He leaned over suddenly and set his gloved hand to my wrist. He gripped my wrist for only an instant, and our skin did not touch, but in that moment I felt a flash of binding. I can describe it no other way. It was not the Skill; it was not the Wit. It was not magic at all, as I know magic. It was like that moment of double recognition that sometimes overtakes one in a strange place. I had the sense that we had sat together like this, spoken these words before, and that each time we had done so, the words had been sealed with that brief touch. I glanced away from him, only to encounter the wolf's dark eyes burning into mine.

I cleared my throat and tried to find a different subject. "You said you knew her. Has she a name, then?"

"Not one you would have ever heard. Yet you have heard of her. Recall that during the Red Ship War, we knew their leader only as Kebal Rawbread?"

I bobbed my head in agreement. He had been a tribal leader of the Outislanders, one who had risen to sudden, bloody prominence, and just as swiftly fallen from power with the waking of our dragons. Some tales said Verity's dragon had devoured him, others that he had drowned.

"Did you ever hear that he had someone who advised him? A Pale Woman?"

The words rang oddly familiar in my mind. I frowned, trying to recall them. Yes. There had been a rumor, but no more than that. Again I nodded.

"Well." The Fool leaned back. He spoke almost lightly. "That was she. And I will tell you one more thing. As surely as she believes that she is the White Prophet, so she believes that Kebal Rawbread is her Catalyst."

"Her one who comes to enable others to be heroes?"

He shook his head. "Not that one. Her Catalyst comes to dismantle heroes. To enable men to be less than what they should be. For where I would build, she would destroy. Where I would unite, she would divide." He shook his head. "She believes all must end before it can begin anew."

I waited for him to balance his statement, but he fell silent. Finally I nudged him toward it. "And what do you believe?"

A slow smile spread over his face. "I believe in you. You are my new beginning."

I could think of nothing to say to that, and a stillness grew up in the room.

He reached slowly up to his ear. "I've been wearing this since the last time I left you. But I think I should give it back to you now. Where I go, I cannot wear it. It is too unique. Folk might remember seeing an earring like this on you. Or on Burrich. Or on your father. It might tickle memories I wish to leave undisturbed."

I watched him struggle with the catch. The earring was a silver net with a blue gemstone captured inside it. Burrich had given it to my father. I had been next to wear it. In my turn, I had entrusted it to the Fool, bidding him give it to Molly after my death as a sign I had never forgotten her. In his wisdom, he had kept it. And now?

"Wait," I bade him suddenly, and then, "Don't."

He looked at me, mystified.

"Disguise it if you must. But wear it. Please."

Slowly he lowered his hands. "Are you sure?" he asked incredulously.

"Yes," I said, and I was.

When I rose the next morning, I found the Fool up and washed and dressed before me. His pack waited on the table. Glancing about the room, I saw none of his posses-sions. Once more he was attired nobly. His garb contrasted oddly with the humble task of stirring the porridge. "You are leaving, then?" I asked stupidly. "Right after we eat," he said quietly. We should go with him.

It was the most direct thought the wolf had shared with me in days. It startled me, and I looked toward him, as did the Fool. "But what of Hap?" I asked him.

Nighteyes only looked at me in reply, as if I should already know his answer. I did not. "I have to stay here," I said to both of them. Neither one looked convinced. It made me feel sedate and staid to refuse them both, and I did not care for either sensation. "I have responsibilities here," I said, almost angrily. "I cannot simply go off and allow the boy to come back to an empty home."

"No, you cannot," the Fool agreed quickly, yet even his agreement stung, as if he said it only to mollify me. I found myself suddenly in a surly mood. Breakfast was grim and when we rose from the table, I suddenly hated the sticky bowls and porridge pot. The reminders of my daily, mundane chores suddenly seemed intolerable.

"I'll saddle your horse," I told the Fool sullenly. "No sense in getting your fine clothes dirty."

He said nothing as I rose abruptly from the table and went out of the door.

Malta seemed to sense the excitement of the journey to come, for she was restive, though not difficult. found myself taking my time with her, so that when she was ready, her coat gleamed as did her tack. I almost soothed myself, but as I led her out, I saw the Fool standing by the porch, one hand on Nighteyes' back. Discontent washed through me again, and childishly I blamed him for it. If he had not come to see me, I would never have recalled how much I missed him. I would have continued to pine for the past, but I would not have begun to long for a future.

I felt soured and old as he came to embrace me. Knowing there was nothing admirable about my attitude did nothing to improve it. I stood stiffly in his farewell clasp, barely returning it. I thought he would tolerate it, but when his mouth was by my ear, he muttered mawkishly, "Farewell, Beloved."

Despite my irritation, I had to smile. I gave him a hug and released him. "Go safely, Fool," I said gruffly.

"And you," he replied gravely as he swung onto the saddle. I stared up at him. The aristocratic young man on the horse bore no resemblance to the Fool I had known as a lad. Only when his gaze met mine did I see my old friend there. For a time we stood looking at one another, not speaking. Then, with a touch of the rein and a shift of his weight, he wheeled his horse. With a toss of her head, Malta asked for a free rein. He gave it to her, and she sprang forward eagerly into a canter. Her silky tail floated on the wind of her passage like a pennant. I watched him go, and even when he was out of sight, I watched the dust hanging in the lane.

When I finally went back into the cabin, I found he had cleaned all the dishes and the pot and put them away. In the center of my table, where his pack had concealed it, a Farseer buck was graven deep, his antlers lowered to charge. I ran my ringers over the carved figure and my heart sank in me. "What do you want of me?" I asked of the stillness.

Days followed that one, and time passed for me, but not easily. Each day seemed possessed of a dull sameness, and the evenings stretched endless before me. There was work to fill the time, and I did it, but I also marked that work only seemed to beget more work. A meal cooked meant only dishes to clean, and a seed planted only meant weeding and watering in the days to follow. Satisfaction in my simple life seemed to elude me.

I missed the Fool, and realized that all those years I had missed him as well. It was like an old injury wakened to new complaint. The wolf was no help in enduring it. A deep thoughtfulness had come upon him, and evenings often found us trapped in our individual ponderings. Once, as I sat mending a shirt by candlelight, Nighteyes came to me and rested his head on my knee with a sigh. I reached down to fondle his ears and then scratch behind them. "Are you all right?" I asked him.

It would not be good for you to be alone. I'm glad the Scentless One returned to us. I'm glad that you know where to find him.

Then, with a groan, he lifted his chin from my knee and went to curl on the cool earth by the front porch.

The final heat of summer closed down on us like a smothering blanket. I sweltered as I hauled water for the garden twice a day. The chickens stopped laying. All seemed too hot and too dull to survive it. Then, in the midst of my discontent, Hap returned. I had not expected to see him again until the month of full harvest was over, but one evening, Nighteyes lifted his head abruptly. He arose stiffly and went to the door, to stare down the lane.