"I should not mind an old man's body if the years had earned it for me. But I can't go on like this."

She shook her head, puzzled. "Of course you can. Healing is tedious sometimes, but to say that you cannot go on… I do not understand. It is, perhaps, a difference in our languages?"

I took a breath to speak, but at that moment Burrich came in. "Awake? Feeling better?"

"Awake. Not feeling better," I grumbled. Even to myself, I sounded like a fretful child. Burrich and Jonqui exchanged glances over me. She came to the bedside, patted my shoulder, and then left the room silently. Their obvious tolerance was galling, and my impotent anger rose like a tide. "Why can't you heal me?" I demanded of Burrich.

He was taken aback by the accusation in my question. "It's not that simple," he began.

"Why not?" I hauled myself up straight in the bed. "I've seen you cure all manner of ailments in beasts. Sickness, broken bones, worms, mange… you're stablemaster, and I've seen you treat them all. Why can't you cure me?"

"You're not a dog, Fitz," Burrich said quietly. "It's simpler with a beast, when it's seriously ill. I've taken drastic measures, sometimes, telling myself, well, if the animal dies, at least it's not suffering anymore, and this may heal it. I can't do that with you. You're not a beast."

"That's no answer! Half the time the guards come to you instead of the healer. You took the head of an arrow out of Den. You laid his whole arm open to do it! When the healer said that Greydin's foot was too infected and she'd have to lose it, she came to you, and you saved it. And all the time the healer was saying the infection would spread and she'd die and it would be your fault."

Burrich folded his lips, quelling his temper. If I'd been healthy, I'd have been wary of his wrath. But his restraint with me during my convalescence had made me bold. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and controlled. "Those were risky healings, yes. But the folk who wanted them done knew the risks. And," he said, raising his voice to cover the objection I'd been about to utter, "they were simple things. I knew the cause. Take out the arrowhead and haft from his arm and clean it up. Poultice and draw the infection from Greydin's foot. But your sickness isn't that simple. Neither Jonqui nor I really know what's wrong with you. Is it the aftermath of the poison Kettricken fed you when she thought you had come to kill her brother? Is this the effects of the poisoned wine that Regal arranged for you? Or is it from the beating you took afterward? From being near drowned? Or did all those things combine to do this to you? We don't know, and so we don't know how to cure you. We just don't know."

His voice clenched on his last words, and I suddenly saw how his sympathy for me overlay his frustration. He paced a few steps, then halted to stare into the fire. "We've talked long about it. Jonqui has much in her Mountain lore that I have never heard of before. And I've told her of cures I know. But we both agreed the best thing to do was give you time to heal. You're in no danger of dying that we can see. Possibly, in time, your own body can cast out the last vestiges of the poison, or heal whatever damage was done inside you."

"Or," I added quietly, "it's possible that I'll be this way the rest of my life. That the poison or the beating damaged something permanently. Damn Regal, to kick me like that when I was trussed already."

Burrich stood as if turned to ice. Then he sagged into the chair in the shadows. Defeat was in his voice. "Yes. That is just as possible as the other. But don't you see we have no choice? I could physick you to try to force the poison out of your body. But if it's damage, not poison, all I would do was weaken you, so that your body's own healing would take that much longer." He stared into the flames, and lifted a hand to touch a streak of white at his temple. I was not the only one who'd fallen to Regal's treachery. Burrich himself was but newly recovered from a skull blow that would have killed anyone less thickheaded than he. I knew he had endured long days of dizziness and blurred vision. I did not recall he had complained at all. I had the decency to feel a bit of shame.

"So what do I do?"

Burrich started as if roused from dozing. "What we've been doing. Wait. Eat. Rest. Be easy on yourself. And see what happens. Is that so terrible?"

I ignored his question. "And if I don't get better? If I just stay like this, where the tremors or fits can come over me at any time?"

His answer was slow in coming. "Live with it. Many folk have to live with worse. Most of the time you're fine. You're not blind. You're not paralyzed. You've your wits, still. Stop defining yourself by what you can't do. Why don't you consider what you didn't lose?"

"What I didn't lose? What I didn't lose?" My anger rose like a covey of birds taking flight and likewise driven by panic. "I'm helpless, Burrich. I can't go back to Buckkeep like this! I'm useless. I'm worse than useless, I'm a waiting victim. If I could go back and batter Regal into a pulp, that might be worth it. Instead, I will have to sit at table with Prince Regal, to be civil and deferential to a man who plotted to overthrow Verity and kill me as an added spice. I can't endure him seeing me tremble with weakness, or suddenly fall in a seizure. I don't want to see him smile at what he has made me; I don't want to watch him savor his triumph. He will try to kill me again. We both know that. Perhaps he has learned he is no match for Verity, perhaps he will respect his older brother's reign and new wife. But I doubt he will extend that to me. I'll be one more way he can strike at Verity. And when he comes, what shall I be doing? Sitting by the fire like a palsied old man, doing nothing. Nothing! All I've been trained for, all Hod's weaponry instruction, all Fedwren's careful teachings about lettering, even all you've taught me about taking care of beasts! All a waste! I can do none of it. I'm just a bastard again, Burrich. And someone once told me that a royal bastard is only kept alive so long as he is useful." I was practically shouting at him as I said the last words. But even in my fury and despair, I did not speak aloud of Chade and my training as an assassin. At that, too, I was useless now. All my stealth and sleight of hand, all the precise ways to kill a man by touch, the painstaking mixing of poisons, all were denied me by my own rattling body.

Burrich sat quietly, hearing me out. When my breath and my anger ran out and I sat gasping in my bed, clasping my traitorously trembling hands together, he spoke calmly.

"So. Are you saying we don't go back to Buckkeep?"

That put me off balance. "We?"

"My life is pledged to the man who wears that earring. There's a long story behind that, one that perhaps I'll tell you someday. Patience had no right to give it to you. I thought it had gone with Prince Chivalry to his grave. She probably thought it just a simple piece of jewelry her husband had worn, hers to keep or to give. In any wise, you wear it now. Where you go, I follow."

I lifted my hand to the bauble. It was a tiny blue stone caught up in a web of silver net. I started to unfasten it.

"Don't do that," Burrich said. The words were quiet, deeper than a dog's growl. But his voice held both threat and command. I dropped my hand away, unable to question him on this at least. It felt strange that the man who had watched over me since I was an abandoned child now put his future into my hands. Yet there he sat before the fire and waited for my words. I studied what I could see of him in the dance of firelight. He had once seemed a surly giant to me, dark and threatening, but also a savage protector. Now, for perhaps the first time, I studied him as a man. The dark hair and eyes were prevalent in those who carried Outislander blood, and in this we resembled each other. But his eyes were brown, not black, and the wind brought a redness to his cheeks above his curling beard that bespoke a fairer ancestor somewhere. When he walked, he limped, very noticeably on cold days. It was the legacy of turning aside a boar that had been trying to kill Chivalry. He was not so big as he had once seemed to me. If I kept on growing, I would probably be taller than he before another year was out. Nor was he massively muscled, but instead had a compactness to him that was a readiness of both muscle and mind. It was not his size that had made him both feared and respected at Buckkeep, but his black temper and his tenacity. Once, when I was very young, I had asked him if he had ever lost a fight. He had just subdued a willful young stallion and was in the stall with him, calming him. Burrich had grinned, teeth showing white as a wolf's. The sweat had stood out in droplets on his forehead and was running down his cheeks into his dark beard. He spoke to me over the side of the stall. "Lost a fight?" he'd asked, still out of breath. "The fight isn't over until you win it, Fitz. That's all you have to remember. No matter what the other man thinks. Or the horse."