The Complete Tawny Man Trilogy: Fool’s Errand, The Golden Fool, Fool’s Fate

‘No, really,’ I protested. ‘Cannot you stay at least a few more days? At least, stay until Hap returns. Meet the boy.’

He sighed. ‘Actually, I have stayed far longer than I should. Especially since you insist you cannot go with me when I leave. Unless?’ He sat up hopefully. ‘You have changed your mind?’

I shook my head. ‘You know I have not. I can scarcely go off and abandon my home. I must be here when Hap comes back.’

‘Ah, yes.’ He sagged back into his chair. ‘His apprenticeship. And you do have chickens to care for.’

The mockery in his voice stung. ‘It may not seem much of a life to you, but it’s mine,’ I pointed out sourly.

He grinned at having needled me. ‘I am not Starling, my dear. I do not disparage any man’s life. Consider my own, and tell me what height I look down from. No. I go to my own tasks, as dull as they must seem to one who has a whole flock of chickens to tend and rows of beans to hoe. My own tasks are just as weighty. I’ve a flock of rumours to share with Chade, and rows of new acquaintances to cultivate at Buckkeep.’

I felt a twinge of envy. ‘I expect they will all be glad to see you again.’

He shrugged. ‘Some, I suppose. Others were just as glad to see me go. And most will not recall me at all. Most, verging on all, if I am clever.’ He rose abruptly. ‘I wish I could just stay here,’ he confessed quietly. ‘I wish I could believe, as you seem to, that my life is my own to dispose of. Unfortunately, I know that is not true for either of us.’ He walked to the open door and looked out into the warm summer evening. He took a breath as if to speak, then sighed it out. A time longer he stared. Then he squared his shoulders as if making a resolve and turned back to me. There was a grim smile on his face. ‘No, it is best I leave tomorrow. You’ll follow me soon enough.’

‘Don’t count on that,’ I warned him.

‘Ah, but I must,’ he rejoined. ‘The times demand it. Of both of us.’

‘Oh, let someone else save the world this time. Surely there is another White Prophet somewhere.’ I spoke lightly, intending my words as jest. The Fool’s eyes widened at them, and I heard a shudder as he drew breath.

‘Do not even speak that future. It bodes ill for me that there is even the seed of that thought in your mind. For truly, there is another who would love to claim the mantle of the White Prophet, and set the world into the course that she envisions. From the beginning, I have struggled against her pull. Yet in this turning of the world, her strength waxes. Now you know what I hesitated to speak more openly. I shall need your strength, my friend. The two of us, together, might be enough. After all, sometimes all it takes is a small stone in a rut for a wheel to lurch out of its track.’

‘Mm. It does not sound like a good experience for the stone, however.’

He turned his eyes to mine. Where once they had been pale, they now glowed golden and the lamplight danced in them. There was both warmth and weariness in his voice. ‘Oh, never fear, you shall survive it. For I know you must. And hence I bend all my strength towards that goal. That you will live.’

I feigned dismay. ‘And you tell me not to fear?’

He nodded, and his face was too solemn. I sought to turn the talk. ‘Who is this woman you speak of? Do I know her?’

He came back into the room and sat down once more at the table. ‘No, you do not know her. But I knew her, of old. Or rather I should say, I knew of her, though she was a woman grown and gone while I was just a child …’ He glanced back at me. ‘A long time ago, I told you something of myself. Do you remember?’ He did not wait for an answer. ‘I was born far, far to the south, of ordinary folk. As much as any folk are truly ordinary … I had a loving mother, and my fathers were two brothers, as is the custom of that place. But from the moment I emerged from my mother’s womb, it was plain that the ancient lineage had spoken in me. In some distant past, a White had mingled his blood with my family lines, and I was born to take up the tasks of that ancient folk.

‘As much as my parents loved and cherished me, they knew it was not my destiny to stay in their home, nor to be raised in any of their trades. Instead, I was sent away to a place where I could be educated and prepared for my fate. They treated me well there, and more than well. They too, in their own way, cherished me. Each morning I was questioned as to what I had dreamed, and all I could recall was written down for wise men to ponder. As I grew older and waking dreams overtook me, I was taught the art of the quill, that I might record my visions myself, for no hand is so clear as the one that belongs to the eye that has seen.’ He laughed self-deprecatingly and shook his head. ‘Such a way to raise a child! My slightest utterances were cherished as wisdom. But despite my blood, I was no better than any other child. I made mischief where I would, telling wild tales of flying boars and shadows that carried royal bloodlines. Each wild story I told was larger than the last, and yet I discovered a strange thing. No matter how I might try to foil my tongue, truth always hid in my utterances.’

He cast his glance briefly towards me, as if expecting me to disagree. I kept silence.

He looked down. ‘I suppose I have only myself to blame that when finally the biggest truth of all blossomed in me and would not be denied, no one would believe me. The day I proclaimed myself the White Prophet that this age had awaited, my masters shushed me. “Calm your wild ambitions,” they told me. As if anyone would ever desire to take on such a destiny! Another, they told me, already wore that mantle. She had gone forth before me, to shape the future of the world as her visions prompted her. To each age, there is only one White Prophet. All know that. Even I knew that was so. So what was I? I demanded of them. And they could not answer what I was, yet they were sure of what I was not. I was not the White Prophet. Her they had already prepared and sent forth.’

