“I’ve sworn myself to Badgerlock, Mother. I’ll earn our keep. Only he’s not Badgerlock. Grandfather was right. He is truly FitzChivalry Farseer and he’s accepted me into his service. I will take care of you.”
“Truly?” It was Bulen who spoke. “He is truly FitzChivalry, the Witted … Farseer?” He near fell over his tongue dodging the word bastard.
“He is,” Perseverance said proudly before I could think of a sufficient lie.
“He is,” Lant echoed. “But I thought it was to be kept always a secret.” He stared at me in consternation.
“It was an interesting Winterfest at Buckkeep Castle,” I said, and his eyes grew rounder.
“Then everyone knows?”
“Not in full.” But now they would. The woven lies of decades were suddenly unraveling. How much of the truth could I bear?
Before anyone could speak again, Chade walked back into the room. He looked cadaverous. His voice was hoarse and thick. “They seem to have struck first at the stables and then destroyed the messenger birds. We must now speak with anyone who may have survived that first part of the attack.” He cleared his throat. “Eventually, we will speak with everyone who endured this. But we must start at the beginning.”
Chapter Fifteen
Surprises
Let there be made a great record of every dream that has been recorded. Even more important, as the shaysims share dreams with us, let each dream be recorded, not once, but for each element of the dream. Let there be a record of dreams of horses, of trees, of acorns or apples, and so on. So that when there is a mustering of cavalry, or a fire sweeps through the forests, we can look and see if this event was foretold. And soon, as the Servants study well the dreams, I foretell that we shall see the patterns for ourselves, and then make ourselves the judgments as to what must be enabled and what must be hindered.
—Servant Cetchua of the 41st Line
Chade was true to his word. Long after I thought we had every bit of information that we could use, he continued to summon my folk to the study and offer them elfbark tea. In a soft conversation, we had decided against Thick’s “remembering song.” The tea was working and we needed results more than we needed to experiment with the Skill. We took the safe road. Nettle’s courier from Buckkeep arrived with the supply of the Outislander elfbark known as delvenbark from Chade’s hoard. When my older and less potent stock gave out, Chade began to brew tea with the more virulent form of the herb. Even the smell of it made me giddy, and Thick left the study and would not return. Dixon returned with supplies from Withy and demanded to know how many folk the kitchen should expect for dinner. I was less patient with him than I might have been. Pragmatically, Chade and I decided that neither Dixon nor any of the kitchen staff were to be restored until after the evening meal was prepared and served.
The captain of the Rousters returned to report to us that no one they encountered on any of the main roads or even the lesser trails had any recollection of a troop of soldiers and several large sleighs. He was obviously disappointed that no one would claim Chade’s reward but by that time, neither Chade nor I was surprised at his news. With every piece of evidence of how well they had planned their attack and escape, my heart sank. I was virtually certain the raiders were the Servants that the Fool had described. He had said they would stop for nothing in their quest for the Unexpected Son.
“So why take our daughters?” Chade demanded in an almost-quiet moment between victims of our tea.
I spoke aloud my best theory. “As hostages. They think we know where this other child is, and so they take our daughters to hold hostage. If I am correct, they will soon send some sort of a message, offering to exchange our children for the boy they seek.”
Chade shook his head. “They should have sent the message already, then. Or left it here for us to find. Why cover their tracks so well if they only wanted to frighten us? And why brutalize Shine, if they hope to sell her back to me? Why treat Bee like a princess and drag Shine off as if she were plunder?”
I had one other possible theory. “Bulen said they seemed to think Bee was the boy they sought. The Unexpected Son.”
He frowned at me in consternation. “You think that is possible? Does your daughter look like a boy?”
“Not to me,” I said tersely. Then I had to add, “But she is not fond of ruffles or lace. Nor is she the most feminine of little girls.” I thought of her in her tunic and leggings, with dirt on her knees. Her hair chopped short for mourning. “I’m going back to Buckkeep,” I announced, surprising even myself.
