Fool's Quest (The Fitz and The Fool Trilogy #2)

The tent had been beyond it. I walked more slowly, kicking my feet deeper into the snow, trying to get the soles of my boots all the way down to the stone of the pavilion. And suddenly my toe caught and dragged on something. Was it possible that anything of the Fool’s grand tent remained after all these years? I hooked my toe under it and pulled it up to the surface. Fabric. Brightly dyed so that the colors shone even in our feeble torchlight. All those years ago, the Fool and I had donned winter clothing and just walked away from this camp. Through the Skill-portal and back to Aslevjal I had taken him. All those years ago, and his grand tent was still here, collapsed under the snow.

“Help me drag this free,” I said to Lant, and he posted the flaming branch in the snow and bent to seize the edge of the fabric. We both pulled. It was heavy work, for more than snow weighted it. Fallen leaves and bits of moss, all the detritus that had seemed to vanish from both the pavilion and the Skill-road, were layered upon it. It came free slowly. As it emerged from the snow and I shook litter from it, the limber supports that held the tent up revived slightly, lifting the bright parade of dragons and serpents into view.

It took some time for us to drag it free. The torch burned out and still we struggled. There were objects inside the tent, so abruptly had the Fool and I departed, and I dreaded we would tear it before it came free, but it held. I recalled well how it had blocked out the icy winds of Aslevjal, and how the warmth of our bodies had been enough to heat it. Even if it was no longer tight, it would be shelter for our enlarged party. We dragged it slowly to our fireside. Frost rimed the bright panels, and it was hard to find the collapsed entry. “We found it,” I said, and the Fool beamed like a child.

Spark was still, her eyes open and her lips moving slightly. From time to time, the direction of her gaze shifted, and once she smiled at no one. Her lips moved, speaking silently. Revelation struck me.

“How can I have been so stupid? We have to get her off the stone flagging, away from the pavilion. Look at her. The stones are speaking to her.”

“That whispering?” Lant asked, alarmed. “I thought it wind in the trees last night. Per did not hear it at all.”

“And you, too,” I announced.

It was hard work in the dark and the cold. I put Lant and Per to digging a small fire-pit under the evergreens where the snow was shallowest. I lifted Spark and placed her inside my tent. Then I took the task of shaking the last of the snow and moss from the Elderling tent and stretching it out to find the corners. I had never paused to look at the supports before. They were white and reminded me of baleen from a great whale. I set them aside, and went back to where we had salvaged the tent. Kicking and digging in the snow with my hands, I found the remaining supports and the rusty shell of the old fire-pot. It would do.

It took me longer to set up the tent than it should have. We installed the fire-pot in the pit, moved coals, and soon had a fire to warm it. The Elderling pavilion was more spacious than my little tent had been. As soon as we had moved the bedding, I put Spark inside. We set a pot of snow to melt. “Stay with her,” I told Per. To Lant, I said, “Rummage in the packs. Put together some sort of meal for us.”

I went back to where the Fool sat by the fire still. “Your tent is up. Shall I guide you inside?”

He was staring toward it, a faint smile on his face. “I can almost sense the shape of it, for it traps the warmth so well.” He heaved a sudden sigh. “So many memories that shelter holds for me. Did I tell you that the dragon Tintaglia was the one who commanded the Rain Wild Traders to help me? That tent was given to me, and a lovely robe. But the cloak, the one you call the butterfly cloak? That was something that Prilkop found in Kelsingra. He managed to keep it, wadded small, even when we were slaves. He gave it to me in Clerres. And I gave it to Incalu. My messenger.” He fell silent.

I felt a wave of sympathy for him, but I firmed my will. “You won’t distract me from one tale by dangling another in front of me, Fool. You and Spark went through the portal to Kelsingra. It’s claimed by Rain Wilders who call themselves the Dragon Traders now. Queen Malta and King Reyn rule there. Dragons live there, or near there. So. What happened when you emerged?”

If I had hoped to push him closer to the truth with what I already knew of Kelsingra, I failed. “Malta,” he said, and smiled. “Possibly the most annoying young female I’ve ever encountered. Yet lovely. I named a horse after her. Do you remember?”

“I do. Nettle said that Burrich was stunned to receive her as a gift. So. You came out of the portal …”