Robin Hobb - The Golden Fool

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. Save, perhaps, that we had both dreamed of these creatures, of sea serpents and dragons. But perhaps it is what you do with an extra White Prophet. Cover him over so he is no longer white.’ His voice tightened until the words were hard as knots. ‘It has shamed me so to be marked like this, at her will. It is worse now, to know that the Narcheska is also decorated with the Pale Woman’s markings. As if she claimed us as her tool, her creatures…’ His words faded away.

‘But why did they obey her? How could anyone do a thing like that?’

He laughed bitterly. ‘She is the White Prophet, come to set time in a better path. She has a vision. You do not question her will. Questioning her command can have severe repercussions. Ask Kebal Rawbread. You do as the Pale Woman tells you.’ His shivering had become a wild shaking.

‘You’re cold.’ I would have put a blanket around him, but to do so I would have had to step closer. I don’t think he could have allowed me to do that.

‘No.’ He gave me a sickly smile. ‘I’m afraid. I’m terrified. Please. Please go out while I get dressed again.’

I withdrew, shutting the door quietly behind myself. Then I waited. It seemed to take him a long time to put a shirt on.

When he emerged, he was meticulously attired, every strand of his hair restored to its rightful place. Still, he did not look at me. ‘There’s brandy by the fire for you,’ I told him.

He crossed the room in short nervous steps and took up the glass but did not drink from it. Instead, arms crossed as if he were cold, he stood very close to the fire, hugging his cup to him. He stared fixedly at the floor.

I went into his room and took one of his thick woollen cloaks from the wardrobe there, then he came back and I put it around him. I pulled his chair closer to the hearth, then took him by the shoulders and sat him down in it. ‘Drink the brandy,’ I told him. My voice sounded harsh. ‘I’ll put on the kettle for tea.’

‘Thank you.’ He whispered the words. Horribly, tears began to track down his face. They cut runnels in his carefully-applied paint, and dripped paleness onto his shirt.

I spilled water and burned myself putting the kettle on the hook. When it was in place, I dragged my chair close to his. ‘Why are you so scared?’ I asked him. ‘What does it mean?’

He sniffled, an incongruous sound from dignified Lord Golden. Worse, he took the corner of the cloak and wiped his eyes with it. It smeared his Jamaillian cosmetics, and I saw his bare skin. ‘Convergence,’ he said hoarsely. He drew a breath. ‘It means convergence. All comes together. I’m on the right path. I feared I had strayed. But this confirms it. Convergence and confrontation. And time set aright.’

‘I thought that was what you wanted. I thought that was what White Prophets do.’

‘Oh, yes. That is what we do.’ An unnatural calm came over him. He looked at me and met my eyes. I looked into a sorrow older and deeper than I wished to know. ‘A White Prophet finds his Catalyst. The one on whom great events may turn. And he uses him, ruthlessly, to turn time out of his track. Once more my tracks will converge with hers. And we will set our wills against one another, to see who prevails.’ His voice suddenly strangled. ‘Again, death will try to take you.’ His tears had stopped but moisture still glistened on his face. He caught up the hem of the cloak and smeared his face with it again. ‘If I don’t succeed, we’ll both just die.’ Hunched miserably in his chair, he looked up at me. ‘Last time was too close. Twice, I felt you die. But I held you and refused to let you go to peace. Because you are the Catalyst, and I win only if I keep you in this world. Alive no matter how. A friend would have let you go. I heard the wolves calling you. I knew you wanted to go to them. But I didn’t let you. I dragged you back. Because I had to use you.’

I tried to speak calmly. ‘That is the part that I have never understood.’

He looked at me sadly. ‘You understand. You simply refuse to accept it.’ He paused for a moment, then stated it simply. ‘In the world that I seek to sculpt, you live. I am the White Prophet and you are my Catalyst. The Farseer line has an heir and he reigns. It is but one factor, but it is a key factor. In the world the Pale Woman seeks to advance, you do not exist. Failing that, you do not survive. There is no Farseer heir. The Farseer line fails completely. There is no renegade White.’ He dropped his head into his hands and spoke through his fingers. ‘She engineers your death, Fitz. Her machinations are subtle. She is older than I am, and far more sophisticated. She plays a horrible game. Henja is her creature. Make no mistake about that. I do not understand her ploy there, nor why she offers the Narcheska to Dutiful. But she is behind it all, I am certain. She sends death for you, and I try to snatch you out of the way. So far, we have always matched her, you and I. But it has been more your luck than my cleverness that has saved you. Your luck and your… dare I say it? Your magics. Both of them. Still, always, always the odds are against your survival. And the deeper we go in this game, the worse the odds become. This last time… This last time was too much. I don’t want to be the White Prophet any more. I don’t want you to be my Catalyst.’ His voice had degraded to a cracked whisper. ‘But there isn’t any way to stop. The only thing that stops this is if you die.’ He suddenly looked about frantically. I found the brandy bottle and set it within his reach. He didn’t even bother to pour. He uncorked it and drank from the bottle. When he set it down, I reached over and took it.

‘That won’t help anything,’ I told him severely.

He gave me a loose-lipped smile. ‘I can’t go through another one of your deaths. I can’t.’

‘You can’t?’

He gave a giggle of despair. ‘You see. We’re trapped. I’ve trapped you, my friend. My beloved.’

I tried to fit my mind around what he was telling me. ‘If we lose I die,’ I said.

He nodded. ‘If you die, we lose. It’s all the same.’

‘What happens if I live?’

‘Then we win. Not much chance of that, now. Not much chance and getting worse all the time, I’d say. Most likely we lose. You die and the world spirals down into darkness. And ugliness. Despair.’

‘Stop being so cheerful.’ This time I drank out of the bottle. Then I passed it to him. ‘But what if I do live? What if we win? What then?’

He parted the bottle’s mouth from his. ‘What then? Ah.’ He smiled beatifically. ‘Then the world goes on, my friend. Children run down muddy streets. Dogs bark at passing carts. Friends sit and drink brandy together.’

‘Doesn’t sound much different from what we have,’ I observed sourly. ‘To go through all this and make no difference at all.’

‘Yes.’ He agreed beatifically. His eyes filled with tears. ‘Not much different from the wondrous and amazing world that we have now. Boys falling in love with girls that aren’t right for them. Wolves hunting on the snowy plains. And time. Endless time unwinding for all of us. And the dragons, of course. Dragons sliding across the sky like beautiful jewelled ships.’

‘Dragons. That sounds different.’

‘Does it?’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Does it really? I think not. Remember with your heart. Go back, go back, and go back. The skies of this world were always meant to have dragons. When they are not there, humans miss them. Some never think of them, of course. But some children, from the time they are small, they look up at a blue summer sky and watch for something that never comes. Because they know. Something that was supposed to be there faded and vanished. Something that we must bring back, you and I.’