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“Excuse me, my lady, are you well?”
Nettle scrubbed a sleeve roughly over her eyes and straightened abruptly from where she’d been sitting, hunkered low and weeping in the Women’s Gardens. She took a deep breath and lifted her chin imperiously. “I am quite well, thank you, sir.” Her voice only quivered a tiny bit. She hated that he heard it.
“Are you sure?” The stranger’s voice was kind, like he was a man used to laughing often and making others laugh even more. She reached out to him tentatively with the Skill, and found a placid pool of nothingness. That eased her a bit. So this wasn’t some trick of the Queen or her crotchety old advisor Chade, designed to make her let down her guard. She straightened up a bit more and turned to look at the well meaning man who had approached her, hoping he would go away quickly so that she could resume her crying.
She was surprised to discover he was not a proper man at all, but barely past boyhood, perhaps a few years older than her. Twenty, she wondered? Perhaps twenty-one? That was still plenty old for her to be seen consorting with, alone in a moonlit garden. “What would people say, Lady Nettle? You must think,” she could almost hear Lord Chade hissing in her ear. Well, let them talk, she thought defiantly. It won’t matter anyway. No one knows who I am. Not really.
“Quite sure, thank you,” she answered with dignity, trying to keep her staring from becoming too obviously. There was something familiar about his open, smiling face. She was sure she’d seen him around the keep but couldn’t place where, exactly. It was hard to keep track. They kept her so busy, with her lessons in the Skill and etiquette and the history of the Six Duchies and countless other things that no one had deemed important enough for her to learn until it was already too late.
He looked down at her doubtfully for a moment, then glanced out over the rows of vegetables and closed blossoms and kitchen herbs. “It’s a beautiful evening,” he said conversationally. “Do you mind if I join you?” She did mind, very much, but decided, a touch resentfully, that it would be better to air on the side of polite caution. She had no idea who he was, and weren’t they always lecturing her on all the ways to avoid insulting foreign dignitaries or lesser nobility?
Nettle doubted very strongly that the suspiciously friendly young man looming over her was anyone of such import, but you could never be too sure, not in a place like Buckkeep. “Please,” she said, trying not to sound too resigned. If she did anyway, he ignored it, plopping down beside her unceremoniously, his long limbs and careless movement putting her to mind of her brothers. Another lump rose in her throat. She swallow hard against it.
“So what brings you out to the gardens tonight, my lady?” The stranger seemed to be either cheerfully oblivious to her distress or valiantly ignoring it. She couldn’t decide which chafed at her more. Was there nowhere in this awful place that she could be alone? She felt constantly scrutinized and evaluated. It seemed as though every day someone new took her measure and found her to be lacking. She missed her Mama, and her brothers, and the horses and her-
“My Papa is dead.” She didn’t know why she blurted it out, only that she did, and she was immediately mortified to discover tears were once again coursing hotly down her cheeks. She swiped at them violently, but they just kept coming. She sniffled hard and tried a second time to dry her face in vain. On her third try, the young man wordlessly thrust a wrinkled handkerchief into her hand, smiling sympathetically at her.
She looked away, embarrassed, and dried her face. The handkerchief smelled of peppermint. It made her feel, if not better, the smallest bit more at ease. She turned to the man, offering it back. He shook his head and smiled at her again, a happier expression this time, one that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “You keep it,” he said, voice softer than she’d expected from someone so jovial. “It seems like you have more use for it than I do at the moment.”
“I really am alright,” she insisted stubbornly, still sniffling. “I’m just tired tonight, that’s all. But I’ll be fine.” She jutted out her chin proudly, the way she’d seen her Mama do a hundred times when she was telling Papa how things were going to be. She stared down her nose at the stranger, daring him to question her again. He looked back at her, something almost like amusement playing at the corners of his lips. That irritated her. She couldn’t abide not being taken seriously.
“Was there something else you needed, sir, or do you just enjoy prowling around the Women’s Gardens in the dark looking for young girls crying?” She asked sharply. “Are you Burrich’s girl, then?” He replied. She blinked at the unexpected question. “You knew my Papa?” She asked, suddenly uncertain, her traitorous voice quavering again as she spoke.
“I didn’t know him personally, no. He was the stable-master long before my time. But everyone’s heard the stories, he’s famous here. All anyone talks about is how brave he was, what an incredible fighter. How there was no animal he couldn’t tame. Oh, and everybody knows how he saved Prince Chivalry’s life, and beat some old Skill master in front of the Witness Stones to avenge the Prince’s bastard. I even heard he helped the Queen escape from her enemies in Buckkeep, and before that led an attack on the Red Ship Raiders in the battle of Neatbay alongside her. Your father was a hero.” He paused, hesitating, and then continued. “He saved my life too, you know. Him and your brother.”
