My mind went back to the note the Queen had received. It had told her that the Prince was Witted and demanded she take suitable action. What had the writer intended as ‘suitable action’? Revealing his Wit and proclaiming that the Witted must be accepted? Or purifying the Farseer line with his demise? Had the writer contacted the Prince as well?
Chade’s old workbench had yielded me the lock-picks I needed for my dinner-hour adventure. The Prince had Prince Regal’s former grand chambers. That lock and I were old friends and I anticipated that I could slip it easily. While the rest of the keep was at table, I approached the Prince’s rooms. Here again I saw his mother’s influence, for there was not only no guard at his door, but it was not locked. I slipped silently within, closing it softly behind me. Then I stared about me in perplexity. I had expected the same clutter and disorder that Hap tended to leave in his wake. Instead the Prince’s sparse possessions were all stored in such an orderly fashion that the spacious room looked nearly empty. Perhaps he had a fanatical valet, I mused. Then, recalling Kettricken’s upbringing, I wondered if the Prince had any body-servants at all. Personal servants were not a Mountain custom.
It took me very little time to explore his rooms. I found a modest assortment of clothing in his chests. I could not determine if any were missing. His riding boots were still there, but Chade had already told me that the Prince’s horse was still in his stall. He possessed a neat array of brush, comb, washbasin and looking-glass, all precisely aligned in a row. In the room where he pursued his studies, the ink was tightly stoppered and the tabletop had never suffered any blots or spills. No scrolls had been left out. His sword was on the wall, but there were empty pegs where other weapons might have hung. There were no personal papers, no ribbons or locks of hair tucked into the corner of his clothing chest, not even a sticky wineglass or an idly-tossed shirt under his bed. In short, it did not strike me as a boy’s bedchamber at all.
There was a large cushion in a sturdy basket near the hearth. The hair that clung to it was short, yet fine. The stoutly-woven basket bore the marks of errant claws. I did not need the wolf’s nose to smell cat in the room. I lifted the cushion, and found playthings beneath it: a rabbitskin tied to a length of heavy twine, and a canvas toy stuffed with catmint. I raised my eyebrows to that, wondering if hunting cats were affected by it as mousing cats were.
The room yielded me little else: no hidden journal of princely thoughts, no defiant run-away’s final note to his mother, nothing to suggest that the Prince had been spirited away against his will. I had retreated quietly from his rooms, leaving all as I had found it.
My route took me past the door of my old boyhood room. I paused, tempted. Who stayed there now? The hallway was empty and I yielded to the impulse. The lock on the door was the one I had devised, and it demanded my rusty skills to get past it. It was so stiff I was persuaded it had not turned in some time. I shut the door behind me and stood still, smelling dust.
The tall window was shuttered, but the shutters were, as they had always been, a poor fit. Daylight leaked past them, and after a few moments, my eyes adjusted to the dusky light. I looked around. There, my bedstead, with cobwebs embroidering the familiar hangings. The cedar clothing chest at the foot of it was thick with dust. The hearth, empty, black and cold. And above it, the faded tapestry of King Wisdom treating with the Elderlings. I stared at it. As a boy of nine, it had given me nightmares. Time had not changed my opinion of the oddly-elongated forms. The golden Elderlings stared down on the lifeless and empty room.
I suddenly felt as if I had disturbed a grave. As silently as I had entered the chamber, I left it, locking the door behind me.
I had thought to find Lord Golden in his chambers, but he was not there. ‘Lord Golden?’ I asked questioningly, and then advanced to tap lightly at the door of his private chamber. I swear I did not touch the catch, but it swung open at my touch.
Light flooded out. The small chamber had a window, and the afternoon sun filled it with gold. It was a pleasant, open room that smelled of woodshavings and paint. In the corner, a plant in a tub climbed a trellis. Hanging on the walls, I recognized charms such as Jinna made. On the worktable in the middle of the room, amongst the scattered tools and paint pots, there were pieces of rod, string and beads, as if he had disassembled a charm. I found I had taken a step into the room. There was a scroll weighted flat on the table, with several charms drawn on it. They were unlike anything I had seen in Jinna’s shop. Even at a glance, the sketches were oddly unsettling. ‘I remember that,’ I thought, and then, when I looked closer, I was absolutely certain I had never seen the like before. A shiver ran down my back. The little beads had faces; the rods were carved with spinning spirals. The longer I stared, the more they disturbed me. I felt as if I could not quite get my breath, as if they were pulling me into them. ‘Come away.’ The Fool spoke softly from behind me. I could not reply.
I felt his hand on my shoulder and it broke the spell. I turned at his touch. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said instantly. ‘The door was ajar and I –’
‘I did not expect you back so soon, or it would have been latched.’
That was all he said, and then he drew me from the room and shut the door firmly behind us.
I felt as if he had pulled me back from a precipice. I drew a shaky breath. ‘What were those?’
‘An experiment. What you told me of Jinna’s charms made me curious, so when I reached Buckkeep Town, I resolved to see them for myself. Once I had, I wanted to know how they worked. I wanted to know if the charm could only be made by a hedge-witch, or if the magic was in the way they were assembled. And I wanted to know if I could make them work better.’ His voice was neutral.
‘How can you stand to be around them?’ I demanded. Even now, the hair on the back of my neck was standing.
‘They are tuned to humans. You forget that I am a White.’
The statement left me as speechless as the insidious little sketches had. I looked at the Fool and for one blink I could see him as if for the first time. As attractive as his colouring was, I had never seen any other person with it. There were other differences, the way his wrists attached his hands to his arms, the airiness of his hair … but when our eyes met, I was looking at my old friend again. It was like jolting back to the earth after a fall. I suddenly recalled what I had done. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to … I know you need your privacy –’ I felt shamed and hot blood rushed to my face.
He was silent for a moment. Then he said justly, ‘When I came to your home, you hid nothing from me.’ I sensed that the statement reflected his idea of what was fair rather than his emotions on the topic.
‘I won’t go in there again,’ I promised fervently.
That brought a small smile to his face. ‘I doubted that you would.’