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       EIGHT

       Old Blood

       ‘… And I trust the hounds will reach you in good health along with this missive. If it be otherwise, please have a bird sent me with such tidings, that I may advise you as to their care. In closing, I ask that you please pass on my regards to Lord Chivalry Farseer. Inform him, with my greetings, that the colt he entrusted to my care still suffers from too abrupt a weaning from his dam. In nature, he is skittish and suspicious, but we shall hope that gentle treatment and patience coupled with a firm hand will cure him of this. He has also a stubborn streak, most vexatious to his trainer, but this, I believe, we may attribute to his sharing his sire’s temperament. Discipline may supplant it with strength of spirit. I remain, as always, his most humble servant.

       My best wishes also to your mistress and children, Tallman, and I look forward, when next you come to Buckkeep, to settling our wager regarding my Vixen’s tenacity on a scent as opposed to your Stubtail.’

       – Burrich, Stablemaster, Buckkeep

       From a missive sent to Tallman, Stablemaster, Withywoods

      By the time we reached the cabin, darkness threatened the edges of my vision. I gripped the Fool’s slender shoulder and steered him towards the door. He stumbled up the steps. The wolf followed us. I pushed the Fool towards a chair and he dropped into it. Nighteyes went straight to my bedchamber and clambered up onto my bed. He made a brief show of rucking up the blankets, then settled into it and dropped into a limp sleep. I quested towards him with the Wit, but found him closed to me. I had to be content with watching the rhythmic rise and fall of his ribs as I built up the fire and put a kettle on to boil. Each step of the simple task required all my concentration. The thundering of pain in my head demanded I simply drop in my tracks, yet I could not allow myself to do that.

      At the table, the Fool had pillowed his head on his arms, the picture of misery. As I took down my supply of elfbark, he rolled his head to watch me. The Fool made a face at his bitter memory of the dark, dried bark. ‘So you keep a supply at hand, do you?’ His question came out as a croak.

      ‘I do,’ I conceded, measuring out the bark. I began to grind it with a mortar and pestle. As soon as some was powdered, I dipped my finger into it and touched it to the side of my tongue. I felt a brief easing of the pain.

      ‘And you use it often?’

      ‘Only when I must.’

      He took a deep breath and let it out. Then he stood reluctantly, and found mugs for both of us. When the water boiled, I prepared a strong pot of elfbark tea. The drug would ease the headache of Skilling, but leave behind both a jittery restlessness and a morose spirit. I had heard tales that the slave owners of Chalced gave it to their slaves, to increase their stamina at the same time that it drained their will to escape. Using elfbark is said to become a habit, but I have never found it so. Perhaps regular forced use of it could create a craving, but my own use of it has always been as a remedy. It is also said to extinguish the ability to Skill in the young, and to cripple its growth for older Skill-users. That I might have considered a blessing, but my experience has been that elfbark can deaden the ability to Skill without easing the craving to do so.

      I poured two mugs of it after the bark had steeped, and sweetened both with honey. I thought of going to the garden for mint. It seemed much too far away. I set a mug before the Fool and took a seat across from him.

      He lifted his mug in a mocking toast. ‘To us: the White Prophet and his Catalyst.’

      I lifted mine. ‘The Fool and the Fitz,’ I amended his words, and touched my mug to his.

      I took a sip. The elfbark spread bitterness all through my mouth. As I swallowed it, I felt my throat tighten in its wake. The Fool watched me drink, then took a mouthful of his own. He grimaced at it, but almost immediately, the lines in his brow relaxed somewhat. He frowned at his mug. ‘Is there no other way to get the benefit of this?’

      I grinned sourly. ‘I was desperate enough, once, to simply chew the bark. It cut the insides of my cheeks to ribbons and left my mouth so puckered with bitterness I could scarcely drink water to get rid of the taste.’

      ‘Ah.’ He added another liberal dollop of honey to his, drank from the mug, and scowled.

      A little silence fell. The edge of uneasiness hovered between us still. No apology would clear it, but perhaps an explanation would. I glanced over at the wolf sleeping on my bed. I cleared my throat. ‘Well. After we left the Mountain Kingdom, we journeyed back to the borders of Buck.’

      The Fool lifted his eyes to mine. He propped his chin on one hand and looked at me, giving me his absolute and silent attention. He waited as I found my words. They did not come easily. Slowly I strung together for him the tale of those days.

      Nighteyes and I had not hurried our journey. It took us the better part of a year of wandering by a very roundabout path through the Mountains, and across the wide plains of Farrow before we returned to the vicinity of Crowsneck in Buck. Autumn had just begun her warnings when we reached the low-roofed log-and-stone cabin built into the rise of the forested hill. The great evergreens stood impervious to autumn’s threats, but frost had just touched the leaves of the small bushes and plants that grew on the mossy roof, outlining some in yellow and blushing others to red. The wide door stood open to the cool afternoon, and a ripple of near-invisible smoke rose from the squat chimney. There was no need to knock or call. The Old Blood folk within knew we were there, as surely as I could sense that both Rolf and Holly were within. Unsurprised, Black Rolf came to the threshold. He stood in the cavernous dark of his cabin and frowned out at us.

      ‘So, you’ve finally realized you need to learn what I can teach you,’ he greeted us. The stink of bear hung about the place, making both Nighteyes and me uneasy. Yet I still had nodded.

      He laughed aloud, and his welcoming grin divided the forest of his black beard. I had forgotten the size of the hulking man. He lumbered out and engulfed me in a friendly hug that nearly cracked my ribs. Almost, I felt the thought he sent to Hilda, the bear that was his bond-animal.

      ‘Old Blood welcomes Old Blood,’ Holly emerged to greet us gravely. Rolf’s wife was as slender and quiet as I recalled her. Her Wit beast, Sleet, rode on her wrist. The hawk fixed me with one bright eye, then took flight as she drew closer to us. She smiled and shook her head to watch him go. Her greeting was more restrained than Rolf’s, yet somehow warmer. ‘Well met and welcome,’ she offered us. She turned her head slightly and sent us a sideways glance from her dark eyes. A quick smile lit her face even as she ducked her head to conceal it. She stood beside Rolf, as slight as he was broad. She preened her short, sleek hair back from her face. ‘Come within and share food,’ she invited.

      ‘And then we shall take a walk, find a good place for your den, and start building it,’ Rolf offered, blunt and direct as always. He glanced up through the forest roof at the overcast sky. ‘Winter draws nigh. You were foolish to delay so long.’

      And as simply as that, we became part of the Witted folk that lived in the area outlying Crowsneck. They were forest-dwellers, going into the town only for those things they could not make for themselves. They kept their magic concealed from the towndwellers, for to be Witted was to invite the rope and the blade to your door. Not that Rolf and Holly or any of the others referred to themselves as Witted. That was the epithet flung by those that both hated and feared Beast magic; it was a taunt to be hung by. Amongst themselves, they spoke of their kind as Old Blood, and pitied any