She looked at him, skeptical. “It’s true,” he insisted earnestly, eyes widening as if to punctuate his words. “I was there, on Aslevjal. If it weren’t for your father and brother, I would have frozen to death, alone and forged in an icy dungeon.” “Forged?” Nettle interrupted incredulously. “You were forged?” The man nodded seriously. “But that’s impossible,” she declared with a frown. “You can’t undo forging. Everyone knows that.”
“Everyone does know that. But your brother still did,” the man informed her seriously. “Swift,” she said, more a statement than a question. “Yes, Swift. The arrow he shot at that dragon gave me back… whatever it is that makes me myself.” “And who are you, exactly?” Nettle demanded. “Oh, my apologies, Lady. I’m Riddle,” he said easily, and thrust out a hand.
“Nettle,” she replied slowly, offering hers in return. He shook it vigorously. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady Nettle.” “Nettle is perfectly fine, thank you,” she corrected him primly. He gave her a lopsided grin. “Alright then, Nettle,” he returned affably. “Riddle is an awful name,” she observed. “Why would your mother name you after something that tricks and confounds people?”
“Well,” he replied, raising an eyebrow at her, “Your mother named you after a plant that stings.” “It also smells lovely. And it makes a good tea,” she retorted. “And riddles amuse people, and make them laugh,” he countered amiably. “So it seems that our names aren’t as bad as all that, after all.” She didn’t have a reply for that, and so she turned and surveyed the garden instead. The neat rows of lavender and thyme that stretched out before them reminded her of her Mama’s garden, fragrant and homey.
It had been her job to weed, as soon as she was old enough recall which plants to pull and which to preserve. Sometimes she’d chew bits of bitter rosemary or sweet honeysuckle as she worked, letting the aromas fill her mouth as bees buzzed lazily about her head. She never feared them. “Don’t bother them, Nettle, and they won’t bother with you,” Mama had always told her. “Bees aren’t as frightening as people think. They just want to make their honey and be left alone.” Occasionally, her Papa would come and join her, groaning and clutching his knee as he sat down flat on the earth beside her.
“And what’s my little stinging Nettle concentrating so hard on, then?” He’d ask her, ruffling her hair affectionately and giving her a conspiratorial smile. Papa was stern with her brothers, a slave driver, Swift liked to complain, when Papa was out of earshot, but he was never like that with her. “The apple of his eye,” Mama would call her, shaking her head in exasperation. “You can do no wrong in his eyes, girl.”
Nettle wasn’t sure about that. Plenty of times, he’d punished or chastised her harshly, they both had, but always it was he who’d come seeking her out after, drying her tears and lifting her into his lap, his coarse beard scratching her as she’d wrap her arms around his neck tightly and hide her face against his broad shoulders. “We don’t punish you to be cruel, child,” he’d murmur, big hands patting her back comfortingly. “It’s because we love you. The world is a dangerous place, Nettle. You must mind us, always, and trust that when we tell you to heed us, we tell you for a reason. I only want to keep you safe.”
Often, after that, he’d bid her come out with him to the stables and she’d help him finish the chores, reluctantly warming to him as he’d explain to her how to do this task and that, always so at ease among his big horses. Ruddy, since she was small, had always been his favorite, and thus hers too. Once, when she’d told him so, a strange expression overtook his face and he’d cleared his throat gruffly. “Of course he is. Ruddy is a fine horse. A very fine horse.” And then he’d turned away and coughed, before sending her inside to fetch some herbs for a salve.
“Copper for your thoughts?” Riddle said, and she realized they’d been sitting side by side in silence for who knew how long. “I’m homesick,” she stated simply, not looking at him. “I miss my family.” He made a humming sort of noise in response and plucked absentmindedly at a swath of yellow flowers to his right, their petals still unfurled in the moonlight. Evening primrose, she thought to herself. The oil of it eased dry skin. Her Mama had taught her that.
“I could deliver a message to your family from you, if you’d like,” Riddle offered suddenly, and Nettle turned her head sharply at the suggestion. “Why would you do that?” She demanded, and he shrugged casually, looking down at the yellow blossoms he’d picked, twisting them around in his hand. “I’ll be going that way anyway. Tom Badgerlock sends me to your lady mother’s house with gifts and missives now and then, and carrying a few extras would be no trouble at all.”
