‘Please,’ I begged him, and tried to move away from him. He moved with me and the pain in my head was such I couldn’t escape. Why was he hurting me?
‘Don’t struggle,’ he begged me. ‘Trust me. I think I can help. Trust me.’ Again his hands moved, this time to my shoulder, and again those relentless fingers jabbed down hard. I gasped, and then his hands were on either side of my neck, his fingers pressing in and up as if he wished to detach my head. I grasped his wrists but could find no strength in my hands. ‘A moment,’ he begged me again. ‘Fitz, Fitz, trust me. Trust me.’
Then something went out of me. My head dropped forwards on my chest, lolling on my neck. The pain was not gone, but it was much diminished. I fell over on my side and he rolled me onto my back. ‘There. There,’ he said, and for a moment I stared into blessed darkness. Then the gloved hands were back, thumbs on my brow, spread fingertips seeking spots on my temples and the sides of my face, and then they pressed mercilessly, his smallest fingers digging in at the hinge of my jaw.
‘Take a breath, Fitz,’ I heard him tell me, and I then realized that I was not breathing. I gasped for air, and everything suddenly eased. I wanted to weep for relief. Instead, I sank instantly into a bottomless sleep. I dreamed a strange dream. I dreamed I was safe.
I came to a hazy wakefulness before dawn. I took a deep breath, and realized I was in the Fool’s bed. I think he had just arisen. He was moving quietly about the room, selecting clothing for himself. I think he felt me watching him, for he came back to the bedside. He touched my brow, pushing my head back onto the pillow. ‘Go back to sleep. You have a little more time to rest, and I think you need it.’ Two gloved fingers traced twin lines from the top of my head to the bridge of my nose. I slept again.
When next I woke, it was because he was gently shaking me. My servant-blue clothing was laid out on the bed beside me. He was already fully dressed. ‘Time to hunt,’ he told me when he saw I was awake. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to hurry.’
I moved my head cautiously. I ached all along my spine and neck. I sat up stiffly. I felt as if I had been in a fistfight … or had a seizure. There was a sore spot inside my cheek as if I’d bitten it. I looked away from him as I asked, ‘Did I have a fit last night?’
A small silence preceded his words. He kept his voice casual. ‘A small one, perhaps. You tossed your head about and trembled for a time in your sleep. I held you still. It passed.’ He did not want to speak of it any more than I did.
I dressed slowly. My whole body ached. My left arm bore the marks of the Fool’s fingers, small dark circles of bruising. So I had not imagined the strength of his grip. He saw me inspecting my arm, and winced sympathetically. ‘It leaves bruises, but sometimes it seems to work,’ was all he offered by way of explanation.
Hunt mornings at Galekeep were very similar to hunt mornings at Buckkeep Castle. Suppressed excitement tingled in the air. Breakfast was a hurried affair, taken standing in the courtyard and the painstaking efforts of the kitchen folk were scarcely noticed. I had only a mug of beer for I dared face no more than that. I did, however, have the foresight to do as Laurel had noted, and store some food in my saddle-pack and make sure my water-skin was freshly filled. I glimpsed Laurel in the hubbub of folk, but she was very busy, talking to at least four people at once. Lord Golden strolled through the crowd, greeting each person with a warm smile. Lord Grayling’s daughter was always at his elbow. Sydel’s smile and chatter were constant, and Lord Golden replied with attentive courtesy. Did young Civil look a bit irritated with that?
The horses were brought, saddled and gleaming from the stables. Myblack seemed unimpressed with the excitement in the air, and again I wondered at her seeming lack of spirit. The gathering seemed oddly muted to me, and then I smiled to myself. There was no excited baying to lift the heart and infect the horses with excitement. I missed hounds. The hunters and their attendants mounted, and then the cats were brought forth on their leads.
The cats were sleek, short-coated creatures, with elongated bodies. Their heads appeared small to me at first glance. Their coats were tawny, but in certain angles of the light, subdued dappling could be distinguished. Each cat’s long, graceful tail seemed to harbour an independent life. They padded through the thronging horses as calmly as dogs among sheep. These were the gruepards, and they knew very well what the milling, mounted folk meant. With little guidance each cat sought out its mounted master. I watched in stunned surprise as leads were loosed, and each cat leapt nimbly into place. I watched Lady Bresinga turn in her saddle to mutter fond words to her cat, while Civil’s gruepard put a heavy paw on his shoulder and pulled the boy back so the cat could bump faces with him. I waited in vain for some manifestation of the Wit. I was almost certain both the Bresingas possessed it, but it was controlled to an extent I had not imagined possible. Under the circumstances, no matter how I longed for the touch, I dared not quest out towards Nighteyes. His silence to me was so absolute it was like an absence. Soon, I promised myself, soon.