“You know,” he observed to me, toward the end of the meal. “Your likeness to your father becomes more remarkable every year.”

All of the brandy in Bearns could not have defeated the chill his words sent through me.

6

Forged Ones

THE TWO SONS of Queen Constance and King Shrewd were Chivalry and Verity. Only two years separated their births, and they grew up as close as two brothers can be. Chivalry was the eldest, and the first to assume the title King-in-Waiting on his sixteenth birthday. He was almost immediately dispatched by his father to deal with a border dispute with the Chalced States. From that time on, he was seldom at Buckkeep for more than a few months at a time. Even after Chivalry had married, he was seldom allowed to spend his days at rest. It was not so much that there were so many border uprisings at that time as that Shrewd seemed intent on formalizing his boundaries with all his neighbors. Many of these disputes were settled with the sword, though as time went on, Chivalry became more astute at employing diplomacy first.

Some said that assigning Chivalry to this task was the plot of his stepmother, Queen Desire, who hoped to send him to his death. Others say it was Shrewd’s way of putting his eldest son out of his new queen’s sight and authority. Prince Verity, condemned by his youth to remain at home, made formal application to his father every month to be allowed to follow his brother. All of Shrewd’s efforts to interest him in responsibilities of his own were wasted. Prince Verity performed the tasks given him, but never let anyone think for a moment that he would not rather be with his older brother. At last, on Verity’s twentieth birthday, after six years of requesting monthly to be allowed to follow his brother, Shrewd reluctantly conceded to him.

From then, until the day four years later when Chivalry abdicated and Verity assumed the title King-in-Waiting, the two Princes worked as one in formalizing boundaries, treaties, and trade agreements with the lands bordering the Six Duchies. Prince Chivalry’s talent was for dealing with people, as individuals or as a folk. Verity’s was for the detail of agreements, the precise maps that delineated agreed borders, and the supporting of his brother in his authority both as a soldier and as a prince.

Prince Regal, youngest of Shrewd’s sons and his only child with Queen Desire, spent his youth at home at court, where his mother made every effort to groom him as a candidate for the throne.

I traveled home to Buckkeep with a sense of relief. It was not the first time I had performed such a task for my king, but I had never developed a relish for my work as an assassin. I was glad at how Virago had insulted me and baited me, for it had made my task bearable. And yet, she had been a very beautiful woman, and a skilled warrior. It was a waste, and I took no pride in my work, save that I had obeyed my king’s command. Such were my thoughts as Sooty carried me up the last rise toward home.

I looked up the hill, and scarce could believe what I saw. Kettricken and Regal on horseback. They rode side by side. Together. They looked like an illustration from one of Fedwren’s best vellums. Regal was in scarlet and gold with glossy black boots and black gloves. His riding cloak was flung back from one shoulder, to display the brilliant contrast of the colors as they billowed in the morning wind. The wind had brought a redness of the outdoors to his cheeks, and tousled his black hair from its precise arrangement of curls. His dark eyes shone. Almost, he looked a man, I thought, astride the tall black horse that carried itself so well. He could be this if he chose, rather than the languid prince with always a glass of wine in hand and a lady beside him. Another waste.

Ah, but the lady beside him was another matter. Compared with the entourage that followed them, she showed as a rare and foreign blossom. She rode astride in loose trousers, and no Buckkeep dyeing vat had produced that crocus purple. Her trousers were adorned with intricate embroideries in rich colors, and tucked securely into her boot tops. Her boots came almost to her knee; Burrich would have approved that practicality. She wore, not a cloak, but a short jacket of voluminous white fur, with a high collar to shield her neck from the wind. A white fox, I guessed, from the tundra on the far side of the Mountains. Her hands were gloved in black. The wind had played with her long yellow hair, streaming it out and tangling it over her shoulders. Atop her head was a knitted cap of every bright color I could imagine. She sat her horse high and forward, in the Mountain style, and it made Softstep think she must prance instead of walk. The chestnut mare’s harness was a-jingle with tiny silver bells, ringing sharp as icicles in the brisk morning. Compared with the other women in their voluminous skirts and cloaks, she looked agile as a cat.