“Prince FitzChivalry Farseer. You were a witness to my trying to run away from who and what I was. You reminded me of my duty and brought me back to it.
“I know you have not always been treated as if you were a prince. You have been given duties ill suited to your bloodlines, trained to tasks that should never have been yours. Or Chade’s. I know it was my grandfather’s will that put both of you on that path.
“And now it is my will that removes you from it.” He waited while I tried to make sense of his words. “Do you understand me? I see you don’t. Very well. Prince FitzChivalry Farseer, you are never again to consider yourself an assassin. Never to be the one to do the so-called quiet work or be the king’s justice. My justice will be rendered in daylight, before all. Not by poison or a knife in the dark. Now do you understand me?”
I nodded slowly. My head was spinning. So many times, over decades of my life, I had protested that I did not want to kill anymore. Over and over, I had said that I was no longer an assassin. But now my king snatched the title and those duties away from me, and it felt like a rebuke. I blinked. Not a husband. Scarcely a father. And not an assassin. What was left of me?
Had he sensed my question? “You will behave as befits a prince of the Farseer line. With honor and dignity. With courtesy. You will share the wisdom of your years with my sons and assist in guiding them through their early manhood. If I choose to send you on a diplomatic mission, you will go to negotiate, not poison someone! As Prince FitzChivalry Farseer.”
Each time he said my full name with that title attached to it, I almost felt as if he were reciting a magic spell of binding. As if he would set a boundary around me. I found I was nodding slowly. Was this what the Fool had meant? Someone would find a life for me. And what he was describing was not so terrible. So why did it feel so hollow?
He was still staring at me.
I bowed gravely. “I understand, my king.”
“Say it.” His words were stiff with command.
I drew a breath. The words I spoke seemed almost traitorous. “I am no longer your assassin, King Dutiful. I am to comport myself always as Prince FitzChivalry Farseer.”
“No.” He spoke precisely. “Not ‘comport.’ Be. You are Prince FitzChivalry Farseer.”
I hesitated. “Lady Rosemary—”
“Is Lady Rosemary.” Finality in that.