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

He folded his lips for a moment, then spoke. “It was night. And Spark needed to sit and recover for a time. It was hard for me to let her do that, though I knew it was night, for I sensed no warmth from the surroundings. I’m blind, Fitz. But there, suddenly, the city was lit with unfailing light, and I saw the brightly clad folk you call Elderlings. We’d arrived in the midst of some sort of festival. At least, that was what the city remembered for us. And I could see! I do not think you can imagine what that is like, to be deprived for so long of my sight, to become accustomed and accepting that my vision is limited to the difference between light and dark, and then to suddenly see again. Colors and people’s faces, to catch shifting expressions, to see the moving shadows on the walls, the glorious torchlight! Oh, Fitz!”

For a time he fell silent, just breathing, as if he were a starving man who had just described a feast. I waited. “Well, I knew of course that it was a deception. Or a performance by the memory stone of the city, if you will. That did not lessen its fascination for me. If anything, it sharpened it. I wanted to know more. Strange to say, when Spark began to attempt to speak to the passing people, I became alarmed for her rather than for myself. I got her to her feet, and we walked together through the streets. And it was wonderful, Fitz, to walk arm in arm with her, but not need her vision. Well, almost. There are still parts of the city that are in need of repair, for it is a large place, still far too large for the population it has now. I asked her to be wary, to watch for live folk like ourselves, people who walked through the shadow-population the city showed us. She said she would try, but her voice was vague and I was not sure she could discern what I meant.” He paused again, and again his sightless gaze wandered to the Elderling tent. “I’m cold,” he said.

“If we go into the tent, all will hear your tale. Out here, we have some small privacy.”

“It matters little. Spark was with me, and I fancy that when she recovers, she will tell Perseverance all. They’ve become very good friends.”

I did not say that she might not recover. Nor did I mention that Per had doubts about that friendship. Instead I helped him to his feet and guided him over the uneven ground to the Elderling tent’s entrance. It was beautiful in the night, for the light from the little fire inside the tent lit the fabric so that the dragons and serpents gleamed in gold and scarlet and azure. Its beauty was both strong and delicate. My heart soared to see it. The campfire crackled and danced behind us, scenting the cold forest air with pine resin. I could smell the porridge that Lant was cooking. The Fool was beside me and alive, despite his idiocy. My heart lifted in one wolfish instant of unadulterated satisfaction in the present moment.

In the next, shame scourged me. How did I deserve even an instant of peace when my Bee was forever lost? When I was on a mission to a land I’d never seen to kill as many Servants as I could find? When a young woman twitched and tattered away with the Skill-sickness in the beautiful tent before me?

“You are grinding your teeth,” the Fool pointed out quietly.

“I always fail the people I love the most.”

“Say rather that you judge yourself more harshly than anyone else ever has.”

We reached the tent door. “Duck your head,” I suggested.

“Let me shed some of this first,” he responded. I took from him the heavy fur-and-wool cloak and an amply padded embroidered vest, and then he untied a sash and dropped several layers of skirts to reveal his wool-trousered legs.

I gathered it all up, a substantial armful. “How much of a woman’s shape actually comes from her garments?” I wondered as I mastered my load.

“More than you would suspect,” he responded.

We entered the Elderling tent. It was already capturing the warmth of the tiny fire in the pit. Per had put down a layer of small pine boughs and edged Spark onto them. He sat cross-legged beside the fire, looking both worried and sullen. “A moment,” I told the Fool, and tucked his female garb into the cloak to transform it into a pallet. “Here,” I told him, and he sat carefully. He held his hands, one bare and one gloved, out to the fire.

“That’s so much better.” He sighed.

Lant entered the tent, carrying the bubbling pot of porridge with him. He served out a portion for each of us, even Spark, and it was not too badly scorched. He was learning. He passed out bread and cheese to go with it, and I judged that he was right, that we all needed a more substantial meal. “Tomorrow, I’ll try for some meat,” I offered.

“Tomorrow, we should try to move on,” the Fool countered.