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

Fool's Quest (The Fitz and The Fool Trilogy #2) Page 253

I looked at the objects I had assembled to take back to Buck with me. It was a pitifully small collection to define a man’s life. The carvings the Fool had made for me in better times. The last shirt Molly had sewn for me, too precious ever to wear.

I thought of the things I would leave here. Everything of Molly’s that I had given over to Bee would remain in her room. Her hairbrush and comb. The herb books, with the carved and painted images that Molly had used to teach Bee to read. I imagined she had been wearing Molly’s belt and small knife when she was taken. Doubtless discarded by her captors and lost forever now. I closed my eyes. I wanted her scent. I had let Bee take all the candles. She had squirreled them away in her room. A few, I decided. I would take only a few, as a keepsake of both of them.

I made my way through the quiet manor. It was a cold and empty place, a nutshell emptied of its meat, a bottle drained of brandy. The house was full of a darkness that my candlelight could not disperse. I paused before Bee’s door, and tried to pretend for that instant that she slept warm and safe in her bed. But I unlocked the door to a chill room that smelled of disuse.

I looked first in the fine new wardrobe that Revel had devised for her. There was a precision in its tidiness that had nothing to do with a child. My heart smote me and tears ran down my face as I saw that her maid Careful had put away the treasures I’d bought my little girl in town that day. Here was a little drawer full of seashells. The red belt decorated with flowers. The boots that had been too big for her. The bag of treasures I’d sent her from Buckkeep hung on a hook. Never opened, never amazing. Her new boots, delivered for a child who would never wear them. She would have fled in what she wore that day, low house shoes, no warm cloak, no gloves. I had not thought of that, of how she must have fled through deep snow in whatever she had worn to her lessons.

I shut the wardrobe door. No. The candles would not be there.

There was a stand by her bed, one brought from her old room. The guttered shell of a half-burnt candle was in the holder. I lifted it and smelled the faint scent of lavender. I opened the compartment, and there they were, ranked like waxy sentries. Lavender and honeysuckle and lilac and rose. I would take only four, I promised, and like a child unable to choose, I closed my eyes and reached in to take them at random.

Instead my fingers brushed paper. I crouched down to look inside. There, wedged to one side of the candles, was an older sheaf of bound paper, given to Bee long ago when she was first mastering her letters. I set a flame to the wick of the candle in the holder and sat down on the floor. I leafed through her book. I saw her own drawings, of flowers and birds and insects, all inked so meticulously and accurately. Leaf after leaf I turned, and suddenly there was a page of writing. Not a journal of her dreams, but accounts of her days. I read it very slowly. For the first time, I learned of how she had freed her bound tongue, a tale she had never entrusted to me. I read of a kitten, encountered again as a cat. For the first time I learned of Wolf-Father and how she had been lost in the spy-labyrinth on the night I had gone to meet Chade. Wolf-Father? Nighteyes, or a child’s imaginings? No. The Wit did not work that way. Then I came to the page that told of how Lant had shamed her and mocked her before the other children and my heart burned with fury.

I turned the page. Here she had written in a firmer hand. She had recorded the promise I had given to her. “He said he would always take my part. Right or wrong.”

It came then. Delayed for weeks, it burst in me. The throat-tearing sorrow that could not yield to tears. The killing fury. The need to rend. I could not make it right, but I could make someone pay for how wrong it had been. They had made me fail her. I had not taken her part. She had been stolen, and I had been helpless, and now she was gone, tattered to lost threads inside a Skill-stone. They had beaten and blinded the Fool, destroyed his courage and damped his merriment to nothing. And what had I done? Next to nothing. In a faraway place they ate and drank and slept and thought not at all of the terrible wrongs they had done.

Bee had believed in me. Taken comfort and courage from my words that day. As had the Fool. He had come all that way, cold, broken, and alone, to ask me for justice. Justice too long delayed. The sudden fury and the solid resolution to avenge them coursed through me, hotter than any fever. My tears were done.

Da?

Nettle broke into my thoughts. I sensed her confusion and worry. I must have spilled over. I could not contain what I was feeling. My hidden decision burst from me. I can delay no longer. I will not see your child born, nor hold my first grandchild in my arms. Nettle, I am sorry. I have to go. I have to avenge her. I have to find the people who sent her killers and I have to avenge her. I’ve no idea how far I must go but go I must.