Not just Hap had changed in my eyes. Starling was vibrant as ever, grinning as she flung a leg over her horse and slid down from him. Yet as she came toward me with her arms flung wide to hug me, I realized how little I knew of her present life. I looked down into her merry dark eyes and noted for the first time the crow'sfeet beginning at the comers. Her garb had become richer over the years, the quality of her mounts better, and her jewelry more costly. Today her thick dark hair was secured with a clasp of heavy silver. Clearly, she prospered. Three or four times a year, she would descend on me, to stay a few days and overturn my calm life with her stories and songs. For the days she was there, she would insist on spicing the food to her taste, she would scatter an overlay of her possessions upon my table and desk and floor, and my bed would no longer be a place to seek when was exhausted. The days that immediately followed her departure would remind me of a country road with dust hanging heavy in the air in the wake of a puppeteer's caravan. I would have the same sense of choked breath and hazed vision until I once more settled into my humdrum routine.
I hugged her back, hard, smelling both dust and perfume in her hair. She stepped away from me, looked up into my face, and immediately demanded, “What's wrong? Something's different.”
I smiled ruefully. “I'll tell you later,” I promised, and we both knew that it would be one of our latenight conversations.
“Go wash,” she agreed. “You smell like my horse.” She gave me a slight push, and I stepped clear of her to greet Hap. “So, lad, how was it? Did a Buckkeep Springfest live up to Starling's tales?”
“It was good,” he said neutrally. He gave me one full look, and his mismatched eyes, one brown, one blue, were full of torment.
“Hap?” I began concernedly, but he shrugged away from me before I could touch his shoulder.
He walked away from me, but perhaps he regretted his surly greeting, for a moment later he croaked, “I'm going to the stream to wash. I'm covered in road dust.”
Go with him. I'm not sure what's wrong, but he needs a friend.
Preferably one that can't ask questions, Nighteyes agreed.
Head low, tail straight out, he followed the boy. In his own way, he was as fond of Hap as I was, and had had as much to do with his raising.
When they were out of eyeshot, I turned back to Starling. “Do you know what that was about?”
She shrugged, a twisted smile on her lips. “He's fifteen. Does a sullen mood have to be about anything at that age? Don't bother yourself over it. It could be anything: a girl at Springfest who didn't kiss him, or one who did. Leaving Buckkeep or coming home. A bad sausage for breakfast. Leave him alone. He'll be fine.”
I looked after him as he and the wolf vanished into the trees. “Perhaps I remember being fifteen a bit differently from you,” I commented.
I saw to her horse and Clover the pony while Starling went into the cottage, reflecting as I did so that no matter what my mood, Burrich would have ordered me to see to my horse before I wandered off. Well, I was not Burrich, I thought to myself. I wondered if he held the same line of discipline with Nettle and Chivalry and Nim as he had with me, and then wished I had asked Chade the rest of his children's names. By the time the horses were comfortable, I was wishing that Chade had not come. His visit had stirred too many old memories to the surface. Resolutely, I pushed them away. Bones fifteen years old, the wolf would have told me. I touched minds with him briefly. Hap had splashed some water on his face, and strode off into the woods, muttering and walking so carelessly that there was no chance they'd see any game. I sighed for them both, and went into the cottage.
Inside, Starling had dumped the contents of her saddlebags on the table. Her discarded boots were lying across the doorsill; her cloak festooned a chair. The kettle was just starting to boil. She stood on a stool before my cupboard. As I came in, she held out a small brown crock to me. “Is this tea any good still? It smells odd.”
“It's excellent, when I'm in enough pain to choke it down. Come down from there.” I set my hands to her waist and lifted her easily, though the old scar on my back gave a twinge as I set her on the floor. “Sit. I'll make the tea. Tell me about Springfest.”
So she did, while I clattered out my few cups, cut slices from my last loaf, and put the rabbit stew to warm. Her tales of Buckkeep were the kind I had become accustomed to hearing from her: she spoke of minstrels who had performed well or badly, gossiped of lords and ladies I had never known, and condemned or praised food from various nobles' tables where she had guested. She told each tale wittily, making me laugh or shake my head as it called for, with nary a pang of the pain that Chade had wakened in me. I supposed it was because he had spoken of the folk we had both known and loved, and told his stories from that intimate perspective. It was not Buckkeep itself or city life that I pined for, but my childhood days and the friends I had known. In that I was safe; it was impossible to return to that time. Only a few of those folk even knew that I still lived, and that was as I wished it to be. I said as much to Starling: “Sometimes your tales tug at my heart and make me wish I could return to Buckkeep. But that is a world closed to me now.”
