“I know. I intend to.” I looked at him puzzled, surprised that he had thought I would not.
His face went almost blank with astonishment. “You will? You are?”
“Of course.”
“You mean it, don't you?” His eyes searched my face. Almost, I saw a shadow of disappointment there. But then he seized one of my hands in both of his and said, “I am glad for you, Fitz. Truly glad. You had said you would, but you seemed hesitant. I thought perhaps you would change your mind.”
“What else would I do?”
He hesitated a moment, as if he would say something. Then he seemed to change his mind. He gave a small snort. “Go find a cave to live in alone for the next decade or so.”
“Why would I do that? Retreat from life, and there is no opportunity for anything to get better . . . Oh.”
And then I was rewarded by the slow spread of his old smile across his face. “Help me up the path,” he said, and I was glad to do so. He leaned more heavily on my arm than I had expected him to. When we reached Prilkop's cavern, I made him sit down. “Spirits? Brandy?” I asked of Prilkop, and when the Fool had weakly translated my words, the Black Man shook his head. He came closer to the Fool and bent down to look into his face. He touched the Fool's forehead and then shook his head.
“I will make a tea. For this, a helpful tea.”
We ate together and passed the evening telling stories. The Fool and Prilkop seemed to have slaked some of their thirst for conversing in their own tongue. I made up a pallet for the Fool and insisted he lie down near the fire. I tried to tell Prilkop the full tale of how we had come to Aslevjal. He listened intently, nodding, his brow furrowed. From time to time, the Fool would offer a brief explanation to Prilkop of some part of our tale that he did not understand. Mostly he lay still, eyes closed, listening. When he did break into my telling, it was strange to hear how the Fool pieced out our life tale for him, for he made it seem as if always the goal had been to awaken and restore true dragons to the world. I suppose that for him, it had been that. But it was peculiar to see my own life in that light.
It became very late and Thick had dozed off long before Prilkop bade us good night. I knew an odd moment of awkwardness when I spread my blankets separately from the Fool's. There was plenty of bedding here; no need to share anymore. But I had slept beside him for so many nights that I wondered if he would want the comfort of me close by to guard him from his night terrors, but I could not find a way to ask him. Instead, I propped my head on my arm and watched him sleep. His face was slack with exhaustion, yet pain still furrowed his brow. I knew that after all he had been through, he would need time apart from me, time alone with himself to discover once again who he was. Yet, selfishly, I did not want him to grow apart from me again. Not only my love for Molly but my boyish fondness and closeness to the Fool had been rejuvenated, as well. To be the best of friends again, making nothing of one another's differences, to enjoy the days and face hardships optimistically; he represented all that to me, and I vowed I would not let that carelessly slip from my grip again. He and Molly would round out my life to what it should have been. And Patience, I thought with wonder. I would reclaim her too, and never heed the cost.
Perhaps it was that Thick slept close by me, or perhaps it was that for the first time since I'd ventured into the Pale Woman's realm, I slept deeply enough to dream my own dreams. In either case, Nettle found me. Or perhaps I found her. I found myself in an evening place. It was a place I almost remembered, yet it had changed so much that I was not certain of it. Banks of flowers glowed luminously in the dimness. Somewhere, a fountain played, a muted splashing. The evening fragrances of blossoms wafted and blended on the night breeze.
Nettle was sitting on a stone bench, alone. She leaned her head against the wall behind her and stared up at the night sky. I winced when I saw her. Her beautiful hair had been shorn down to her scalp. It was the oldest sign of mourning in the Six Duchies, and not often practiced among women. I came and sat on the paving stones in front of her in my wolf guise. She stirred and looked down at me.
“You know that my father is dead?”
“Yes. I am sorry.”
Her fingers toyed with a fold of her dark skirt. “Were you there?” she asked at last.
“When he died, no. When he took the injury that would kill him, yes.”
A little silence spun out between us. “Why do I feel so awkward asking this, as if it is improper for me to be curious? I know that the Prince thinks it more appropriate to speak all around it and say only that my father was a hero and fought well. But that is not enough for me. I want to know how he died . . . was hurt. I want . . . I need to know every detail. Because they dumped his body in the sea and I will never see him again, dead or alive. Do you know how that feels? Just to be told that your father is dead, and that is all?”
