Fool's Errand (Tawny Man, #1)(10)

“It was good,” he said neutrally. He gave me one full look, and his mismatched eyes, one brown, one blue, were full of torment.

“Hap?” I began concernedly, but he shrugged away from me before I could touch his shoulder.

He walked away from me, but perhaps he regretted his surly greeting, for a moment later he croaked, “I'm going to the stream to wash. I'm covered in road dust.”

Go with him. I'm not sure what's wrong, but he needs a friend.

Preferably one that can't ask questions, Nighteyes agreed.

Head low, tail straight out, he followed the boy. In his own way, he was as fond of Hap as I was, and had had as much to do with his raising.

When they were out of eyeshot, I turned back to Starling. “Do you know what that was about?”

She shrugged, a twisted smile on her lips. “He's fifteen. Does a sullen mood have to be about anything at that age? Don't bother yourself over it. It could be anything: a girl at Springfest who didn't kiss him, or one who did. Leaving Buckkeep or coming home. A bad sausage for breakfast. Leave him alone. He'll be fine.”

I looked after him as he and the wolf vanished into the trees. “Perhaps I remember being fifteen a bit differently from you,” I commented.

I saw to her horse and Clover the pony while Starling went into the cottage, reflecting as I did so that no matter what my mood, Burrich would have ordered me to see to my horse before I wandered off. Well, I was not Burrich, I thought to myself. I wondered if he held the same line of discipline with Nettle and Chivalry and Nim as he had with me, and then wished I had asked Chade the rest of his children's names. By the time the horses were comfortable, I was wishing that Chade had not come. His visit had stirred too many old memories to the surface. Resolutely, I pushed them away. Bones fifteen years old, the wolf would have told me. I touched minds with him briefly. Hap had splashed some water on his face, and strode off into the woods, muttering and walking so carelessly that there was no chance they'd see any game. I sighed for them both, and went into the cottage.

Inside, Starling had dumped the contents of her saddlebags on the table. Her discarded boots were lying across the doorsill; her cloak festooned a chair. The kettle was just starting to boil. She stood on a stool before my cupboard. As I came in, she held out a small brown crock to me. “Is this tea any good still? It smells odd.”

“It's excellent, when I'm in enough pain to choke it down. Come down from there.” I set my hands to her waist and lifted her easily, though the old scar on my back gave a twinge as I set her on the floor. “Sit. I'll make the tea. Tell me about Springfest.”

So she did, while I clattered out my few cups, cut slices from my last loaf, and put the rabbit stew to warm. Her tales of Buckkeep were the kind I had become accustomed to hearing from her: she spoke of minstrels who had performed well or badly, gossiped of lords and ladies I had never known, and condemned or praised food from various nobles' tables where she had guested. She told each tale wittily, making me laugh or shake my head as it called for, with nary a pang of the pain that Chade had wakened in me. I supposed it was because he had spoken of the folk we had both known and loved, and told his stories from that intimate perspective. It was not Buckkeep itself or city life that I pined for, but my childhood days and the friends I had known. In that I was safe; it was impossible to return to that time. Only a few of those folk even knew that I still lived, and that was as I wished it to be. I said as much to Starling: “Sometimes your tales tug at my heart and make me wish I could return to Buckkeep. But that is a world closed to me now.”

She frowned at me. “I don't see why.”

I laughed aloud. “You don't think anyone would be surprised to see me alive?”

She cocked her head and stared at me frankly. “I think there would be few, even of your old friends, who would recognize you. Most recall you as an unscarred youth. The broken nose, the slash down your face, even the white in your hair might alone be disguise enough. Then, you dressed as a prince's son; now you wear the garb of a peasant. Then, you moved with a warrior's grace. Now, well, in the mornings or on a cold day, you move with an old man's caution.” She shook her head with regret as she added, “You have taken no care for your appearance, nor have the years been kind to you. You could add five or even ten years to your age, and no one would question it.”

This blunt appraisal from my lover stung. “Well, that's good to know,” I replied wryly. I took the kettle from the fire, not wanting to meet her eyes just then.

She mistook my words and tone. “Yes. And when you add in that people see what they expect to see, and they do not expect to see you alive ... I think you could venture it. Are you considering a return to Buckkeep, then?”

“No.” I heard the shortness of the word, but could think of nothing to add to it. It did not seem to bother her.

“A pity. You miss so much, living alone like this.” She launched immediately into an account of the Springfest dancing. Despite my soured mood, I had to smile at her account of Chade beseeched to dance by a young admirer of sixteen summers. She was right. I would have loved to have been there.

As I prepared food for all of us, I found my mind straying to the old torment of “what if.” What if I had been able to return to Buckkeep with my Queen and Starling? What if I had come home to Molly and our child? And always, no matter how I twisted the pretense, it ended in disaster. If I had returned to Buckkeep, alive when all believed me executed for practicing the Wit, I would have brought only division at a time when Kettricken was trying to reunify the land. There would have been a faction who would have favored me over her, for bastard though I was, I was a Farseer by blood while she reigned only by virtue of marriage. A stronger faction would have been in favor of executing me again, and more thoroughly.