Fool's Quest (The Fitz and The Fool Trilogy #2)

Fool's Quest (The Fitz and The Fool Trilogy #2) Page 33

I stood up, stretched cautiously, and told myself to stop being such a child. So Ash had fetched my breakfast and I’d slept through it. It was ridiculous to let it bother me.

I had not expected to be hungry after all I’d eaten the night before, but once I sat down to the food, I found I was. I made short work of it and then decided I would check on the Fool before taking a bit more sleep. The Skill-work last night had taxed me far more than any other endeavor I’d taken on recently. He had been the receiver of that work: Had it exhausted him as it had me?

I latched the main door to my room, triggered the secret door, and went softly up the stairs, back into a world of candles and hearth-fire twilight. I stood at the top of the steps and listened to the fire burning, something muttering and tapping in a pot on the hearth-hook, and the Fool’s steady breathing. All trace of last night’s activities had been cleared away, but at one end of Chade’s scarred worktable, clean bandaging, various unguents, and a few concoctions for the relief of pain had been left out. Four scrolls rested beside the supplies. Chade seemed always to think of everything.

I stood looking down at the Fool for some time. He lay on his belly, his mouth slightly ajar. Lord Golden had been a handsome man. I recalled with the regret of loss the clean planes of his face, his light-gold hair and amber eyes. Scars now striated his cheeks and thickened the flesh around his eyes. Most of his hair had succumbed to ill health and filth; what he had left was as short and crisp as straw. Lord Golden was gone, but my friend remained. “Fool?” I said softly.

He made a startled sound somewhere between a moan and a cry, his blind eyes flew open, and he lifted a warding hand toward me.

“It’s just me. How are you feeling?”

He took a breath to answer and coughed instead. When he had finished, he said hoarsely, “Better. I think. That is, some hurts have lessened, but the ones that remain are still sharp enough that I don’t know if I’m better or just becoming more adept at ignoring pain.”

“Are you hungry?”

“A bit. Fitz, I don’t remember the end of last night. We were talking at the table, and now I’m waking up in the bed.” His hand groped toward his lower back and cautiously touched the dressings there. “What’s this?”

“An abscess on your back opened. You fainted, and while you could not feel the pain, I cleaned it out and bandaged it. And a few others.”

“They hurt less. The pressure is gone,” he admitted. It was painful to watch his progress as he maneuvered his body to the edge of the bed. He worked to get up with as few motions as possible. “If you would put the food out?” he asked quietly, and I heard his unvoiced request that I leave him to care for himself.

Under the hopping kettle lid I found a layer of pale dumplings over a thick gravy containing chunks of venison and root vegetables. I recognized one of Kettricken’s favorite dishes and wondered if she was personally selecting the Fool’s menus. It would be like her.

By the time I had set out the food, the Fool was making his way to the hearth and his chair. He moved with more certainty, still sliding his feet lest there be an obstacle, still leading with an outstretched hand, tottering and wavering, but not needing or asking my help. He found the chair and lowered himself into it. He did not allow his back to rest against the chair. As his fingers butterflied over the cutlery, I said quietly, “After you’ve eaten, I’d like to change the dressings on your back.”

“You won’t really ‘like’ to do it, and I won’t enjoy it, but I can no longer have the luxury of refusing such things.”

“That’s true,” I said after his words had fallen down a well of silence. “Your life still hangs in the balance, Fool.”

He smiled. It did not look pretty: It stretched the scars on his face. “If it were only my life, old friend, I would have lain down beside the road and let go of it long ago.”

I waited. He began to eat. “Vengeance?” I asked quietly. “It’s a poor motive for doing anything. Vengeance doesn’t undo what they did. Doesn’t restore whatever they destroyed.” My mind went back through the years. I spoke slowly, not sure if I wanted to share this even with him. “One drunken night of ranting, of shouting at people who were not there”—I swallowed the lump in my throat—“and I realized that no one could go back in time and undo what they’d done to me. No one could unhurt me. And I forgave them.”

“But the difference, Fitz, is that Burrich and Molly never meant to hurt you. What they did, they did for themselves, believing you dead and gone. And for them, life had to go on.”