“Without much hope, I fear. I dreamed I had found him, there in that market town.” He shook his head. His voice sank low. I strained to hear his words. “He is what they want. The Servants. They thought I knew he existed. For quite a time they questioned me, trying to wring from me a secret I did not know. And when finally they told me, plainly, what they sought, I still knew nothing of him. They didn’t believe that, of course. Over and over, they demanded to know where he was and who had borne him. For years, I insisted it was impossible. I even asked them, ‘If such a child existed, would I leave him?’ But they were so certain, I came to believe they must be right.”
He fell silent. I wondered if he had fallen asleep. How could he, in the midst of such a harrowing tale? When he spoke again, his voice was thick. “They believed I lied to them. That is when they … took me.” He stopped speaking. I heard how he fought for a steady voice when he said, “When first we returned, they honored Prilkop and me. There were long evenings of feasting and they encouraged us, over and over, to tell every moment of what we had seen and done. Scribes took it all down. It … it went to my head, Fitz. To be so honored and praised. Prilkop was more reserved. Then one day, he was gone. They told me he had decided to visit the place of his birth. But as months passed, I began to suspect that something was wrong.” He coughed and cleared his throat. “I hope he escaped or is dead. It’s terrible to imagine they have him still. But that is when their endless questioning of me began. And then, after they revealed what they sought and I still had no answers for them, they took me one night from my apartments. And the torment began. At first, it was not so bad. They insisted I knew, and that if I fasted long enough or endured cold long enough, I would remember something, a dream or an event. So I began to believe them. I tried to remember. But that was when I first sent messengers out, to warn those who might know to hide such a child until I came for him.”
A mystery solved. The missive sent to Jofron and her wariness of me all made sense now.
“I thought I had been so discreet. But they found out.” He sniffed. “They took me back to where they had been holding me. And they brought me food and drink and asked me nothing. But I could hear what they did to those who had aided me. Oh, Fitz. They were scarcely more than children!” He choked suddenly and then wept harshly. I wanted to go to him but I had no comfort for him. And I knew that he wanted no sympathetic words or kindly touch just then. He wanted nothing of what he had not been able to give to those victims. So I wiped the tears silently from my own cheeks and waited.
He coughed at last and said in a strained voice, “Still. There were those who stayed loyal to me. From time to time they would get a message to me, to let me know that another two had escaped and set out to warn my friends. I wanted to tell them to stop, but I had no way to respond to their messages. The Servants began on me in earnest in those years. Times of pain followed by periods of isolation. Starvation, cold, the relentless light and heat of the sun, and then such clever torture.”
He stopped talking. I knew his story was not finished, but I thought he had told me as much as he could bear to now. I stayed where I was, listening to the flames, to a log settling in the fire. There were no windows in this chamber but I heard the distant howl of wind past the chimney top and knew that the storm had risen again.
The Fool began whispering. It took a short time for my hearing to sort his words from the storm wind. “… believed them. He existed, somewhere. They stopped asking me questions about him, but they kept on hurting me. When they stopped that … I suspected the Servants had found him. I didn’t know if they would keep him to use, or destroy him to thwart him from changing the world. If they did or didn’t, they’d never tell me. Funny. So many years ago, I sent to you to find my son for me. And one of those messengers was the one to get through. Too late to save my son. Years too late.” His voice was running down, draining off into sleep.
I spoke softly, not wanting to wake him if he was asleep but too curious to contain my question. “Years ago, you gave up? The messenger took years to reach me?”