“I haven’t read it yet.”
“Shouldn’t you read it before you open the parcel?”
“Did he say I should?”
“He seemed to take a very long time to think about it, and then he wrote only a few words. I heard the scratching of his pen, and many sighs.”
I stopped working on the straps. I tried to decide which made me more curious, the letter or the parcel. I lifted one candle and saw the single sheet of paper on the table. I’d missed it in the dimness. I reached, trapped it, and slid it toward me. Like most of Chade’s missives there was no date, no greeting, and no signature. Only a few lines of writing.
“What does it say?” the Fool demanded.
“ ‘I did as he bade me. The conditions were never met. I trust you to understand. I think you should have it now.’ ”
“Oh. Better and better,” the Fool exclaimed. And added, “I think you should just cut the straps. You’ll never get those old knots out.”
“You already tried, didn’t you?”
He shrugged and tipped a grin at me. “It would have saved you the trouble of struggling with them.”
I tormented both of us by working at the stubborn knots for some little time. Leather that has been knotted, wet, and then left to dry can seem as hard as iron. In the end, I drew my belt-knife and sawed through the straps. I tugged them off the parcel and then struggled to unfold the leather that surrounded whatever it was. It was not soft leather, but heavy, the sort one would use for a saddle. It creaked as I pried it open and brought out something wrapped in a still-greasy cloth. I set it with a thunk on the table.
“What is it?” the Fool demanded, and reached to send his fingers dancing over the concealed item.
“Let’s find out.” The greasy cloth proved to be a heavy canvas sack. I found the opening, reached in, and pulled out …
“It’s a crown,” the Fool exclaimed, his fingers touching it almost as soon as my eyes saw it.
“Not exactly.” Crowns are not usually made of steel. And Hod had not been a maker of crowns but a maker of swords. She had been an excellent weaponsmaster. I turned the plain circlet of steel in my hands, knowing this was her work, though I could not have explained to anyone how I recognized it. And there, there was her maker’s mark, unobtrusive but proud inside the circlet.
“There’s something else here.” The Fool’s hands had gone questing like ferrets into the opened leather parcel, and now he held out a wooden tube to me. I took it silently. We both knew it would contain a scroll. The ends of the tube were plugged with red wax. I studied it in the candlelight.
“Verity’s seal,” I told him softly. I hated to mar the imprint, but nonetheless I dug the wax out with my belt-knife, and then tipped the tube and shook it. The scroll was stubborn. It had been in there a long time. When it finally emerged I just looked at it. Water had not touched it.
“Read it,” the Fool’s whisper urged me.
I unrolled the vellum carefully. This was Verity’s hand, the careful lettering of a man who loved to draw, to make maps and chart terrain, to sketch fortifications and draw battle plans. He had written large, dark, and plain. My king’s hand. My throat tightened. It was a moment before I could speak. My voice was higher as I spoke past tightness.
“Be it known by my seal on this document and by the testimony of the trusted bearer, Chade Fallstar, that this scroll is the true desire of King-in-Waiting Verity Farseer. In plain words let me say, I leave today on a quest from which I may not return. I leave my queen, Kettricken of the Mountains, with child. If in my absence my father, King Shrewd, should die, I commend my lady to the protection of my nephew FitzChivalry Farseer. If word of my death be returned, then I desire that he be recognized formally as protector of my heir. If my queen perish and my heir survive, then I stipulate that FitzChivalry Farseer is to reign as regent until such time as my heir is able to assume the throne. And if none survive me, neither father, nor queen, nor heir, then it is my will that FitzChivalry Farseer be recognized as my heir. It is not my wish that my younger brother, Regal Farseer, inherit my crown. I do most ardently urge that my dukes recognize and affirm my will in this matter.” I paused to catch my breath. “And his signature is below it.”
“And this would have been your crown.” The Fool’s scarred fingertips traced the rim of the simple circlet. “Not a jewel to be touched. And sword-steel, by the feel of it. Wait, wait! Not so plain, perhaps. Here. What is this?”
I took the crown from him and tilted it to the candlelight. It was engraved into the plain circlet. “A charging buck.”
“He gave you that emblem.”