I saw by his face that he was serious. “I dread it, too. That is, I know I should dread it, but I simply can't focus on it right now. Too many other thoughts overwhelm me. How will I dry my clothes before tomorrow, and I was supposed to report back to Chade later, yet I do not think I should wander through the camp in this robe, however warm it is. Yet I cringe at the thought of putting my wet clothing back on, even for the brief walk back to Dutiful's tent. I left my pack there, with all my dry things in it. Thick's things are in it, too. But that's good, because Thick is there and he'll need them.”

“Hush,” he begged me, interrupting the outpour of my thoughts. “Hush, please, Fitz, and let me try to think. Always before, elfbark has done no more than dampen your talent, and that was passing. Do we dare hope that this will wear off and your magic return?”

I shrugged wildly. “I don't know. I don't think we can judge anything about this by what elfbark has done to me before. Did I tell you how close Thick came to eating it as well?”

“No. You didn't.” The Fool spoke carefully, as if I were slightly mad, and perhaps I was at that time. “Would you try to do this for me? Leave your hair and your mouth alone. Fold your hands in your lap and tell me what happened to you today. The whole day, please.”

I had not realized that I was tugging at my lower lip until he mentioned it. I folded my hands in my lap and made an effort to report to him as if he were Chade. I watched his face grow graver as I spoke and I knew that my words rattled out like hailstones, and that my tale was disjointed, told in bits and patches as I wove the events back and forth in my mind. Before I had finished, I was up and pacing the small confines of his tent. I could not master my agitation. A sudden inspiration came over me. “Here!” I cried, advancing on him, my bared wrist thrust out to him. “Let us test it and see if my Skill is as gone as I think it is. Touch me. Try to reach into me with the Skill as you once did.”

He stared up at me, his face gone slack with astonishment. Then a sickly smile of disbelief spread over his face. “You're asking me to do this?”

“Of course. Yes. Let's find out how bad it is. If you can still reach me, then perhaps my Skill will come back to me as the herb wears off. Let's try it.” I sat down beside him, and set my forearm, wrist up, on top of his knee. He looked at his faded fingerprints on my wrist and then gave me a sideways look.

“No.” He drew back from me. “You are not yourself tonight, Fitz. This is not something you would ordinarily allow, let alone request. No.”

“What, are you scared?” I challenged him. “Go ahead. What can we lose?”

“Respect for one another. That I would do such a thing when you were as good as drunk. No, Fitz. Stop tempting me.”

“Don't worry. I'll remember, tomorrow, that I suggested this. I need to know. Is my magic dead in me?” In some isolated corner of my soul, I felt alarm. I wanted to stop and think, but the anxiety wouldn't let me. Do it now, do something now, do anything now. The drive to be doing, doing anything, was a pressing need that could not be denied.

I reached out and took hold of his slender wrist. His hand was ungloved and unresisting. As if fitting together a wooden puzzle, I set his hand to my wrist. His cool fingertips fell into alignment with the scars he had left on me. I waited. I felt nothing. I looked at him quizzically.

He had closed his eyes. A moment later, he opened them. They were deep gold and devastated as he said in disbelief, “Nothing. I feel the warmth of your wrist under my fingers. I reach for you, but you are not there. And that is all.”

My heart lurched sideways in my chest. I instantly tried to deny what we had just established. “Well. Doesn't prove anything, I suppose. We've never tried this before, so what do we know of what to expect? Nothing. Nothing at all. Tomorrow, I may awaken and find the Skill as strong in me as ever.”

“Or not,” the Fool suggested quietly, watching my face. His fingers still rested on my wrist. “Perhaps we shall never connect in this way again.”

“Or not,” I agreed. “Perhaps I shall wake just as isolated and deaf as I am at this moment. Perhaps.” I stood up, pulling my wrist from his loose clasp. “Well. It's no use thinking about it and worrying about it, is it? As well to fret over whether it will be wet or dry tomorrow. What will be will be.” I paused, thinking I should keep still, but then the question burst out anyway. “Do you think Peottre did this to me purposely? Do you think he knew that elfbark can destroy the Skill? And how does he know that I have the magic at all? And, if he wants me to help the Prince kill the dragon, why would he disable me? Unless he doesn't really want us to kill Icefyre. Maybe he's lured us here so the Prince will fail. But that makes no sense. Does it?”