spattered the snow, and it was Lord Elkwin, holder of the tiny fief of Tower Rock in Farrow, a follower of the Piebald Prince, who shed it. The battle was swift and fairly fought, and perhaps it might have been ignored save that Ulder’s wound went to foulness and pus. He died within the week, and there were mutterings of filth on Elkwin’s blade, deliberately treated to cause a festering wound. On the night following Ulder of Blackearth’s death someone went to the stables. Fully a dozen piebald steeds were slain before the uproar of the other horses and dogs put the varlet to flight. Some said it was Ulder’s younger brother Curl who struck such a cowardly blow, yet as no minstrel witnessed it, no minstrel should sing of it as true, and so I tell it here as Redbird himself would.
Whoever did it stabbed more deeply than he knew, for the heartstrings of a dozen of the King-in-Waiting’s men were fastened to those beasts. Bonded as those Witted were to the horses, it was to them as if their beloved wives had been slaughtered in their sleep. The deaths struck them all, some with wild mourning and some with silent grief and some with outright madness, so that all was uproar within Buckkeep, and many wild vows of vengeance made. Most wounded of all seemed to be Lord Elkwin of Tower Rock, he who had slain Lord Ulder in honorable challenge. He knelt by his slain horse and tore his hair and his beard until the blood ran, and clawed his own face and screamed like a woman in childbirth.
Finally a healer was called, with both herbs and leeches to drain the madness from him. For many a day and many a night, Lord Elkwin lay in his bed in his darkened chamber and spoke no word to any man, not even when his own prince called upon him to beg him to return to his rightful senses.
It must be told here that although Charger’s favorite spotted mount was slain, the Piebald Prince was not unmanned by it. He grieved, as any horseman would, and for his Witted fellows he was full of sympathy and solicitation. But if the coward who slew horses in their stalls had hoped to wound the prince that way, he failed. For his horse was not his Wit-beast, as had been long supposed. The beast that shared Prince Charger’s heart and mind was a matter he kept very private, and even among his Witted followers few were trusted with the knowledge of which creature shared its life with the King-in-Waiting. So Charger, although filled with anger and grief for his friends, kept a calm voice, even though all around him members of the Motley Court called for bloodshed. Despite the King-in-Waiting’s promise that the culprit would be found and punished some among them complained loudly that no punishment could be sufficient for such a cowardly crime.
Even so, perhaps calm heads could have prevailed, save that on the following day the king himself stiffened in his bed, thrashed and then died. The healer attending him swore that at the moment of his passing a black bird rose cawing from the parapet right outside his window, just as if the bird rejoiced in the death of the king. On so little a thing as this tale were the rumors of foul deeds and darkest betrayal based. Some in their ignorance said that the black bird had stolen the king’s life essence and flown off with it. Others said it was the Wit-beast of one of the Motley Court, and that it flew off to spread the joyous tidings of a death that would bring their prince to the throne. Some said it was the king himself, turned to a black bird and condemned to live as that creature by his bastard grandson’s magic. Many another wild or foolish tale was based on the healer’s words about a black bird flying and cawing, and all as if that were not the most natural thing in the world for a bird to do. All of these tales were fuel to the simmering feud within the court.
So it was that although both Canny and Charger cut their hair in mourning and their respective courts followed their example and the king was
Whoever did it stabbed more deeply than he knew, for the heartstrings of a dozen of the King-in-Waiting’s men were fastened to those beasts. Bonded as those Witted were to the horses, it was to them as if their beloved wives had been slaughtered in their sleep. The deaths struck them all, some with wild mourning and some with silent grief and some with outright madness, so that all was uproar within Buckkeep, and many wild vows of vengeance made. Most wounded of all seemed to be Lord Elkwin of Tower Rock, he who had slain Lord Ulder in honorable challenge. He knelt by his slain horse and tore his hair and his beard until the blood ran, and clawed his own face and screamed like a woman in childbirth.
Finally a healer was called, with both herbs and leeches to drain the madness from him. For many a day and many a night, Lord Elkwin lay in his bed in his darkened chamber and spoke no word to any man, not even when his own prince called upon him to beg him to return to his rightful senses.
It must be told here that although Charger’s favorite spotted mount was slain, the Piebald Prince was not unmanned by it. He grieved, as any horseman would, and for his Witted fellows he was full of sympathy and solicitation. But if the coward who slew horses in their stalls had hoped to wound the prince that way, he failed. For his horse was not his Wit-beast, as had been long supposed. The beast that shared Prince Charger’s heart and mind was a matter he kept very private, and even among his Witted followers few were trusted with the knowledge of which creature shared its life with the King-in-Waiting. So Charger, although filled with anger and grief for his friends, kept a calm voice, even though all around him members of the Motley Court called for bloodshed. Despite the King-in-Waiting’s promise that the culprit would be found and punished some among them complained loudly that no punishment could be sufficient for such a cowardly crime.
Even so, perhaps calm heads could have prevailed, save that on the following day the king himself stiffened in his bed, thrashed and then died. The healer attending him swore that at the moment of his passing a black bird rose cawing from the parapet right outside his window, just as if the bird rejoiced in the death of the king. On so little a thing as this tale were the rumors of foul deeds and darkest betrayal based. Some in their ignorance said that the black bird had stolen the king’s life essence and flown off with it. Others said it was the Wit-beast of one of the Motley Court, and that it flew off to spread the joyous tidings of a death that would bring their prince to the throne. Some said it was the king himself, turned to a black bird and condemned to live as that creature by his bastard grandson’s magic. Many another wild or foolish tale was based on the healer’s words about a black bird flying and cawing, and all as if that were not the most natural thing in the world for a bird to do. All of these tales were fuel to the simmering feud within the court.
So it was that although both Canny and Charger cut their hair in mourning and their respective courts followed their example and the king was
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