I put my face in my hand and rubbed my brow. “I thought we had to save the world. What has that got to do with dragons?”
“It’s all connected. When you save any part of the world, you’ve saved the whole world. In fact, that’s the only way it can be done.”
I hated his riddles. Hated them passionately. “I don’t know what you want from me.”
He was silent. When I lifted my face to regard him, he was watching me calmly. “It’s safe for me to tell you. You won’t believe me.” He drew a steadying breath. He had the brandy bottle cradled in one arm as if it were his babe. “We have to go on the Prince’s quest with him. To Aslevjal. To find Icefyre. Then we must prevent the Prince from slaying him. Instead we must free the black dragon trapped beneath the ice so he can rise, to become Tintaglia’s consort. So that they can mate and there can be real dragons in the world again.”
“But . . . I can’t do that! Dutiful must cut off the dragon’s head and bring it to the hearth of Elliania’s motherhouse. Otherwise, she will not wed him. All these negotiations and hopes will have been for naught.”
He looked at me and I think he knew how torn I was. He spoke quietly. “Fitz. Set it out of your mind. Don’t think of it for now. The Convergence and the confrontation await us. We need not rush toward them. When the time comes, I promise, you alone will be the one to choose. Do you keep your vowed loyalty to the Farseers or do you save the world for me?” He paused. “One other thing I shall tell you. I should not, but I will. So you do not think that it is your fault when the time comes. Because, I promise you, it will not be. I prophesied it long ago, not understanding what I spoke of until this business of the tattoos was made clear to me. I dreamed it long ago, a child’s wild nightmare. Soon I will live it. So when it happens, you must promise me not to torment yourself with it.”
His shivering had returned as he spoke. His words came out between chattering teeth.
“What is it?” I asked with dread, already knowing.
“This time, on Aslevjal.” A terrified smile trembled at the corners of his mouth. “It is my turn to die.”
Chapter XXIV
CONNECTIONS
The legend of the White Prophet and his Catalyst might be better described as a religion from the far south, only echoes of which have reached Jamaillia. Like many philosophies from the south, it is riddled with superstitions and contradictions, so that no thinking man could subscribe to such foolishness. At the core of the White Prophet heresy is the concept that for “every age” (and this space of time is never defined) there is born a White Prophet. The White Prophet comes to set the world on a better course. He or she (and in this duality of gender we may see some borrowing from the true faith of Sa) does this by means of his or her Catalyst. The Catalyst is a person chosen by the White Prophet because he stands at a juncture of choices. By changing what happens to the Catalyst in his lifetime, the White Prophet enables the world to follow a truer, better course of history. Any thinking man can see that, as there is no way to compare what has happened to what might have happened, White Prophets can always claim to have bettered the world. Nor can any of the adherents of this heresy explain the idea that the world and time roll in a circular track, endlessly repeating itself. A perusal of the history that we have recorded shows quite clearly that this is not so, yet adherents of this false belief will still cling to it.
Delnar, the wise old priest of Sa, has written in his Opinions that not only the followers of this heresy are to be pitied, but also the “White Prophets” themselves. He proves conclusively that such self-deluded fanatics are actually suffering from a rare disorder that drains all pigment from their flesh, at the same time inducing hallucinations of prophetic dreams sent by gods.
WIFLEN, PRIEST OF SA, JOREPIN MONASTERY, “CULTS ANDHERESIES OF THE SOUTHLANDS”
CHADE! I need you, I need you now! Come to me in the workroom.
CHADE! Please hear me, please come!
I Skilled the summons wildly as I staggered up the stairs to my workroom. I do not even recall what urgent errand I had invented for my departure. I’d left him, the Fool and yet no longer the Fool, sitting by his fire with the brandy bottle. Now, heart hammering, I cursed my wasted body as I forced my legs to bend and push me along. I could not tell if Chade could hear me. Then I cursed myself and shifted my attention to Dutiful and Thick. I need to see Lord Chade immediately. It is the greatest urgency. Find him and send him to me in my workroom.
Why? This from Dutiful.
Just do it!
Then, when I did stagger, sweating and puffing, into the workroom, I found Chade sitting impatiently by the hearth. He turned to glare at me. “What has kept you? I heard you’d come back into the castle, and I know Lord Golden would pass on my message. I don’t have all day to wait on you, boy. Important things are afoot, things that require your presence.”
