And that comfort, thin as it was, was the best I could gain from those visits.
That night, when I could not sleep, I tried to occupy myself. I read several scrolls on the Skill, and the accounts of what had been learned from the memory blocks. Kettricken and Elliania had put their scribes to scouring the libraries of Buckkeep for any mention of Clerres or White Prophets. Four scrolls awaited me. I skimmed them. Hearsay and legend, with a dollop of superstition. I set them aside for Ash to read to the Fool, and comforted myself by imagining that I could poison all the wells in Clerres. The required amount of toxin would depend on the flow of the water. I fell asleep to my calculations.
The next day slowly ticked by. I passed that day as I had the one before. And another day came, with a storm of wind and snow that would delay the Rousters’ return. There had been no word from any of the Witted of soldiers on the road, and nothing from the patrols that Dutiful had dispatched. It was hard to cling to that hope, and harder to let go of it. I told myself that if the storms let up, Thick would get home and we might pry Shine’s word from Chade and Skill it to her. I busied myself as best I could, but each moment seemed a day to me.
I went to see the Fool at least twice every day. The dragon’s blood continued to affect him, with changes that overtook his body so rapidly they were frightening. The scarring on his face, the deliberate tracks of the torturer across the planes of his cheeks and brow, began to fade. His fingers became straighter, and although he still limped, he did not wince with pain at every step. His appetite was the equal of a guardsman’s, and Ash saw to it that he could indulge it.
Spark was most often Ash when I saw her in what had become the Fool’s chambers, though now I caught glimpses of her as Spark about the keep. I marveled at what I saw. It was not merely a change of clothing and a frilled cap with buttons. She was an entirely different creature. She was industrious and thoughtful as Ash, but the occasional smile that came and went on her face was all Spark. A sidelong glance from her was not flirtatious but mysterious. Several times I encountered her in Chade’s rooms doing minor tidying or bringing cool water to replenish his ewer. Her eyes slid by me at such encounters so I never betrayed that I knew her in any other guise. I wondered if anyone other than Chade, the Fool, and me knew of her duality.
It was Ash I spoke with one morning when I had climbed the stairs after what had become a daily practice bout with my guardsmen. I had come to see how the Fool was doing. I found the Fool garbed in a dressing-gown of black and white, sitting at Chade’s worktable as Ash tried valiantly to tame the Fool’s growing hair. To see him garbed so woke my memories of his days as Shrewd’s jester. The new growth on his scalp stood up like the fuzz on a newly hatched chick’s pate, while the hanks that remained of his longer hair hung lank and coarse. As I climbed the final step, I heard Ash say, “It’s hopeless. I’m cutting it all to the same length.”
“I suppose that’s the best solution,” the Fool agreed.
Ash snipped each lock and set it on the table, where the crow immediately investigated it. I had come near silently, but the Fool greeted me with, “What color is my new hair?”
“Like wheat ready for the harvest,” Ash said before I could respond. “But more like dandelion fluff.”
“So it was when we were boys, always floating in a cloud about his face. I think you will look like a dandelion gone to seed until it is long enough for you to bind.”
The Fool put his hand up to touch it, and Ash pushed it away with an annoyed grunt. “So many changes, so fast. Still, each time I wake I am surprised to find myself clean and warm and fed. The pain is still a constant, but the pain of healing is a bearable thing. I almost welcome the deep aches and even the sharp twinges, for each one tells me that I am getting better.”
“And your vision?” I dared to ask.
He fixed his whirling dragon eyes on me. “I see light and darkness. Little more than that. Yesterday, when Ash walked between me and the hearth fire, I perceived his passing shadow. It is not enough, but it is something. I am trying to be patient. How is Chade?”
I shook my head and then recalled he could not see me do that. “Little change that I can see. The sword cut he took is healing, but slowly. The delvenbark has cut him off from his Skill. I know he was using it to maintain his body. I suspect he was consuming other herbs as well. And now he is not. I do not know if I am imagining that the lines in his face are deeper and the flesh fallen from his cheeks, but—”
“You are not imagining it,” Ash said quietly. “Every time I venture into his room, he seems to have aged. As if every change he did with his magic is falling away, and his true age catching up with him.” He set his scissors down, his task finished. Motley pecked at the shining shears, and then decided to groom her feathers instead. “What good have they done if they save him from dying of the Skill only to let him die of his years?”
