“I thought that was what you wanted. I thought that was what White Prophets do.”
“Oh, yes. That is what we do.” An unnatural calm came over him. He looked at me and met my eyes. I looked into a sorrow older and deeper than I wished to know. “A White Prophet finds his Catalyst. The one on whom great events may turn. And he uses him, ruthlessly, to turn time out of his track. Once more my tracks will converge with hers. And we will set our wills against one another, to see who prevails.” His voice suddenly strangled. “Again, death will try to take you.” His tears had stopped but moisture still glistened on his face. He caught up the hem of the cloak and smeared his face with it again. “If I don’t succeed, we’ll both just die.” Hunched miserably in his chair, he looked up at me. “Last time was too close. Twice, I felt you die. But I held you and refused to let you go to peace. Because you are the Catalyst, and I win only if I keep you in this world. Alive no matter how. A friend would have let you go. I heard the wolves calling you. I knew you wanted to go to them. But I didn’t let you. I dragged you back. Because I had to use you.”
I tried to speak calmly. “That is the part that I have never understood.”
He looked at me sadly. “You understand. You simply refuse to accept it.” He paused a moment, then stated it simply. “In the world that I seek to sculpt, you live. I am the White Prophet and you are my Catalyst. The Farseer line has an heir and he reigns. It is but one factor, but it is a key factor. In the world the Pale Woman seeks to advance, you do not exist. Failing that, you do not survive. There is no Farseer heir. The Farseer line fails completely. There is no renegade White.” He dropped his head into his hands and spoke through his fingers. “She engineers your death, Fitz. Her machinations are subtle. She is older than I am, and far more sophisticated. She plays a horrible game. Henja is her creature. Make no mistake about that. I do not understand her ploy there, nor why she offers the Narcheska to Dutiful. But she is behind it all, I am certain. She sends death for you, and I try to snatch you out of the way. So far, we have always matched her, you and I. But it has been more your luck than my cleverness that has saved you. Your luck and your . . . dare I say it? Your magics. Both of them. Still, always, always the odds are against your survival. And the deeper we go in this game, the worse the odds become. This last time . . . This last time was too much. I don’t want to be the White Prophet anymore. I don’t want you to be my Catalyst.” His voice had degraded to a cracked whisper. “But there isn’t any way to stop. The only thing that stops this is if you die.” He suddenly looked about frantically. I found the brandy bottle and set it within his reach. He didn’t even bother to pour. He uncorked it and drank from the bottle. When he set it down, I reached over and took it.
“That won’t help anything,” I told him severely.
He gave me a loose-lipped smile. “I can’t go through another one of your deaths. I can’t.”
“You can’t?”
He gave a giggle of despair. “You see. We’re trapped. I’ve trapped you, my friend. My beloved.”