If you kill me, you will burn your­self. You will lose your own Skill if you kill me with it.

  I had thought of that. I had never much en­joyed be­ing Skilled. I would rather far be Wit­ted than Skilled. It would be no loss.

  I forced my­self to re­call Ga­len. I called to mind the fan­at­ical co­terie he had cre­ated for Regal. It gave shape to my pur­pose.

  As I had longed to do for so long, I loosed my Skill upon him.

  Af­ter­wards, there was little left of Will. But I sat by him, and gave him wa­ter when he asked for it. I even covered him when he com­plained faintly of cold. It puzzled the wolf, my death-watch. A knife across his throat would have been so much faster for both of us. Kinder, per­haps. But I had de­cided I was no longer an as­sas­sin. So I waited for his last breath, and when he sighed it out, I stood up and walked away.

  It is a long way from the Moun­tain King­dom to the coast of Buck. Even as the dragon flies, tire­lessly and swift, it is a long, long way. For a few days, Nighteyes and I knew peace. We trav­elled far from the empty Stone Garden, far from the black Skill road. We were both too stiff to hunt well, but we had found a good trout stream and we fol­lowed it. The days were al­most too warm, the nights clear and kind. We fished, we ate, we slept. I thought only of things that did not hurt. Not of Molly in Burrich’s em­brace, but of Nettle sheltered by his good right arm. He would be a good father to her. He had had prac­tice. I even found it in me to hope that she might have younger broth­ers and sis­ters in years to come. I thought of peace re­turn­ing to the Moun­tain King­dom, of Red Ships driven from the coast of the Six Duch­ies. I healed. Not com­pletely. A scar is never the same as good flesh, but it stops the bleed­ing.

  I was there on the sum­mer af­ter­noon when Ver­ity-as-Dragon ap­peared in the skies over Buck­keep. With him, I saw the shin­ing black towers and tur­rets of Buck­keep Castle far be­low us. Bey­ond the castle, where Buck­keep Town had been, were the blackened shells of build­ings and ware­houses. Forged ones ambled through the streets, pushed aside by swag­ger­ing Raid­ers. Masts with tat­ters of can­vas dangling from them thrust up through the calm wa­ters. A dozen Red Ships rocked peace­fully in the har­bour. I felt the heart of Ver­ity-as-Dragon swell with an­ger. I swear I heard Kettricken’s cry of an­guish at the sight.

  Then the great tur­quoise and sil­ver dragon was alight­ing in the centre grounds of Buck­keep Castle. He ig­nored the flight of ar­rows that rose to meet him, ig­nored, too, the cries of the sol­diers who cowered be­fore him, sense­less as his shadow spread over them and his great wings beat to lower his bulk to the ground. It was a won­der he did not crush them. Even as he was alight­ing, Kettricken was try­ing to stand up upon his shoulders, cry­ing to the guard to lower their pikes and stand away.

  On the ground, he dipped his shoulder to let a dishevelled Queen Kettricken dis­mount. Starling Bird­song slid down be­hind her and dis­tin­guished her­self by bow­ing to the line of pikes that were poin­ted at them. I saw not a few faces I re­cog­nized, and shared Ver­ity’s pain at how priva­tion had trans­formed them. Then Pa­tience came forth, pike gripped tightly, helm askew upon her bundled hair. She pushed through the awe-stricken guards, her hazel eyes flinty in a pinched face. At the sight of the dragon, she hal­ted. Her gaze went from the Queen to the dragon’s dark eyes. She took a breath, caught it, then breathed the word. ‘Eld­er­ling.’ Then she threw both helm and pike into the air with a whoop, and rushed for­ward to em­brace Kettricken, cry­ing, ‘An Eld­er­ling! I knew it, I knew it, I knew they would come back!’ She spun on her heel, is­su­ing a flurry of or­ders that in­cluded everything from a hot bath for the Queen to ready­ing a charge from the gates of Buck­keep Castle. But what I will al­ways hold in my heart is the mo­ment when she turned back, to stamp her foot at Ver­ity-as-Dragon and tell him to hurry up and get those damned ships out of her har­bour.

  The Lady Pa­tience of Buck­keep had be­come used to be­ing obeyed swiftly.

