Something gleamed about the Fool’s throat, an iron ring such as criminals wore when chained to a post. A necklace, maybe, but a strange one with that jester’s motley.
Suddenly the Fool no longer spoke gibberish. Lionheart, who was now fairly near, distinctly heard him say in the same singsong voice, but in a language he knew, “If I but knew my fault!”
And here the Fool’s eyes opened. They were very large and very wet, like clearest water. Shining but without color. They focused on Lionheart. There were never such sad eyes before in all the world.
“I blessed your name, O you who sit enthroned beyond the Highlands.”
“Um,” said Lionheart. “Are you supposed to be out here, old chap?”
The Fool stopped singing but did not shift those sorrowful eyes from Lionheart’s face. At last he said in a voice as liquid as his eyes, “She has you in her hand.”
Lionheart blinked. “Come again?”
“The Lady.”
“What lady?”
“The Lady of Dreams.” The Fool clenched fists with fingers abnormally long. Now that Lionheart really looked at them, he saw that each finger sported an extra joint. What a hideous mutation! “I pity you more than I pity myself.”
“Um,” said Lionheart again. He was uncertain of the approach one should take when addressing a madman. Was he likely to turn aggressive at any moment? He appeared docile, but those were the ones to watch for, weren’t they? “I don’t think you’re supposed to be out here.” He wondered if he dared take the poor Fool by the arm.
“No,” said the Fool softly. “I’m not supposed to be out here in the world beyond. It is very hot. I will burn.”
“Which means you should come back inside,” Lionheart agreed. “You will sunburn with that fair skin of yours, won’t you? Come.” He beckoned gently. The madman gazed long at Lionheart’s hand, then bowed his head and moved as directed, back around the corner of the stables. He started muttering to himself again in that strange tongue that, though beautiful, gave Lionheart the shivers. Lionheart tried to cover it up with soothing sounds such as, “There, there,” which were entirely inadequate.
Suddenly the madman turned to Lionheart and said, “What has she promised you?”
“What do you mean?” Lionheart asked.
“The Lady. Death’s sister. What has she promised to give you?”
Lionheart tried to smile but found it difficult. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Let’s get you inside—”
“What do you want more than anything in the world?”
It was impossible to brush off the compelling tone of the Fool’s voice or to disregard the expression on his almost luminous face. Lionheart gulped and bowed his head to avoid that gaze. And suddenly he found himself saying what he had never intended to speak aloud.
“I want . . . freedom. But there is no freedom,” he added quickly. He was trapped here in a menial job. He was free of all boundaries and expectations but remained captive. He could not even fulfill his task.
He could not kill the Dragon.
“I cannot give you freedom,” said the Fool. “But neither can the Lady, though she will tell you that she can.”
Lionheart smiled at the madman, meeting his gaze again. Poor, sad fellow! “I don’t expect you or any lady to give me anything. I just want you to come back inside.”
“If you will break my chains, I will grant you a wish.”
The Fool grabbed Lionheart’s hands with his long, many-jointed fingers. Lionheart felt how strong they were and, simultaneously, how weak. He was scared but tried not to show it. After all, the worst thing one could do with a madman was demonstrate fear, right? Rather like with dogs. Make them believe you are in charge, even if they’re the ones with the teeth.
“It’s not wise to go around granting people’s wishes,” Lionheart said, continuing to smile stiffly. “They might wish for something unhealthy.”
“They always do.”
“Besides, you have no chains.” Lionheart’s voice was calming despite its slight tremble. “Come, my friend.”
“Do you not see my chains?”
The Fool reached up and grabbed the iron collar around his neck. It was not a chain; Lionheart could see the latch where it snapped together, and could see how easily it could be undone. The Fool could have plucked it off in an instant. Instead, he grimaced, hissing between his teeth, and dropped the collar, flexing his long fingers as though in pain. “Iron,” he said. “Iron chains!”
Lionheart wished very much that he’d stayed away and let someone else deal with this creature. He wasn’t as funny as one might expect from a jester. “Let’s get you inside,” he said again and firmly took the Fool’s arm. His fingers wrapped all the way around the tiny bone, but Lionheart was surprised to feel strength in that arm. The Fool offered no protest as Lionheart led him back to the duke’s house. “You have a performance tonight at supper, yes?”