for marriages and for children. But those were like the clan tattoo on Peottre’s brow, a simple pattern of blue marks.
Elliania’s tattoos were nothing like that. I’d never seen anything to compare to them. They were beautiful, the colours brilliant, the designs sharp and clear. The colours had a sparkling metallic quality to them, reflecting the lamplight like a polished blade. The creatures that sprawled and twined on her shoulders and spine and down her ribs gleamed and glistened. And one, an exquisite green serpent that began at the nape of her neck and meandered down her back amongst the others, stood out puffily, like a fresh burn blister. It was oddly lovely, for it gave the impression that the creature was trapped just below her skin, like a butterfly trying to break free from its chrysalis. At the sight of it, Peottre gave a sharp exclamation of sympathy. He opened the bundled cloak at his feet to reveal a mound of fresh, white snow. Cupping a handful of it, he held it to the serpent’s head. To my horror, I heard a sizzling like a quenched blade. The snow melted immediately, to run down her spine in a narrow rivulet. Elliania cried out at the touch, but it was a cry of both shock and relief.
‘Here,’ Peottre said gruffly. ‘A moment.’ He spread his cloak out and then pushed the snow out into an even layer on it. ‘Lie down here,’ he instructed her, and helped her from the stool. He eased her back onto the bed of snow and she whimpered as it quenched the burning. I could see her face now, and the sweat that ran from her brow as well as the tears that still flowed down her face. She lay still, eyes closed, her new breasts rising and falling with each ragged breath she took. After a few moments, she began to shiver, but she did not roll away. Peottre had taken the discarded blanket and was wetting it fresh with water from a pitcher. He brought it back to her and set it by her side. ‘I’m going out for more snow,’ he told her. ‘If that melts and stops soothing your back, try this blanket. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
She unclenched her jaws and wet her lips. ‘Hurry,’ she pleaded in a gasp.
‘I will, little one. I will.’ He stood up, and then said gravely, each word solemn, ‘Our mothers bless you for what you endure. Damn these Farseers and their stiff-necked ways. And damn those dragon-breeders.’
The Narcheska rolled her head back and forth on the snow bed. ‘I just … I just wish I knew what she wanted. What she expected me to do about it, past what we have done.’
Peottre had begun moving about the room, looking for something to carry snow in. He had picked up the Narcheska’s cloak. ‘We both know what she expects,’ he said harshly.
‘I am not a woman yet,’ she said quietly. ‘It is against the mothers’ law.’
‘It is against my law,’ Peottre clarified, as if his will was the only one that mattered in this. ‘I will not see you used that way. There must be another path.’ Unwillingly, he asked, ‘Has Henja come to you? Has she said why you are tormented like this?’
Her nod was a jerk of her head. ‘She insists I must bind him to me. Open my legs to him to be sure of him before I leave. It is the only path she believes in.’ Elliania spoke through gritted teeth. ‘I slapped her and she left. And then the pain became fourfold.’
Anger froze his features. ‘Where is she?’
‘She is not here. She took her cloak and left. Perhaps it is to avoid your temper, but I think she has gone into the town again, to further her cause there.’ Elliania’s teeth clenched in a smile. ‘Just as well. Our position here is difficult enough without having to explain why you’ve killed my maid in a fury.’
I think her words recalled him to practicality, even if they did not calm him.
‘It is well that slut is out of my reach. But aren’t you a bit late to counsel me to restraint? My little warrior, you have inherited your uncle’s temper. Your act was not wise, but I cannot find it in me to rebuke you for it. That empty-souled whore. She truly believes that is the only way a man can be bound to a woman.’
Unbelievably, the Narcheska gave a small laugh. ‘It is the only one she believes in, Uncle. I did not say it was the only one I knew. Pride may bind a man, even where there is no love. That is the thought I cling to now.’ Then her brow clenched in pain. ‘Fetch more snow, please,’ she gasped, and he nodded sharply and went out.
I watched him go. Then she sat up slowly. She scraped the melting snow into a narrower pallet. The tattoos on her back stood out as glowingly as ever. Around them, her bared flesh was bright red from cold. Gingerly she lay back down on her snow couch. She took a breath and lifted the backs of her hands to her brows. I recalled that one scroll had said that was how Outislanders prayed. But the only words she said were, ‘My Mother. My Sister. For you. My Mother. My Sister. For you.’ It soon became a toneless chant in time with her breathing.
I sat back on my stool. I was trembling, as much with awe at her courage as pity for what she suffered. I wondered what I had just witnessed and what was the significance of it. My candle had burned down to half its length. I took it up and slowly climbed the rest of the stairs to Chade’s tower room. I was exhausted and downhearted and sought familiar comfort somewhere. But when I reached there, the room was empty and the fire gone out. A sticky wine glass stood empty on the table by the chairs. I cleaned the ashes from the hearth, muttering to myself at Thick’s neglect of his duties, and built a fresh fire.
Then I took paper and ink and wrote down what I had witnessed. I coupled it to the previous interplay I had witnessed between Elliania, Peottre and the serving-woman Henja. Plainly the last one was a woman to be watched. I sanded the fresh ink, tapped it off and left the paper on Chade’s chair. I hoped he would come up to the rooms tonight. I reflected again, bitterly, on the stupidity that he refused to let me have a way of contacting him directly. I knew what I had witnessed was important; I hoped he would know why.
Then I reluctantly went back down the stairs to my own chamber. There I stood for a time, in silence, listening. I heard nothing. If Jek and Lord Golden were still there, they were either sitting silently or they were in his bedchamber. After what she had implied about me, that did not seem likely. After a time, I eased the door open a crack. The room was darkened, the fire banked on the hearth. Good. I had no wish to confront either of them just now. I had, I decided, words to say to both of them, but I was not yet calm enough to say them.
Instead I took my cloak from its hook and left Lord Golden’s chamber. I would go out, I decided. I needed to be away from the castle for a time, away from all the interconnecting webs of intrigue and deceit. I felt I was drowning in lies.
I made my way down the stairs and towards the servants’ entrance. But as I walked down the main hall, I felt a sudden shiver in the Wit. I lifted my eyes. Coming towards me from the opposite end of the hall was the veiled Bingtown youth. His veil was over his face, but through the lace that obscured his features I caught the faint blue glow of his eyes. It tightened the flesh on the nape of my neck. I wanted to turn aside, or even turn around and walk away, anything to avoid him. But such an action would have looked very strange. I steeled myself and resolutely walked towards him. I averted my eyes, but then when I dared to glance up at him, I felt his gaze on me. He slowed as we approached one another. When he was very close, I bobbed my head, a servant’s gesture of acknowledgement. But before I could pass him, he stopped and stood still. ‘Hello,’ he greeted me.
I stiffened and became a correct Buckkeep servant. I bowed from the waist. ‘Good evening, sir. May I be of service?’
‘I … Yes … Perhaps you could.’ He lifted his veil and pushed back his hood as he spoke, baring his scaled face. I could not help but gawk at him. Up close, his visage was even more remarkable than what I had glimpsed earlier. I had over-estimated his age. He was years younger than Hap or Dutiful, though I could not guess his exact age. His height made his boyish face incongruous. The silvery gleam in the scaling on his cheekbones and brow reminded me of the Narcheska’s glimmering tattoos. Abruptly, I recognized that this scaling was what the Jamaillian make-up Lord Golden sometimes wore mimicked. It was an odd little insight, one I stored away with all the other significant things that the Fool had never bothered to explain to me. Doubtless, when it suited his purpose, he would reveal it to me. Doubtless. Bitterness