  Ver­ity rose and went to the battle as he al­ways had. Alone. Fi­nally, he had his wish, to con­front his en­emies, not with the Skill, but in the flesh. On his very first pass, a slash of his tail shattered two of their ships. He in­ten­ded that none should es­cape him. It was but hours later that the Fool and Girl on a Dragon and their fol­low­ers ar­rived to join him, but by then not a Red Ship re­mained in Buck Har­bour. They joined him in his hunt­ing through the steep streets of what had been Buck­keep Town. It was not yet even­ing when the streets were empty of Raid­ers. Those who had sheltered in the castle poured back into the town, to weep at the wreck­age, it is true, but also to come near and won­der at the Eld­er­lings who had re­turned to save them. Des­pite the num­ber of dragons who came, Ver­ity was the dragon that the folk of Buck would re­mem­ber clearest. Not that folk re­mem­ber any­thing too clearly when dragons are fly­ing over­head, cast­ing their shad­ows be­low. Still, he is the dragon one sees on all the tapestries of the Cleans­ing of Buck.

  It was a sum­mer of dragons for the Coastal Duch­ies. I saw it all, or as much as would fit into my sleep­ing hours. Even awake, I was aware of it, like thun­der more felt than heard from the dis­tance. I knew when Ver­ity led the dragons north­ward, to purge all Buck and Bearns and even the Near Is­lands of Red Ships and Raid­ers. I saw the scour­ing of Ripple Keep, and the re­turn of Faith, Duch­ess of Bearns, to her proper keep. Girl on a Dragon and the Fool flew south along the coast of Rip­pon and Shoaks, root­ing Raid­ers out from their strong­holds on the is­lands as well. How Ver­ity con­veyed to them that they must feed only on the Raid­ers, I do not know, but that line was held. The folk of the Six Duch­ies feared them not. Chil­dren ran out from huts and cot­tages, to point over­head at the jew­elled passing of the creatures. When the dragons slept, tem­por­ar­ily sa­ti­ated, on the beaches and in the pas­tures, the people came out to walk among them fear­lessly, to touch with their own hands these jewel-glit­ter­ing creatures. And every­where the Raid­ers had es­tab­lished strong­holds, the dragons fed well.

  The sum­mer died slowly, and au­tumn came to shorten the days and prom­ise storms to come. As the wolf and I gave thought to shel­ter for the winter, I had dreams of dragons fly­ing over shores I had never seen be­fore. Wa­ter churned cold against those harsh shores, and ice en­croached on the edges of their nar­row bays. The Out Is­lands, I sur­mised. Ver­ity had al­ways longed to bring the war to their shores, and did so with a ven­geance. And that, too, was as it had been in King Wis­dom’s time.

  It was winter and snows had come to the higher reaches of the Moun­tains but not to the val­ley where the hot springs steamed in the chill air when the dragons last passed over my head. I came to the door of my hut to watch them pass, fly­ing in great form­a­tions like mi­grat­ing geese. Nighteyes turned his head to their strange calls, and sent up a howl of his own in an­swer. As they swept over me, the world blinked around me and I lost all but the vaguest memory of it. I could not tell you if Ver­ity led their flight, or even if Girl on a Dragon was among them. I only knew that peace had been re­stored to the Six Duch­ies and that no Red Ships would ven­ture near our shores again. I hoped they would all sleep well in the Stone Garden as they had be­fore. I went back into the hut to turn the rab­bit on the cook­ing spit. I looked for­ward to a long quiet winter.

  So the prom­ised aid of the Eld­er­lings was brought to the Six Duch­ies. They came, just as they had in King Wis­dom’s time, and drove the Red Ships from the shores of the Six Duch­ies. Two great sailed White Ships were sunk as well in that great cleans­ing. And just as in King Wis­dom’s time, their out­stretched shad­ows on the folk be­low stole mo­ments of life and memory as they passed. All the myriad shapes and col­ours of the dragons made their way into the scrolls and tapestries of that time, just as they had be­fore. And folk filled in what they could not re­mem­ber of the battles when dragons filled the sky over­head, with guesses and fan­cies. Min­strels made songs of it. All the songs say that Ver­ity came home him­self upon the tur­quoise dragon, and rode the beast into the battle against the Red Ships. And the best songs say that when the fight­ing was over, Ver­ity was car­ried off by the Eld­er­lings, to feast with them in great hon­our and then sleep be­side them in their ma­gic castle un­til such time as Buck shall need to call on him again. So the truth be­came, as Starling had told me, some­thing big­ger than the facts. It was, after all, a time for her­oes and all sorts of mar­vel­lous things to oc­cur.

