A long silence followed and I hoped he had gone to sleep. The uncanny way his words echoed my thought unnerved me. Rain beat against the thick whorl of glass in the window, and dark flowed into the room. I closed my eyes and centred myself. As gingerly as if I handled broken glass, I reached towards him.
He was there, still and taut as a crouching cat. I sensed him waiting and watching for me, yet unaware I stood at the borders of his mind. His rough Skill-sense was an awkward, unhoned tool. I drew back a bit and studied him from all angles, as if he were a colt I was thinking of breaking. His wariness was a mix of apprehension and aggression. It was a weapon as much as a shield that he inexpertly wielded. Nor was it pure Skill. It is a hard thing to describe, but his Skill was like a white beacon edged with green darkness. His Wit awareness of me was what he used to focus. The Wit does not reach from a man’s mind to another man’s mind, but the Wit can make me aware of the animal that the man’s mind inhabits. So it was with Dutiful. Bereft of the cat as a focus, his Wit was a wide-flung web, seeking a kinship. As was mine, I suddenly realized.
I recoiled from that and found myself back in my own flesh. I set my walls against the untrained fumbling of his Skill. Yet even as I did so, there were two things I could not deny. The thread of Skill that connected me to Dutiful grew stronger each time I ventured along it. And I had no idea of how to sever it, let alone remove my Skill-command from his mind.
The third piece of knowledge was as bitter as the other parts were disturbing. I quested. I had no desire to form a bond with another animal. But without Nighteyes to contain it, my Wit sprawled out like seeking roots. Like water that overbrims a vessel and must seek a place to flow, the Wit went forth from me, silent yet reaching. Earlier I had seen need in the Prince’s eyes, a desperate longing for connection and belonging. Did I radiate that same privation? I closed my heart and willed myself to stillness. Time would heal my grief. I repeated that lie until sleep claimed me.
I awoke when the light spilling in the window touched my face. I opened my eyes but lay still. The pale light filling the room after the dark of the storm was like being immersed in clear water. I felt curiously empty, as one does when one has been ill for a long time and then begins to mend. I caught at the edges of a fleeing dream, but clutched only the edges of a shining morning, the sea below me and wind in my face. Sleep had left me, but I had no inclination to rise and face the day. I felt as if I were inside a bubble of safety, and that if I remained motionless, I could cling to this moment in peace. I lay on my side, my hand and arm under the flat pillow. After a time, I became aware of the feathers under my hand.
I lifted my head, intending to look at them, but the room swung suddenly about me as if I’d had too much to drink. The realities of the day to come – the long ride to Buckkeep, the meetings with Chade and Kettricken that would follow, the resumption of my life as Tom Badgerlock – crashed down on me. I sat up slowly.
The Prince slept on in his bed. I turned and found the Fool regarding me sleepily. He lay on his side in his bed, his chin propped on his fist. He looked weary, but insufferably pleased about something. The effect made him look years younger.
‘I didn’t expect to see you in your bed this morning,’ I greeted him, and then, ‘How did you get in? I latched that door last night.’
‘Did you? Interesting. But you can scarcely be more surprised to see me in my own bed than I am to see you in yours.’
I let that barb go past me. I scratched the bristle on my cheek. ‘I should shave,’ I said to myself, dreading the idea. I hadn’t touched a blade to my face since we’d left Galekeep.
‘Indeed you should. I’d like us to look as presentable as possible when we return to Buckkeep.’
I thought of my cat-shredded shirt, but nodded acquiescence. Then I recalled the feathers. ‘I’ve something I want to show you,’ I began, reaching under the pillow, but just then the Prince drew a deeper breath and opened his eyes.
‘Good morning, my prince,’ Lord Golden greeted him.
‘Morning,’ he acknowledged wearily. ‘Lord Golden, Tom Badgerlock.’ He looked and sounded marginally better than he had at the end of yesterday’s ride. His formality towards me was back in place. I felt relief.
‘Good morning, my prince,’ I greeted him.
And so the day began. We ate in our room. Our cleaned and mended clothing arrived shortly after our breakfasts. Lord Golden looked almost restored to his former glory, and the Prince looked tidy if not exactly royal. As I had suspected, washing had done little to make my clothing more presentable. I begged a needle and thread from the servant who brought our food, saying I wished to tighten the sleeve in my mended shirt. The reality was that I required a pocket in it. Lord Golden looked at me and sighed. ‘Keeping you decently clothed may become the most expensive part of keeping you as a servant, Tom Badgerlock. Well, see what you can do with the rest of yourself.’
I was the only one with any need to shave. Lord Golden commanded hot water and a razor and glass for me. He sat by the window, gazing out over the little landing town as I worked. I had scarcely begun my task when I became aware of the Prince’s scrutiny. For a time, I ignored his intense fascination. The second time I nicked myself, I suppressed a curse, but did demand, ‘What? Have you never seen a man shave himself before?’
He coloured slightly. ‘No.’ He looked away as he added, ‘I have spent little time in the company of men. Oh, I’ve dined with our nobles, and hawked with them, and taken my sword lessons with the other lads of good houses. But …’ He seemed at a loss suddenly.
Just as abruptly, Lord Golden arose from his window seat. ‘I’ve a mind to see a bit of this town before we depart it. I think I shall take a stroll about it. With my prince’s permission.’
‘Of course, Lord Golden. As you will.’
When he left, I expected the Prince to go with him. Instead, he lingered with me. He watched me finish shaving, and when I rinsed the last of the soap from my smarting face, he asked with intense curiosity, ‘It hurts, then?’
‘Stings a little. Only if you hurry, as I always seem to do, and cut myself in the process.’ My mourning-shortened hair stuck up in thickets. Starling would have cut it for me, I thought, and then damned the thought and plastered it down to my head with water.
‘It won’t stay. Once it dries, it will just stick up again,’ the Prince pointed out helpfully.
‘I know that. My prince.’
‘Do you hate me?’
He asked it so casually, it set me completely off-balance. I put aside the towel and met his earnest gaze. ‘No. I do not hate you.’
‘Because I would understand if you did. Because of your wolf and all.’
‘Nighteyes.’
‘Nighteyes.’ He said the name carefully. Then he looked aside from me suddenly. ‘I never knew my cat’s name.’ I knew tears threatened to choke him. I sat carefully still and silent, waiting for him. After a moment, he drew a deep breath. ‘I don’t hate you, either.’