He took a breath and fell silent for what seemed a long time. Then he shrugged.

‘I knew they were wrong. I knew the trueness of their error as deeply as I knew what I myself was. They tried to make me content with my life there. I do not think they ever dreamed I would defy them. But I did. I ran away. And I came north, through ways and times I cannot even describe to you. Yet north and north I made my way, until I came to the court of King Shrewd Farseer. To him I sold myself, in much the same way you did. My loyalty for his protection. And scarce a season had I been there before the rumour of your coming rattled that court. A bastard. A child unexpected, a Farseer unacknowledged. Oh, so surprised they all were. All save me. For I had already dreamed your face and I knew I must find you, even though everyone had assured me that you did not and could not exist.’

He leaned over suddenly and set his gloved hand to my wrist. He gripped my wrist for only an instant, and our skin did not touch, but in that moment I felt a flash of binding. I can describe it no other way. It was not the Skill; it was not the Wit. It was not magic at all, as I know magic. It was like that moment of double recognition that sometimes overtakes one in a strange place. I had the sense that we had sat together like this, spoken these words before, and that each time we had done so, the words had been sealed with that brief touch. I glanced away from him, only to encounter the wolf’s dark eyes burning into mine.

I cleared my throat and tried to find a different subject. ‘You said you knew her. Has she a name, then?’

‘Not one you would have ever heard. Yet you have heard of her. Recall that during the Red Ship War, we knew their leader only as Kebal Rawbread?’

I bobbed my head in agreement. He had been a tribal leader of the Outislanders, one who had risen to sudden, bloody prominence, and just as swiftly fallen from power with the waking of our dragons. Some tales said Verity’s dragon had devoured him, others that he had drowned.

‘Did you ever hear that he had someone who advised him? A Pale Woman?’

The words rang oddly familiar in my mind. I frowned, trying to recall it. Yes. There had been a rumour, but no more than that. Again I nodded.

‘Well.’ The Fool leaned back. He spoke almost lightly. ‘That was she. And I will tell you one more thing. As surely as she believes that she is the White Prophet, so she believes that Kebal Rawbread is her Catalyst.’

‘Her one who comes to enable others to be heroes?’

He shook his head. ‘Not that one. Her Catalyst comes to dismantle heroes. To enable men to be less than what they should be. For where I would build, she would destroy. Where I would unite, she would divide.’ He shook his head. ‘She believes all must end before it can begin anew.’

I waited for him to balance his statement, but he fell silent. Finally I nudged him towards it. ‘And what do you believe?’

A slow smile spread over his face. ‘I believe in you. You are my new beginning.’

I could think of nothing to say to that, and a stillness grew up in the room.

He reached slowly up to his ear. ‘I’ve been wearing this since the last time I left you. But I think I should give it back to you now. Where I go, I cannot wear it. It is too unique. Folk might remember seeing an earring like this on you. Or on Burrich. Or on your father. It might tickle memories I wish to leave undisturbed.’

I watched him struggle with the catch. The earring was a silver net with a blue gemstone captured inside it. Burrich had given it to my father. I had been next to wear it. In my turn, I had entrusted it to the Fool, bidding him give it to Molly after my death as a sign I had never forgotten her. In his wisdom, he had kept it. And now?

‘Wait,’ I bade him suddenly, and then, ‘Don’t.’

He looked at me, mystified.

‘Disguise it if you must. But wear it. Please.’

Slowly he lowered his hands. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked incredulously.

‘Yes,’ I said, and I was.

When I rose the next morning, I found the Fool up and washed and dressed before me. His pack waited on the table. Glancing about the room, I saw none of his possessions. Once more he was attired nobly. His garb contrasted oddly with the humble task of stirring the porridge.

‘You are leaving, then?’ I asked stupidly.

‘Right after we eat,’ he said quietly.

We should go with him.

It was the most direct thought the wolf had shared with me in days. It startled me, and I looked towards him, as did the Fool. ‘But what of Hap?’ I asked him.

Nighteyes only looked at me in reply, as if I should already know his answer. I did not. ‘I have to stay here,’ I said to both of them. Neither one looked convinced. It made me feel sedate and staid to refuse them both, and I did not care for either sensation. ‘I have responsibilities here,’ I said, almost angrily. ‘I cannot simply go off and allow the boy to come back to an empty home.’

‘No, you cannot,’ the Fool agreed quickly, yet even his agreement stung, as if he said it only to mollify me. I found myself suddenly in a surly mood. Breakfast was grim and when we rose from the table, I suddenly hated the sticky bowls and porridge pot. The reminders of my daily, mundane chores suddenly seemed intolerable.

‘I’ll saddle your horse,’ I told the Fool sullenly. ‘No sense in getting your fine clothes dirty.’

He said nothing as I rose abruptly from the table and went out of the door.