"I named him according to the customs of your land." She took a breath. The word was so soft I scarce heard it. "Sacrifice," she breathed. She clung to him tightly and I saw his thin shoulders convulse in a sob.

"Fitz!" Kettle hissed at me sharply. I turned to find her scowling at me. "Leave them alone," she whispered. "Make yourself useful. Get a plate for the Fool."

I had been staring at them. I turned away, shamed to have been gawking, but glad to see them embrace, even in sorrow. I did as Kettle had ordered, getting food for myself at the same time. I took the plate to the Fool. He sat cradling his injured hand in his lap.

He looked up as I sat beside him. "It doesn't rub off on anything else," he complained. "Why did it cling to my fingers?"

"I don't know."

"Because you're alive," Kettle said succinctly. She sat down across from us as if we needed supervising.

"Verity told me he can shape rock with his fingers because of the Skill on them," I told her.

"Is your tongue hinged in the middle so that it flaps at both ends? You talk too much!" Kettle rebuked me.

"Perhaps I would not talk too much if you spoke a bit more," I replied. "Rock is not alive."

She looked at me. "You know that, do you? Well, what is the point of my talking when you already know everything?" She attacked her food as if it had done her a personal wrong.

Starling joined us. She sat down beside me, her plate on her knees and said, "I don't understand about the silvery stuff on his hands. What is it?"

The Fool snickered into his plate like a naughty child when Kettle glared at her. But I was getting tired of Kettle's evasions. "What does it feel like?" I asked the Fool.

He glanced down at his bandaged fingers. "Not pain. Very sensitive. I can feel the weave of the threads in the bandages." His eyes started to get distant. He smiled. "I can see the man who wove it, and I know the woman who spun it. The sheep on the hillside, rain falling on their thick wool, and the grass they ate… wool is from grass, Fitz. A shirt woven from grass. No, there is more. The soil, black and rich and…"

"Stop it!" Kettle said harshly. And she turned to me angrily. "And you stop asking him, Fitz. Unless you want him to follow it too far and be lost forever." She gave the Fool a sharp poke. "Eat your food."

"How is it you know so much about the Skill?" Starling suddenly asked her.

"Not you, too!" Kettle angrily declared. "Is there nothing private anymore?"

"Among us? Not much," the Fool replied, but he was not looking at her. He was watching Kettricken, her face still puffy from weeping, as she dished up food for herself and Verity. Her worn and stained clothing, her rough hair and chapped hands and the simple, homely task she performed for her husband should have made her seem like any woman. But I looked at her and saw perhaps the strongest queen that Buckkeep had ever known.

I watched Verity wince slightly as he took from her hand the simple wooden dish and spoon. He shut his eyes a moment, struggling against the pull of the implement's history. He composed his face and took a mouthful of food. Even across camp from him, I felt the sudden awakening of plain hunger. It was not just hot food he had been long without, it was solid sustenance of any kind. He took a shuddering breath and began to eat like a starved wolf.

Kettle was watching him. A look of pity crossed her face. "No. Very little privacy left for any of us," she said sadly.

"The sooner we get him back to Jhaampe, the sooner he can get better," Starling said soothingly. "Should we start tomorrow, do you think? Or give him a few days of food and rest to rebuild his strength?"

"We shall not be taking him back to Jhaampe," Kettle said, an undercurrent of sadness in her voice. "He has begun a dragon. He cannot leave it." She looked around at us levelly. "The only thing we can do for him now is stay here and help him finish it."

"With Red-Ships torching the entire coastline of the Six Duchies and Farrow attacking the Mountains, we should stay here and help the King carve a dragon?" Starling was incredulous.

"Yes. If we want to save the Six Duchies and the Mountains, that is exactly what we should do. Now, you will excuse me. I think I shall put on more meat to cook. Our king looks as if he could use it."

I set my empty plate aside. "We should probably cook it all. In this weather, meat will sour fast," I unwisely said.

I spent the next hour butchering the pig into portions that could dry cook over the fire all night. Nighteyes awoke and helped dispose of scraps until his belly was distended. Kettricken and Verity sat talking quietly. I tried not to watch them, but even so, I was aware that his gaze frequently strayed from her to the dais where his dragon crouched over us. The low rumble of his voice was hesitant, and often died away altogether until prompted by another question from Kettricken.

The Fool was amusing himself by touching things with his Skillfingers: a bowl, a knife, the cloth of his shirt. He met Kettle's scowls with a benign smile. "I'm being careful," he told her once.

"You have no idea of how to be careful," she complained. "You won't know you've lost your way until you're gone." She got up from our butchery with a grunt and insisted on rebandaging his fingers. After that, she and Starling left together to get more firewood. The wolf got up with a groan and followed them.

Kettricken helped Verity into the tent. After a moment she reappeared to go into the main tent. She emerged carrying her bedding. She caught my quick glance and abashed me by meeting my eyes squarely. "I have taken your long mittens from your pack, Fitz," she told me calmly. Then she joined Verity in the smaller tent. The Fool and I looked everywhere except at each other.

I went back to my cutting on the meat. I was tired of it. The smell of the pig was suddenly the smell of something dead rather than that of fresh meat and I had smears of sticky blood up to my elbows. The worn cuffs of my shirt were soaked with it. I continued doggedly with my task. The Fool came to crouch beside me.

"When my fingers brushed Verity's arm, I knew him," he said suddenly. "I knew he was a worthy king for me to follow, as worthy as his father before him. I know what he intends," he added in a lower voice. "It was too much for me to grasp at first, but I have been sitting and thinking. And it fits in with my dream about Realder."

A shiver ran through me that had nothing to do with chill. "What?" I demanded.

"The dragons are the Elderlings," the Fool said softly. "But Verity could not wake them. So he carves his own dragon, and when it is finished, he will waken it, and then he will go forth to fight the Red-Ships. Alone."

Alone. That word struck me. Once again, Verity expected to fight the Red-Ships alone. But there was too much I didn't quite grasp. "All the Elderlings were dragons?" I asked. My mind went back to all the fanciful drawings and weavings of Elderlings I had ever seen. Some had been dragon like, but…"

"No. The Elderlings are dragons. Those carved creatures back in the stone garden. Those are the Elderlings. King Wisdom was able to wake them in his time, to rouse them and recruit them to his cause. They came to life for him. But now they either sleep too deeply or they are dead. Verity spent much of his strength trying to rouse them in every way he could think of. And when he could not, he decided that he would have to make his own Elderling, and quicken it, and use it to fight the Red-Ships."

I sat stunned. I thought of the Wit-life both the wolf and I had sensed crawling through those stones. With a sudden pang, I remembered the trapped anguish of the girl on a dragon statue in this very quarry. Living stone, trapped and flightless forever. I shuddered. It was a different kind of dungeon.