to comprehend. Yet as much as I longed to sit down and talk with him, greater was my dread that he would uncover my treachery. Better, I decided, to avoid my friend than have to confront that in his eyes. I strode sullenly through the dark streets, alone. The night wind on the back of my neck chilled me as it pushed me back toward Buckkeep Castle.
The Tawny Man 3 - Fools Fate
chapter 3
TREPIDATION
Then Hoquin was enraged with those who questioned his treatment of his Catalyst, and he resolved to make a show of his authority over her. “Child she may be,” he declared. “And yet the burden is hers and it must be borne. And nothing must make her question her role, or sway her to save herself at the expense of condemning the world.”
And then he required of her that she go to her parents, and deny them both, saying, “I have no mother, I have no father. I am only the Catalyst of the White Prophet Hoquin.” And further she must say, “I give you back the name you gave me. I am Redda no longer, but Wild-eye, as Hoquin has made me.” For he had named her thus for her one eye that always peered to one side.
This she did not wish to do. She wept as she went, she wept as she spoke the words, and she wept as she returned. For two days and two nights, the tears did not cease to flow from her eyes, and he allowed her this mourning. Then Hoquin said to her, “Wild-eye, cease your tears.”
And she did. Because she must.
--SCRIBE CATEREN, OF THE WHITE PROPHET HOQUIN
When a journey is twelve days away, that can seem plenty of time to put all in readiness. Even at seven days away, it seems possible that all preparations will be completed on time. But as the days dwindle to five and four and then three, the passing hours burst like bubbles, and tasks that seemed simple suddenly become complex. I needed to pack all I would require to be assassin, spy, and Skillmaster, while appearing to carry only the ordinary gear of a guardsman. I had farewells to make, some simple and some difficult.
The only part of the trip that I could look forward to with pleasure was our eventual return to Buckkeep. Dread can weary a man more than honest labor, and mine built with each passing day. Three nights before we were to sail, I felt exhausted and half-sick with it. That tension woke me long before dawn and denied me any more sleep. I sat up. The embers in the tower room's fireplace illuminated little more than the shovel and poker leaning to one side of the hearth's mouth. Then my eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom of the windowless chamber. It was a place familiar to me from my days as the assassin's apprentice. Little had I thought that I would ever make it my own. I rose from Chade's old bed, leaving behind the nightmare-rucked blankets and the warmth of sleep.
I padded over to the fireplace and added a small log. I hung a pot of water from the hook and swung it over the low flames. I thought of putting on a kettle for tea but felt too weary still. I was too worried to sleep and too tired to admit that I was now awake for the day. It was a miserable place, one that had become achingly familiar as our departure date grew closer. I kindled a taper from the fire's dancing flames. I lit the waiting candles in the branched candelabrum on the scarred old worktable. The chair was cold beneath me as I sat down with a groan.
I sat at the worktable in my nightshirt and stared at the various charts I had assembled last night. They were all of Outislander origin, but so varied in size and composition that it was difficult to see their relationship to one another. It is their peculiar custom that charts of the sea can only be made on sea mammal or fish skin. I suspected these charts had been cured in urine, for they had a peculiar and clinging odor. Out Island custom also decrees that each island must be presented as one of their god's
The Tawny Man 3 - Fools Fate
chapter 3
TREPIDATION
Then Hoquin was enraged with those who questioned his treatment of his Catalyst, and he resolved to make a show of his authority over her. “Child she may be,” he declared. “And yet the burden is hers and it must be borne. And nothing must make her question her role, or sway her to save herself at the expense of condemning the world.”
And then he required of her that she go to her parents, and deny them both, saying, “I have no mother, I have no father. I am only the Catalyst of the White Prophet Hoquin.” And further she must say, “I give you back the name you gave me. I am Redda no longer, but Wild-eye, as Hoquin has made me.” For he had named her thus for her one eye that always peered to one side.
This she did not wish to do. She wept as she went, she wept as she spoke the words, and she wept as she returned. For two days and two nights, the tears did not cease to flow from her eyes, and he allowed her this mourning. Then Hoquin said to her, “Wild-eye, cease your tears.”
And she did. Because she must.
--SCRIBE CATEREN, OF THE WHITE PROPHET HOQUIN
When a journey is twelve days away, that can seem plenty of time to put all in readiness. Even at seven days away, it seems possible that all preparations will be completed on time. But as the days dwindle to five and four and then three, the passing hours burst like bubbles, and tasks that seemed simple suddenly become complex. I needed to pack all I would require to be assassin, spy, and Skillmaster, while appearing to carry only the ordinary gear of a guardsman. I had farewells to make, some simple and some difficult.
The only part of the trip that I could look forward to with pleasure was our eventual return to Buckkeep. Dread can weary a man more than honest labor, and mine built with each passing day. Three nights before we were to sail, I felt exhausted and half-sick with it. That tension woke me long before dawn and denied me any more sleep. I sat up. The embers in the tower room's fireplace illuminated little more than the shovel and poker leaning to one side of the hearth's mouth. Then my eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom of the windowless chamber. It was a place familiar to me from my days as the assassin's apprentice. Little had I thought that I would ever make it my own. I rose from Chade's old bed, leaving behind the nightmare-rucked blankets and the warmth of sleep.
I padded over to the fireplace and added a small log. I hung a pot of water from the hook and swung it over the low flames. I thought of putting on a kettle for tea but felt too weary still. I was too worried to sleep and too tired to admit that I was now awake for the day. It was a miserable place, one that had become achingly familiar as our departure date grew closer. I kindled a taper from the fire's dancing flames. I lit the waiting candles in the branched candelabrum on the scarred old worktable. The chair was cold beneath me as I sat down with a groan.
I sat at the worktable in my nightshirt and stared at the various charts I had assembled last night. They were all of Outislander origin, but so varied in size and composition that it was difficult to see their relationship to one another. It is their peculiar custom that charts of the sea can only be made on sea mammal or fish skin. I suspected these charts had been cured in urine, for they had a peculiar and clinging odor. Out Island custom also decrees that each island must be presented as one of their god's
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