  As when Regal him­self came rid­ing, at the head of a column of six thou­sand Far­row men, to bring aid and sup­plies, not just to Buck, but to all the Coastal Duch­ies. The news of his re­turn had pre­ceded him, as had the barges of live­stock, grain and treas­ures from Trade­ford Hall it­self that came in a steady stream down the Buck River. All spoke in won­der, of how the prince had star­ted up from a dream, and run half-dressed through the halls of Trade­ford, mi­ra­cu­lously fore­tell­ing the re­turn of King Ver­ity to Buck­keep and the sum­mon­ing of the Eld­er­lings to save the Six Duch­ies. Birds were sent, with­draw­ing all troops from the Moun­tains and of­fer­ing his most humble apo­lo­gies and gen­er­ous mon­et­ary re­par­a­tion to King Eyod. He summoned his nobles, to fore­tell to them that Queen Kettricken would bear Ver­ity’s child, and that he, Regal, wished to be first to pledge fealty to the next Farseer mon­arch. In hon­our of the day, he had ordered all gal­lows pulled down and burned, all pris­on­ers pardoned and freed, and the King’s Circle was to be re­named the Queen’s Garden, and planted with trees and flowers from all six of the duch­ies as a sym­bol of new unity. When, later that day, the Red Ships at­tacked the out­skirts of Trade­ford, Regal him­self called for his horse and ar­mour, and rode to lead the de­fence of his folk. Side by side he fought, next to mer­chants and long­shore­men, nobles and beg­gars. He gained in that battle the love of the com­mon folk of Trade­ford. When he an­nounced his al­le­gi­ance must al­ways be to the child Queen Kettricken car­ried, they joined their vows to his.

  When he reached Buck­keep, it is said he re­mained on his knees and robed only in sack­cloth at the gate of Buck­keep Castle for some days un­til the Queen her­self deigned to come forth and ac­cept his most ab­ject apo­lo­gies for ever doubt­ing her hon­our. Into her hands he re­turned both the crown of the Six Duch­ies, and the sim­pler band of the King-in-Wait­ing. He no longer wished, he told her, to hold any higher title than uncle to his mon­arch. The Queen’s pale­ness and si­lence at his words were put down to the un­easy stom­ach her preg­nancy gave her. To Lord Chade, the Queen’s ad­vi­sor, he re­turned all the scrolls and books of Skill­mas­ter So­li­city, with the plea that he guard them well, for there was much in them that could be turned to evil in the wrong hands. He had lands and a title he wished to con­fer on the Fool, as soon as he re­turned from his war­ri­or­ing to Buck­keep. And to his dear, dear sis­ter-in-law Lady Pa­tience, he re­turned the ru­bies that Chiv­alry had given her, for they could never grace any neck as finely as they did her own.

  I had con­sidered hav­ing him erect a statue in my memory, but had de­cided that would be go­ing too far. The fan­at­ical loy­alty I had im­prin­ted on him would be my best me­morial. While Regal lived, Queen Kettricken and her child would have no more loyal sub­ject.

  Ul­ti­mately, of course, that was not long. All have heard of the tra­gic and bizarre death of Prince Regal. The ra­bid creature that sav­aged him in his bed one night left bloody tracks, not just on his bed-clothes, but all about the bed­cham­ber, as if it had ex­ul­ted in its deed. Gos­sip had it that it was an ex­tremely large river rat that had some­how jour­neyed with him all the way from Trade­ford. It was most dis­turb­ing to all the folk in the Keep. The Queen had the rat-dogs brought in, to scour every cham­ber, but to no avail. The beast was never cap­tured or killed, though ru­mours of sight­ings of the im­mense rat were rampant among the keep ser­vants. Some say that that was why, for months af­ter­wards, Lord Chade was sel­dom seen without his pet fer­ret.

  FORTY-ONE

  The Scribe

  If the truth be known, For­ging was not an in­ven­tion of the Red Ships. We had taught it well to them, back in the days of King Wis­dom. The Eld­er­lings that took our re­venge on the Out Is­lands soared many times over that coun­try of is­lands. Many Outis­landers were de­voured out­right, but many oth­ers were over­flown by dragons so of­ten that they were stripped of their memor­ies and feel­ings. They be­came cal­lous strangers to their own kin. That was the griev­ance that had rankled so amongst that long-memor­ied folk. When the Red Ships sailed, it was not to claim Six Duch­ies ter­rit­ory or wealth. It was for re­venge. To do to us as so long ago we had done to them, in the days of their great, great grand­moth­ers.

