with the Skill, he might defeat himself?'
'I do not think any of that coterie would willingly sacrifice himself.'
Kettle smiled bitterly. 'I did not say he was willingly sent. Nor did I say he knew what his fellows intended. It is like the game of stones, FitzChivalry. One plays each stone to best advantage in the game. The object is to win, not to hoard one's stones.'
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR. Girl on a Dragon
EARLY IN OUR resistance to the Red-Ships, before anyone in the Six Duchies had begun to call it a war, King Shrewd and Prince Verity realized that the task facing them was overwhelming. No individual man, no matter how Skilled, could stand alone to fend the Red-Ships from our coasts. King Shrewd summoned before him Galen, the Skillmaster, and directed him to create for Verity a coterie to aid the prince's efforts. Galen resisted this idea, especially when he found that one of those he must train was a royal bastard. The Skillmaster declared that none of the students presented to him were worthy of training. But King Shrewd insisted, telling him to make the best of them that he could. When Galen grudgingly gave in, he created the coterie that bore his name.
It soon became apparent to Prince Verity that the coterie, while internally cohesive, did not work well with the prince at all. By then Galen had died, leaving Buckkeep with no successor to the post of Skillmaster. In desperation, Verity sought for others trained in the Skill who might come to his aid. Although there had been no coteries created in the peaceful years of King Shrewd's reign, Verity reasoned that there might still live men and women trained for coteries before that. Had not the longevity of coterie members always been legendary? Perhaps he could find one who would either help him, or be able to train others in the Skill.
But Prince Verity's efforts in this area availed him nothing. Those he could identify as Skill users from records and word of mouth were all either dead, or mysteriously vanished. So Prince Verity was left to wage his war alone.
Before I could press Kettle to clarify her answers, there was a cry from Verity's tent. Every one of us jumped, but Kettle was the first to the tent flap. The Fool emerged, gripping his left wrist in his right hand. He went straight to the water bucket and plunged in his hand. His face was contorted with either pain or fear, perhaps both. Kettle stalked after him to peer at the hand he gripped.
She shook her head in disgust. 'I warned you! Here, take it out of the water, it won't do it any good. Nothing will do it any good. Stop. Think about it. It's not really pain, it's just a sensation you've never felt before. Take a breath. Relax. Accept it. Accept it. Breathe deep, breathe deep.'
All the while she spoke, she tugged at the Fool's arm until he reluctantly drew his hand from the water. Kettle immediately overset the bucket with her foot. She scuffed rock dust and gravel over the spilled water, all the while gripping the Fool's arm. I craned my neck to peer past her. His first three fingers on his left hand were now tipped with silver. He looked at them with a shudder. I had never seen the Fool so unnerved.
Kettle spoke firmly. 'It won't wash off: It won't wipe off. It's with you now, so accept it. Accept it.'
'Does it hurt?' I asked anxiously.
'Don't ask him that!' Kettle snapped at me. 'Don't ask him anything just now. See to the King, FitzChivalry, and leave the Fool to me.'
In my worry over the Fool, I had all but forgotten my king. I stooped to enter the tent. Verity sat on two folded blankets. He was struggling to lace up one of my shirts. I deduced that Starling had ransacked all the packs to find clean clothes for him. It smote me to see him so thin that one of my shirts fit him.
'Allow me, my king,' I suggested.
He not only dropped his hands away, he put them behind his back. 'Is the Fool much hurt?' he asked me as I fought with the knotted strings. He sounded almost like my old Verity.
'Just three fingertips are silvered,' I told him. I saw that the Fool had laid out a brush and thong. I stepped
