And then you could kill me, and then you could kill yourself, and no one would ever know of all we had shared. It would remain our shameful secret, taken to the grave with both of us. Kill us all, rather than admit to anyone what we are.
As unerring as a cold pointing finger, the thought jabbed me in the terrible division that had plagued me since we had captured the archer . . . no, since I had first realized that, for the sake of my Farseer oath, I must set myself against the Old Blood and against the Prince's wishes for himself.
“Are you Witted?” Laurel asked me slowly. Her voice was quiet but the question rang in my ears.
The others were still staring at me. I reached for the lie, but could not utter it. To speak it would be to deny the wolf. I was alienated from the Old Blood, yet there was still a kinship that went deeper than emotion or learned loyalties. I might not live as Old Blood, but the threats that hovered over their heads menaced me, too.
But I was sworn to the Farseers, and that too was my bloodline.
What must I do?
What is right. Be what you are, Farseer and Old Blood both. Even if it kills us, it will be easier than these endless denials. I'd rather die being true to ourselves.
It was like pulling my soul out of a morass.
The pain of my Skillheadache abruptly lessened, as if finding my own decision had freed me of something. I found my tongue. “I am Witted,” I admitted quietly and soberly. “And I am sworn to the Farseer line. I serve my Queen. And my Prince, though he may not yet recognize it. I will do whatever I must to keep my oath of loyalty to them.” I stared at the boy with wolfeyes, and spoke what we both knew. “The Old Bloods have not taken him out of any loyalty or love for him. They do not seek to 'free' him. They have taken him in an effort to claim him. Then they will use him. They will be as ruthless in that as they have been in taking him. But I will not allow that to befall him. - , No matter what I must do to assure that he is saved from that, I will do it. I will find where they have taken him and I will take him home. Regardless of what it may cost me.”
I saw the archer blanch. “I am a Piebald,” he declared shakily. “Do you know what that means? It means I refuse to be ashamed of my Old Blood. That I will declare myself and assert my right to use my magic. And I will not betray my own kind. Even if it means facing my death.” Did he say those words to show his determination equaled mine? Then he was mistaken. Obviously he had taken my words as a threat. Another mistake ... I didn't care. I didn't bother to correct his misapprehension. One night spent in fear would not kill him, and perhaps he might, by morning, be ready to tell me where they were taking the Prince. If not, my wolf and I would find him.
“Shut up,” I told him. “Sleep while you can.” I glanced at the others, who were watching our exchange closely. Laurel was staring at me with loathing and disbelief. The set lines in the Fool's face aged him. His mouth was small and still, his silence an accusation. I closed my heart against it. “We should all sleep while we can.”
And suddenly fatigue was a tide rising around rne. Nighteyes had come to sit beside me. He leaned against me, and the boneweariness he felt was suddenly mine, too. I sat down, muddy and wet as I was, on the sandy floor of the cave. I was cold, but then, it was a night when one should expect to be cold. And my brother was beside me, and between us we had warmth to share. I lay down, put my arm over him, and sighed out. I meant to lie still for just a moment before I rose to take the first watch. But in that instant, the wolf drew me down and wrapped me in his sleep.
DUTIFUL
In Choky, there was an old woman who was most stalled at weaving. She could weave in a day what it took others a week to do, and all of the finest work. Never a stitch that she took went awry, and the thread she spun for her best tapestries was so strong that it could not be snipped with the teeth but must be cut with a blade. She lived alone and apart, and though the coins came in stacks to her for her work, she lived simpty. When she missed the week's market for the second time, a gentlewoman who had been waiting for the cloak the weaver had promised her rode out to her hut to see if aught was wrong. There was the old woman, sitting at her loom, her head bent over her work, but her hands were still and she did not stir to the woman's knock at her doorjamb. So the gentlewoman's manservant went in to tap on her shoulder, for surely she dozed. But when he did, the old woman tumbled back, dead as a stone, to sprawl at his feet. And from her bosom leapt out a fine fat spider, big as a man's fist, and it scampered over the loom, trailing a thick thread of web. So all then knew the trick of her weaving. Her bod the;y cut in four pieces and burned, and with her they burned all the work known to come from her loom, and then her cottage and loom itself.
