I proffered it back to him. “Put it on,” I said quietly. He took the crown. I saw him swallow. “Are you sure ?” he asked me quietly. “I have tried it upon my head, I will admit. Nothing happened. But with us both here, the White Prophet and his Catalyst . . . Fitz, it may be that we tempt a magic neither one of us understands. Time and again, I have searched my memory, but in no prophecy I was ever taught did I find mention of this crown. I have no idea what it signifies, or if it signifies anything at all. You recall your vision of me; I have only the haziest of memories of it, like a butterfly of a dream, too fragile to recapture yet wondrous in its flight.”
I said nothing. His hands, as golden as they had once been white, held the crown before him. In silence, we dared ourselves, curiosity warring with caution. In the end, given who we were, there could only be one outcome. A slow, reckless grin spread over his face. Thus, I recalled, had he smiled the night he set his Skilled fingers to the carven flesh of Girlon- adragon. Recalling the agony we had inadvertently caused, I knew a sudden moment of apprehension. But before I could speak, he lifted the crown aloft and set it upon his head. I caught my breath.
Nothing happened.
I stared at him, torn between relief and disappointment. For an instant, silence held between us. Then he began to snicker. In an instant, laughter burst from both of us. The tension broken, we both laughed until the tears streamed down our cheeks. When our mirth subsided, I looked at the Fool, still crowned with wood, still my friend as he had always been. He wiped tears from his eyes.
“You know, last month my rooster lost most of his tail to a scuffle with a weasel. Hap picked up the feathers. Shall we try them in the crown?”
He lifted it from his head and regarded it with mock regret. “Tomorrow, perhaps. And perhaps I shall steal some of your inks as well, and redo the colors. Do you recall them at all?”
I shrugged. “I'd trust your own eye for that, Fool. You always had a gift for such things.”
He bowed his head with grave exaggeration to my compliment. He twitched the fabric from the floor and began to rewrap the crown. The fire was little more than embers now, casting a ruddy glow over both of us. I looked at him for a long moment. In this light, I could pretend his coloring had not changed, that he was the whiteskinned jester of my boyhood, and hence, that I was still as young as he was. He glanced over at me, caught my eyes on him, and stared back at me, a strange avidity in his face. His look was so intense I glanced aside from it. A moment later, he spoke.
“So. After the Mountains, you went . . . ?”
I picked up my brandy cup. It was empty. I wondered how much I had drunk, and suddenly knew it was more than enough for one evening. “Tomorrow, Fool. Tomorrow. Give me a night to sleep on it, and ponder how best to tell it.”
One longfingered hand closed suddenly about my wrist. As always, his flesh was cool against mine. “Ponder, Fitz. But as you do so, do not forget...” Words seemed suddenly to fail him. His eyes gazed once more into mine. His tone changed to a quiet plea. “Tell me all you can, in good conscience. For I never know what it is I need to hear until I have heard it.”
Again, the fervor of his stare unnerved me. “Riddles,” I scoffed, trying to speak lightly. Instead, the word seemed to come out as a confirmation of his own.
“Riddles,” he agreed. “Riddles to which we are the answers, if only we can discover the questions.” He looked down at his grip on my wrist, and released me. He rose suddenly, graceful as a cat. He stretched, a sinuous writhing that looked as if he unfastened his bones from his joints and then put himself together again. He looked down on me fondly. “Go to bed, Fitz,” he told me as if I were a child. “Rest while you can. I need to stay up a bit longer and think. If I can. The brandy has quite gone to my head.”
“Mine as well,” I agreed. He offered a hand and I took it. He drew me easily to my feet, his strength, as always, surprising in one so slightly built. I staggered a step sideways and he moved with me, then caught my elbow, righting me. “Care to dance?” I jested feebly as he steadied me.
“We already do,” he responded, almost seriously. As if he bade farewell to a dance partner, he pantomimed a courtly bow over my hand as I drew my fingers from his grip. “Dream of me,” he added melodramatically.
“Good night,” I replied, stoically refusing to be baited. As I headed toward my bed, the wolf rose with a groan and followed me. He seldom slept more than an arm's reach from my side. In my room, I let my clothes drop where they would before pulling on a nightshirt and falling into bed. The wolf had already found his place on the cool floor beside it. I closed my eyes and let my arm fall so that my fingers just brushed his ruff.