  What one folk know, an­other may dis­cover. They had schol­ars and wise folk of their own, des­pite Six Duch­ies dis­dain of them as bar­bar­i­ans. So it was that men­tion of dragons was stud­ied by them, in every an­cient scroll they could find. While it would be dif­fi­cult to find ab­so­lute proof, it seems to me that some cop­ies of scrolls col­lec­ted by the Skill­mas­ters of Buck might ac­tu­ally have been sold, in the days be­fore the Red Ships men­aced our coasts, to Outis­lander traders who paid well for such things. And when the slow move­ment of gla­ci­ers bared, on their own shores, a dragon carved of black stone and out­crop­pings of more of that black stone, their wise men com­bined their know­ledge with the in­sa­ti­able lust for ven­geance of one Ke­bal Raw­bread. They re­solved to cre­ate dragons of their own, and visit upon the Six Duch­ies the same sav­age de­struc­tion we had once served upon them.

  Only one White Ship was driven ashore by the Eld­er­lings when they cleansed Buck. The dragons de­voured all her crew, down to the last man. In her hold were found only great blocks of shin­ing black stone. Locked within them, I be­lieve, were the stolen lives and feel­ings of the folk of the Six Duch­ies who had been Forged. Their stud­ies had led the Outis­lander schol­ars to be­lieve that stone suf­fi­ciently im­bued with life-force could be fash­ioned into dragons to serve the Outis­landers. It is chilling to think how close they came to dis­cov­er­ing the com­plete truth of cre­at­ing a dragon.

  Circles and circles, as the Fool once told me. The Outis­landers raided our shore, so King Wis­dom brought the Eld­er­lings to drive them back. And the Eld­er­lings Forged the Outis­landers with Skill when they flew over their huts so fre­quently. Gen­er­a­tions later, they came to raid our shores and Forge our folk. So King Ver­ity went to wake the Eld­er­lings, and the Eld­er­lings drove them back. And Forged them in the pro­cess. I won­der if once more the hate will fester un­til …

  I sigh and set my quill aside. I have writ­ten too much. Not all things need to be told. Not all things should be told. I take up the scroll and make my slow way to the hearth. My legs are cramped from sit­ting on them. It is a cold damp day, and the fog off the ocean has found every old in­jury on my body and awakened it. The ar­row wound is still worst. When cold tight­ens that scar, I feel its pull on every part of my body. I throw the vel­lum onto the coals. I have to step over Nighteyes to do it. His muzzle is grey­ing now and his bones do not like this weather any more than mine do.

  You are get­ting fat. All you do any more is lie by the hearth and bake your brains. Why don’t you go hunt­ing?

  He stretches and sighs. Go bother the boy in­stead of me. The fire needs more wood.

  But be­fore I can call him, my boy comes into the room. He wrinkles his nose at the smell of burn­ing vel­lum and gives me a scath­ing look. ‘You should have just asked me to bring more wood. Do you know how much good vel­lum costs?’

  I make no reply, and he just sighs and shakes his head over me. He goes out to re­plen­ish the wood sup­ply.

  He is a gift from Starling. I have had him for two years now, and I am still not used to him. I do not be­lieve I was ever a boy such as he is. I re­call the day she brought him to me, and I have to smile. She had come, as she does, some twice or thrice a year, to visit me and chide me for my her­mit ways. But that time she had brought the boy to me. He had sat out­side on a skinny pony while she poun­ded on my door. When I opened to her, she had im­me­di­ately turned and called to him, ‘Get down and come in­side. It’s warm here.’

  He had slid from the pony’s bare back and then stood by him, shiv­er­ing, as he stared at me. His black hair blew across his face. He clutched an old cloak of Starling’s about his nar­row shoulders.

  ‘I’ve brought you a boy,’ Starling an­nounced, and grinned at me.

  I met her gaze in­cred­u­lously. ‘Do you mean … he is mine?’

  She shrugged at me. ‘If you’ll have him. I thought he might do you good.’ She paused. ‘Ac­tu­ally, I thought you might do him good. With cloth­ing and reg­u­lar meals and such. I’ve cared for him as long as I can, but a min­strel’s life …’ She let her words trail off.

  ‘Then he is … Did you, did we …’ I floundered my way through the words, deny­ing my hope. ‘He is your son? Mine?’

  Her grin had widened at that, even as her eyes had softened in sym­pathy. She shook her head. ‘Mine? No. Yours? I sup­pose it’s pos­sible. Did you pass through Flounder Cove about eight years ago? That’s where I found him six months ago. He was eat­ing rot­ten ve­get­ables from a vil­lage mid­den heap. His mother is dead, and his eyes don’t match, so her sis­ter wouldn’t have him. She says he’s a de­mon-got­ten bas­tard.’ She cocked her head at me and smiled as she ad­ded, ‘So I sup­pose he might be yours.’ She turned back to him again and raised her voice. ‘Come in­side, I tell you. It’s warm. And a real wolf lives with him. You’ll like Nighteyes.’