The Rousters had assembled in the practice yard. It was on my way to the stables. When I went to meet them, Foxglove walked at my side. Sergeant Goodhand hadn’t come. I doubted we’d see him again. Twenty-one of the Rousters had seen fit to form up. I recognized some of them from the Withywoods contingent; others were new to me. I introduced Foxglove as their new commander, and summoned the three most senior in their ranks to come forward. Their length of service had possibly contributed to their battered appearance, but the missing teeth and crumpled ears spoke to me more of brawling than combat. It did not matter. They were what I had. Foxglove took their names and assigned them rank. None of them looked pleased but they did not argue with her. They followed her as she walked down the line of Rousters and immediately dismissed four of them. I did not challenge her decision.
After that, I let Foxglove give them their orders. They were to be mounted and ready at dawn, with four days’ dry rations. They were to be sober enough to ride and dressed for winter travel, with weapons for close-quarters combat. At that, I saw interest kindle in their eyes, but we gave them no more information. I delivered my own message to them. “King Dutiful gave you into my hands. Those of you who acquit yourselves well in the next ten days will remain as part of my guard, but not in the Rouster colors. The Rousters are to be disbanded. Those of you who prove cowardly, lazy, or simply stupid will be dismissed. That’s all I have to say to you.” Foxglove released them and we watched them slouch away.
“They hate you right now,” she observed.
“I don’t care.”
“You’ll care if you get an arrow in the back.”
A sour smile twisted my mouth. “You think I’d be leading the charge?” I considered my next words carefully. “Leave at dawn. I’ll catch up with you. And don’t put anyone wearing my Bastard’s badge in the way of an arrow in the back. Let the Rousters go in first.”
“The Charging Bucks Guard will be ready,” she promised, and I nodded at her correction. She squinted at me, the lines in her brow getting deeper. “What are you planning, Fitz?”
“I’m planning to take my daughter back.”
I turned and left her scowling after me.
In the stables, I saddled the roan. I secured my saddle-pack. I found I was humming, exhilarated. So good to be doing something, to have stopped waiting. I filled a grain bag for the roan and added it to my supplies. I was just finishing when Perseverance came around the corner.
“I’m supposed to do that for you!” he exclaimed indignantly.
I smiled at him. “Would you like it if another man saddled your horse for you?”
His indignation deepened. “Of course not!”
“There you have it,” I said, and laughed. He looked startled. I suppose he’d never heard me laugh before.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
“Going out for a long ride. I grew up here, but it has been a long time since I rode through these hills. I might be late coming back. There’s an inn down near the river that I used to frequent when I was a young man. I’ve a mind to dine there tonight.”
“With a battle-axe?”
“Oh. That. I’m dropping it off for Foxglove with a smith she likes. She wants a longer haft put on it.”
There was a heartbeat of silence. I lifted one brow at him. He quailed.
“Very well, sir. Do you wish me to ride along?”
“No, no. There’s no need for that.”
In a much softer voice he asked me, “Has there been any news of Bee, sir? Lady Bee?”
I took a breath. Not a lie. “We’ve had all manner of folk out looking.” He nodded then opened the stall door for me, and I led the roan out. Excitement shivered over her as if she shook a fly from her withers.
Me, too, I told her. Me, too.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Bonds and Ties
I believe this is the oldest scroll in the Skill-library and I have subjected it to twelve different translations by my students and scholars. Two of the scholars were Jamaillian priests of Sa. Two others were Outislander sages. Of the twelve translators, two suggested the scroll was a clever forgery, created to be sold.
If we accept the original scroll as authentic, then it is most likely a translation from a much older source, possibly one that was perhaps written by the creators of the Skill-pillars.
I believe this scroll was intact before Regal the Pretender sold it away during the Red-Ship Wars. The loss of this information is both insurmountable and infuriating, even at this late date. What follows is my best interpretation of what remains of the scroll. I discovered it, scorched and rotting, on the floors of a hall in Aslevjal. The burning meant that only the beginning and end of the loosely rolled scroll remained readable. From the account of FitzChivalry Farseer, the burning may have been the last vengeful act of the Pale Woman. This was a tremendous loss for us. What little remains is enough to tell us that.
TITLE: ON THE CONSTRUCTION AND USE OF PORTAL-STONES
The construction of a new portal should not be undertaken without extreme caution and a consensus of the Elders. Never lose sight of the fact that all magic is an exchange, a bargain, and a purchase. From the cutting of the stone to the selection of the site to the final inscribing of the runes, the process of creating a portal is dangerous and expensive to the spirits and physical health of those who do the work. Let those who labor in this process be rewarded appropriately, for they are surrendering years of health to provide for those who come after them. In their youthful dotage, let them still be cared for and honored. Let their families be spared any burden, for the care of those who give their bodies and minds to this work should be the welcome task of those who enjoy the yield of that labor.