Assassin's Quest

As I rose and bundled my blankets together, I wished I could accept it as blithely as he did. I knew Burrich would care for them. It was his nature. I recalled all the years he had watched over me as I had grown. Often I had hated him then; now I could not think of anyone else I would prefer to care for Molly and my baby. Save myself. I would much rather it was I watching over them, even rocking a crying babe in the middle of the night. Though I rather wished, just now, that the pilgrim woman would find a way to quiet her child. I was paying for my Skill-spying of the night before with a savage headache.

Food seemed to be the answer, for when the girl had a piece of bread and some honeycomb, she soon quieted. It was a hasty meal we shared, the only hot item being tea. I noticed Kettle was moving very stiffly and took pity on her. I fetched her a cup of hot tea to wrap her twisted fingers around while I rolled up her blankets for her. I had never seen hands so distorted by rheumatism; they reminded me of bird claws. "An old friend of mine said that sometimes the sting of nettles actually relieved his hands when they ached," I suggested to her as I tied her bundle.

"You find me nettles growing under the snow and I'll try them, boy," she replied peevishly. But a few moments later she was offering me a dried apple from her small store. I accepted it with thanks. I loaded our things onto the cart and harnessed the mare while she finished her tea. I glanced about but saw nothing of Nighteyes.

Hunting, came the reply.

Wish I were with you. Good luck.

Aren't we supposed to speak but little, lest Regal hear us?

I didn't reply. It was a clear cold morning, almost shockingly bright after yesterday's snow. It was colder than it had been the day before; the wind off the river seemed to cut right through my garments, finding the gaps at cuffs and collars to poke its cold fingers through. I helped Kettle mount the cart, and then tucked one of her blankets around her in addition to her wraps. "Your mother trained you well, Tom," she said with genuine kindness.

I still winced at the remark. Starling and Nik stood talking together until everyone else was ready to go. Then she mounted her Mountain pony and took a place beside Nik at the head of our procession. I told myself that it was likely Nik Holdfast would make a better ballad than FitzChivalry anyway. If he could persuade her to go back with him at the Mountain border, my life would only be simpler.

I gave my mind to my task. There was really little to it, other than to keep the mare from lagging too far behind the pilgrims' wagon. I had time to see the country we traversed. We regained the little-used road we had been on the day before and continued to follow the river upstream. Along the river, it was sparsely treed, but a short distance away from the riverbank, it became a rolling, treeless terrain of brush and scrub. Gullies and washes cut our road on their way to the river. It seemed that at some time water had been plentiful here, perhaps in spring. But now the land was dry save for the crystal snow that blew loosely across it like sand and the river in its bed.

"Yesterday the minstrel made you smile to yourself. For whom is the frown today?" Kettle asked quietly.

"I was thinking it a shame, to see what this rich land has come to."

"Were you?" she asked dryly.

"Tell me of this seer of yours," I said, mostly to change the subject.

"He is not mine," she said with asperity. Then she relented. "It is probably a fool's errand I go on. He whom I seek may not even be there. And yet what better use do I have for these years, than to chase a chimera?"

I kept silent. I was beginning to find it was the question she answered best. "Do you know what's in this cart, Tom? Books. Scrolls and writings. Ones I've collected for years. I have gathered them in many lands, learned to read many tongues and letterings. In so many places, I found mention, over and over again, of the White Prophets. They appear at the junctures of history and shape it. Some say they come to set history on its proper course. There are those who believe, Tom, that all of time is a circle. All of history a great wheel, turning inexorably. Just as seasons come and go, just as the moon moves endlessly through her cycle, so does time. The same wars are fought, the same plagues descend, the same folk, good or evil, rise to power. Humanity is trapped on that wheel, doomed endlessly to repeat the mistakes we have already made. Unless someone comes to change it. Far to the south, there is a land where they believe that for every generation, somewhere in the world there is a White Prophet. He or she comes, and if what is taught is heeded, the cycle of time moves into a better course. If it is ignored, all time is pushed into a darker path."

She paused, as if waiting for me to say something. "I know nothing of such teachings," I admitted.