It was an arduous search, but eventually she came to the hidden castle of the Elderlings, a vast hall built all of black and silver stone. There she found that her king had persuaded the Dragon-King of the Elderlings to come to the aid of the Six Duchies. This same Dragon-King, recalling the ancient Elderling oath of alliance with the Six Duchies, bent his knee to Queen Kettricken and King Verity. On his back he carried home not only King Verity and Queen Kettricken but also the loyal minstrel Starling Birdsong. King Verity saw his queen and her minstrel safely delivered to Buckkeep. Before his loyal subjects could greet him, before his people even knew he had returned, he left them again. Sword blazing in the sun, he bestrode the Elderling Dragon-King as together they rose into the sky to do battle against the Red Ships.
For the rest of that long and triumphantly bloody season, King Verity led his Elderling allies against the Red Ships. Whenever his folk saw the jewel-bright wings of the dragons in the sky, they knew their king was with them. As the King’s forces struck the Red Ship strongholds and fleet, his loyal dukes rallied to his example. The few Red Ships that were not destroyed fled our shores to carry word of the Farseer wrath back to the Out Islands. When our shores were cleared of marauding invaders and peace restored to the Six Duchies, King Verity kept his pledge to the Elderlings. The price of their aid was that he would reside with them in their distant land, never to return to the Six Duchies. Some say that our king took a deadly injury in the last days of the Red Ship War, and that it was but his body the Elderlings bore away. It is said by those ones that the body of King Verity lies in a vault of ebony and gleaming gold in a vast cave in their mountain keep. There the Elderlings honor forever the valiant man who sacrificed all to seek aid for his people. But others say that King Verity lives still, well feasted and highly acclaimed in the Elderling kingdom, and that if ever again the Six Duchies is in need, he will return with his heroic allies to aid his people.
—“THE BRIEF REIGN OF VERITY FARSEER,” NOLUS THE SCRIBE
I returned to the stuffy darkness of my little cell. Once I had closed the access to the secret passage, I opened the door to the Fool’s chambers in the hopes of gaining at least some natural light. It didn’t help much, but there was little I needed to do. I tidied my bedding and looked around my austere room. Safely anonymous. Anyone might live here. Or no one, I thought sarcastically. I buckled on my ugly sword, and made sure of the knife at my belt before I left the room.
The Fool had left a generous share of the food for me. Cold, it was not especially appetizing, but my hunger made up for it. I finished his breakfast, and then, recalling his instructions to Tom Badgerlock, took the dishes down to the kitchen. On my return trip, I hauled wood for the hearth and water for the pitchers. I dumped and wiped the washing basins and did the other small and necessary chores of the room. I opened the window shutters wide to air the chamber. The view from his window showed me that we would have a fine if chill day. I closed them again before I left.
I had the hours until our afternoon ride to myself, I decided. I thought of going down to Buckkeep Town but swiftly decided against it. I needed to put my thoughts about Jinna in order before I saw her again and I wished to ponder her worries about young Hap. Nor would I risk that Piebalds might be spying on me. The less interest I took in Jinna or my son, the safer they were.
So I took myself down to the practice courts. Weaponsmaster Cresswell greeted me by name and asked if Delleree had been sufficient challenge to my skills. Even as I groaned appreciatively, I was somewhat surprised to be so well recalled. It was both welcoming and disconcerting. I had to remind myself that perhaps the best way to ensure I was never recognized as the FitzChivalry that had lived in Buckkeep Castle sixteen years ago was to make solid my recognition as Badgerlock. So I deliberately paused to talk with the man, and humbly admitted that Delleree had indeed been more than a match for me. I asked him to recommend a partner for this day’s challenge, and he yelled across the courts to a man who moved with the centered ease of a veteran fighter.
Wim’s beard was shot with streaks of gray and his waist thickened with his years. I guessed his age at forty-five, a good ten years older than my true age, yet he proved a good match for me. Both his wind and endurance were better than mine were, but I knew a few tricks with a blade that made up for some of that. Even so, he was kind enough, after he had beaten me three times, to assure me that my proficiency and stamina would return with repeated practice. It was small solace. A man likes to think that he has kept his body in good trim, and in truth mine was hardened to the tasks of a small farm as well as to the skills of a frequent hunter. But the muscles and wind of a fighter are a different matter, and I would have to rebuild mine. I hoped I would not need those abilities, but sourly resigned myself to daily practice. Despite the chill day, my shirt was stuck to my back with sweat when I left the practice courts.
