Our approach was slow as both wind and water seemed to oppose us. We tacked painfully toward the island. I was at the railing when Dutiful and the Narcheska, accompanied by Chade and Peottre, came out to look at the island. Dutiful scowled at it. “It does not look like a place where any creature would willingly reside, let alone something the size of a dragon. Why would a dragon be there?”
The Narcheska shook her head and spoke softly. “I do not know. I only know that our legends say that he is there. So, thither we must go.” She pulled her wool cloak more closely around her. The wind seemed to carry the island's icy bite to us.
In the afternoon, we rounded a headland and turned back toward Aslevjal's sole bay. Our spies' reports had told us it was a deserted place, with the remnants of a dock and a few stone structures tumbling into disrepair. Yet I glimpsed a patch of bright color on the exposed cliff above the beach. Even as I stared at it, trying to resolve what it was, a figure emerged from it. I decided it was a tent or some sort of shelter. A man came to stand on the tip of the cliff. His black-and-white hooded cloak struggled and flapped around him. He lifted no hand in greeting, but only stood there and awaited us.
“Who is that?” Chade demanded of Peottre when the lookout's cries to the captain had brought them back onto the deck.
“I do not know,” the man replied. Dread was heavy in his voice.
“Perhaps it is the legendary Black Man of the island,” Bloodblade suggested. He leaned forward avidly, studying the solitary figure on the bluffs. “I've always wondered if the tales were true.”
“I don't want to find out,” the Narcheska commented quietly. Her eyes were huge. As we drew closer to the bay, the railing became crowded as we all stared toward our destination and the solitary ominous figure that awaited us there. It was only when we dropped anchor in the bay and our small boats prepared to ferry us and our supplies to shore that he moved. He came down to the beach, and stood at the high-tide line. Even before he threw back his hood, something in my heart turned over. I felt sick with dread.
The Fool awaited me.
Chapter 13
ASLEVJAL
“Forging” was perhaps the most effective weapon that the Outislanders turned against us during the Red Ship War. The technique for “Forging” is still unknown to us, but the dreadful results are all too familiar to many. The name comes from the village of Forge, an iron-mining town that first suffered this horrendous attack. Red Ship raiders attacked in the night, killing or taking hostage most of the population. A “ransom note” to Buckkeep Castle demanded gold, under the threat of releasing the hostages. This made no sense to then King Shrewd, who declined to pay. The Red Ship raiders lived up to their threat, releasing their apparently unharmed hostages and sailing off into the night.
But it swiftly became apparent that, by some arcane magic, the villagers were no longer themselves. Although they knew who they were and what families they belonged to, they no longer seemed to care. Morality and ethics had been stolen from them. They thought only of satisfying their own immediate wants, and did not hesitate to steal, murder, and rape to do so. Some were “captured” by their families and vain efforts were made to restore them to themselves. None ever recovered.
Forging was a tactic used repeatedly during the war. It had the effect of leaving a resident, hostile army on our soil, made up of our own loved ones, at no emotional or financial cost to Kebal Rawbread and his raiders. Killing the Forged ones was a demoralizing and dehumanizing task that fell to our own folk. The scars remain to this day. The town of Forge has never been rebuilt.
— FEDWREN'S “HISTORY OF THE RED SHIP WAR”
I was in the first small boat that touched the shore of Aslevjal, along with the other guardsmen. Moments later, the boat carrying Chade and Dutiful, the Narcheska, Peottre, and Arkon Bloodblade nosed into the sand. We stepped into the shallow water to seize the boat's gunwales, and on the next rising wave, we ran it up onto the shore so that its passengers could step out onto dry sand. The whole time, I was aware of the Fool standing on the lip of the land that overlooked the beach, watching us. He was still, but the cold wind seemed to speak for him. It whipped his cloak and long golden hair with a snapping, muttering sound. He had abandoned the face powder that had lightened his skin, as well as the Jamaillian cosmetic touches that had branded him a foreigner. The rich brown of his skin over the sculpted bones of his face and his tawny mane made him a creature out of a tale. The stark black-and-white of his garb erased every trace of indolent Lord Golden. I wondered if anyone besides Chade and myself had identified him yet. I tried to exchange a look with him, but he stared through me. He spoke only when the Prince stepped out of the boat onto the shore. He swept him a bow.
