I found myself talking to both Prince and horse as we walked. I spoke in Burrich's soothing cadence, using his reassuring words, in a calming ritual remembered from my childhood. “Come along now, we're all going to be fine, there, there, the worst part is over, that's right, that's right.” From that I progressed to humming, and again it was some tune that Burrich had often hummed when he worked on injured horses or laboring mares. I think the familiar song calmed and settled me more than it did the horse or the Prince. After a time, I found myself talking aloud, as much to myself as to them. “Well, it looks as if Chade was right. You're going to Skill whether you're taught to or not. And I'm afraid the same holds true for the Wit. It's in your blood, lad, and unlike some, I don't think it can be beaten out of you. I don't think it should be. But it shouldn't be indulged the way you've indulged it, either. It's not that different from the Skill, really. A man has to set limits on his magic and on himself. Setting limits is part of being a man. So if we come out of this alive and intact, I'll teach you. I guess I'll teach myself as well. It's probably time for me to look into all those old Skill scrolls and find out what's really in them. It scares me, though. In the last two years, the Skill has come back on me like some sort of spreading ulcer. I don't know where it's taking me. And I fear what I don't know. That's the wolf in me, I guess. And Eda's breath, let him be safe right now, and my Fool. Don't let them be in pain or dying simply because they knew me. If anything happens to either of them . . . it's strange, isn't it, how you don't know how big a part of you someone is until they're threatened? And then you think that you can't possibly go on if something happens to them, but the most frightening part is that, actually, you will go on, you'll have to go on, with them or without them. There's just no telling what you'll become. What will I be, if Nighteyes is gone? Look at Small Ferret, all those years ago. He went on and on, even though the only thing left in his little mind was to kill ” “What about my cat?”
His voice was soft. Relief washed through me that he had enough mind left to speak. At the same time, I hastily reviewed my thoughtless rambling and hoped he had not been paying too much attention. “How do you feel, my Prince?” “I can't feel my cat.”
A long silence followed. I finally said, “I can't feel my wolf, either. Sometimes he needs to be separate from me.”
He was silent for so long that I feared he wasn't going to reply. Then he said, “It doesn't feel like that. She's holding us apart. It feels as if I am being punished.”
“Punished for what?” I kept my voice even and light, as if we discussed the weather.
“For not killing you. For not even trying to kill you. She can't understand why I don't. I can't explain why I don't. But it makes her angry with me.” There was a simplicity to his heartspoken words, as if I conversed with the person behind all the manners and artifice of society. I sensed that our journey through the Skillpillar had stripped away many layers of protection from him. He was vulnerable right now. He spoke and reasoned as soldiers do when they are in great pain, or when ill men try to speak through a fever. All his guards were dropped. It seemed as if he trusted me, that he spoke of such things. I counseled myself not to hope for that, nor believe it. It was only the hardships he had been through that opened him to me like this. Only that. I chose my words carefully. “Is she with you now? The woman?” He nodded slowly. “She is always with me now. She won't let me think alone.” He swallowed and added hesitantly, “She doesn't want me to talk to you. Or listen. It's hard. She keeps pushing me.”
“Do you want to kill me?”
Again there was that pause before he spoke. It was as if he had to digest the words, not simply hear them. When he spoke, he didn't answer my question.
“You said she was dead. It made her very angry.”
“Because it is true.”
“She said she would explain. Later. She said that should be enough for me.” He was not looking at me, but when I gazed at him, he turned his whole head aside as if to be sure he would not see me. “Then she . . . she was me. And she attacked you with the knife. Because I ... hadn't.” I couldn't tell if he was confused or ashamed.
“Wouldn't kill me?” I suggested the word.
“Wouldn't,” the Prince admitted. I was amazed at how grateful I was for the small piece of knowledge. He had refused to kill me. I had thought only my Skillcommand had stopped him. “I wouldn't obey her. Sometimes I've disappointed her. But now she is truly angry with me.”