Chade sipped from his revolting cup. He made a face, then swallowed determinedly. I winced sympathetically, and said nothing as he reached a long arm to seize my wineglass and wash away the taste. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse. “As long as Thick remains the only other Skill candidate we have, I will not send him away. I want him where we can watch over him. And where you can try to win his regard. Have you made any efforts with him?”
“I haven’t had the opportunity.” I got up and brought another glass back to the table and poured more wine for both of us. Chade came back to the table. He set the teacup and the wineglass side by side and eyed them dolorously. “I don’t know if he’s avoiding me, or if his other duties for you simply have kept him out of my way.”
“He has had other tasks, of late.”
“Well, that explains his lack of care with his work here,” I observed sourly. “Some days he remembers to replace the candle stubs with fresh tapers, some days he doesn’t. Some days the hearth is cleared of ashes and wood laid for the fire, and sometimes the old ashes and coals remain. I think it’s because he dislikes me so. He does as little as he possibly can.”
“He can’t read, so I can’t give him a list of tasks. Sometimes he remembers to do all I tell him, sometimes he doesn’t. That only makes him a poor servant, not a lazy or spiteful one.” Chade took another mouthful of his brew. This time, despite his efforts, he coughed, spraying the table. I snatched the scrolls out of harm’s way. He wiped his mouth with his kerchief and then blotted the table. “Beg pardon,” he said gravely, his eyes watering. He took a gulp of wine.
“What’s in the tea?”
“Sylvleaf. Witch’s butter. Seacrepe. And a few other herbs.” He took another mouthful of it and chased it down with more wine.
“What’s it for?” A memory tickled at the back of my mind.
“Some problems I’ve been having,” he evaded, but I rose and began to shuffle through the scrolls on the table. I came up with the one I wanted almost immediately. The illustrations were still bright despite the years. I unrolled it and pointed to the sylvleaf drawing.
“Those herbs are named here, as being helpful to open a candidate to the Skill.”
He gave me a flat look. “So?”
“Chade. What are you doing, what are you trying?”
For a moment, he just looked at me. Then he asked coldly, “Are you jealous? Do you also think my birthright should be forbidden me?”
“What?”
An odd sort of anger broke from him in a tumble of words. “I was never even given the chance to be tested for the Skill. Bastards are not taught it. Not until you, when Shrewd made an exception. Yet I am as much Farseer as you are. And I’ve some of the lesser magics, as well you should know by now.”
He was upset, and I didn’t know why. I nodded and said calmingly, “Such as your scrying in water. It was how you knew of the Red Ship attack on Neatbay, all those years ago.”
“Yes,” he said with satisfaction. He sat back in his chair, but his hands scuttled along the table’s edge like spiders. I wondered if the drugs in the tea were affecting him. “Yes, I have magics of my own. And perhaps, given the chance, I’d have the magic of my blood, the magic I’ve a right to. Don’t try to deny it to me, Fitz. For all those years, my own brother forbade me even being tested. I was good enough to watch his back, good enough to teach his sons and his grandson. But I was never good enough to be given my rightful magic.”
I wondered how long the resentment had festered in him. Then I recalled his excitement when Shrewd allowed me to be taught, and his frustration when I seemed to fail and would not even discuss my lessons with him. This was a very old anger, unveiled to me for the first time.
“Why now?” I asked him conversationally. “You’ve had the Skill scrolls for fifteen years. Why have you waited?” I thought I knew what the answer would be: that he had wanted me to be close by, to help him with it. Again, he surprised me.
“What makes you think I waited? But, yes, I’ve applied more effort to it of late, because my need for this magic becomes so desperate. We’ve spoken of this before. I knew you would not wish to help me.”
It was true. Yet if he had asked me just then, I would not have been able to say why. I avoided the question. “What is your need now? The land is relatively peaceful. Why risk yourself?”
“Fitz. Look at me. Look at me! I’m getting old. Time has played me a treacherous trick. When I was young and able, I was locked up in these chambers, forced to remain hidden and powerless. Now, when I have a chance to set the Farseer throne on a firm foundation, when indeed my family needs me most, I am old and becoming feeble. My mind totters, my back aches, my memories cloud. Do you think I haven’t seen the dread on your face whenever I tell you I must look through my journals to find you a tidbit of information? Imagine, then, how I feel. Imagine how it is, Fitz, to not have your own memories at your beck and call anymore. To grope for a name, to suddenly lose the thread of a conversation in the midst of a jest. As a boy, when you thought your body had betrayed you with your fits, you plunged into despair. Yet you always had your mind. I think I’m losing mine.”