Thick disappointment laced with a dull, resigned sort of anger rose in her throat at the mention of Tom, and she must have made a sour face. “You don’t like Tom?” Riddle asked, surprised. She shook her head bitterly. “I don’t. I can’t abide a coward, and Tom Badgerlock is the most cowardly man I’ve ever met.” Riddle goggled at her, speechless for the first time that night. Finally, he said “Are you sure we’re talking about the same Tom?”
“Tall man who barely smiles, covered in scars with a big gash down his cheek? He has a crooked nose and a bad habit of staring at people foolishly. Oh, and he never tells anyone the whole truth nor thinks things through at all before doing them?” She replied, scowling. Riddle gave an amused snort. “Not a very flattering description, but that’s the one. Remind me never to cross you, Lady Nettle.” If he was hoping to get a smile out of her, he failed. But not by much.
“The Tom I know is all those things,” he admitted readily, “but he’s also very brave. Did you know he insisted we leave him behind on the glacier to recover the body of his friend, the Lord Golden? There’s even rumors that he performed a Skill-healing on him all alone, and brought him back from the edge of death. Prince Dutiful trusts him as an advisor, and so does Lord Chade. I hear he even has the favor of the Queen herself. So he can’t be all bad.”
She did, in fact, know that. Tom had told her so. But he hadn’t told her all of it, no, of course he hadn’t. That had been Dutiful. Lord Golden wasn’t just his friend, Dutiful had confided to her in low whispers, but someone even more dear. Did Nettle catch his meaning? She wasn’t sure she did, not fully, but what she did know was that it had been yet another piece of crucial information she’d learned about her so-called progenitor from an outside source.
Come to think of it, she didn’t think she knew anything personal about Tom that he’d told her voluntarily. He could barely look at her most days, it seemed. Though she was loathe to admit it, it hurt her unspeakably. When her mother had told her the truth about him, Nettle had been angry, incandescently so, but she’d been curious, too. She’d wondered if they were anything alike. She’d thought perhaps he’d want to get to know her, the daughter circumstance had forced him to leave behind. But all he’d done since he’d arrived was ignore her.
“Maybe you just don’t know him like I do,” Nettle muttered, and Riddle relented. “Besides, what business does he have with my mother, that he keeps sending you two days ride away with nothing but letters and presents?” She added, disgusted. Of course Tom sent someone else to do his bidding for him. Coward. He was such a coward. He couldn’t even meet Nettle’s eyes half the time, and had barely approached her since she’d confronted him outside the steams.
Dutiful insisted that he just needed time, but it didn’t sound like Dutiful had known him that much longer than she had. Privately, she doubted either of them would ever know the true nature of FitzChivalry Farseer, witted bastard and father Nettle had never asked for. No, not father, she thought savagely. She’d already had a father, and now he was dead, buried at sea and lost to her forever because of selfish Tom Badgerlock and his stupid secrets. She bit her lip so hard she tasted blood.
“Nettle?” Riddle whispered, and she felt him place a tentative hand on her shoulder, featherlight. She turned to him, surprised. “I didn’t mean to upset you more.” He said, and the words seemed genuinely apologetic. “I was only making conversation. I never would have mentioned Tom if I’d known it would make you so unhappy. That’s the last thing I want.”
“What exactly do you want, Riddle?” Nettle demanded, staring at him full in the face. “Why are you being so kind to me? You’ve never even met me before, why should you care how I feel?” All this she asked of him as his hand hovered upon her shoulder, barely brushing her. She debated shrugging away from his touch. She didn’t, not quite yet. It was comforting and friendly, and it had been a long time since someone had been willing to hear her out, every last word, and hadn’t scolded her afterwords for saying them.
“Because I know what it’s like when too much around you changes all at once, including everything you thought you knew about yourself.” His eyes grew distant and sad as he spoke, and she sensed there was a story there, a hard one. She didn’t push him to tell it. It looked as though it haunted him enough already. His hair was cropped close to his head, like hers, she suddenly realized. He was in mourning, too. Perhaps they did have more in common than she’d thought.
“Sometimes all that helps that feeling is having a friend to share it with, so you don’t feel so alone,” he added, looking down at his hands. “And is that what we are? Friends?” She asked doubtfully. He lifted his eyes and gave her a tentative smile. “I’d like to be, if you’d let me. I’ve been told I’m a very good friend. I promise I won’t disappoint you.” He was recovering some of his good humor, and his eyes were beginning to twinkle. Despite herself, Nettle was a bit charmed. He was handsome, in a gangly, youthful sort of way. “He’ll grow into his features,” she could hear her Mama say.
“Alright,” she agreed finally, taking pity on him and giving him a small smile back. His own face widened into a silly grin, and he patted her hardily on the back. “Then it’s settled. We’re friends!” He declared stoutly, reminding her for all the world of Hearth when he convinced her to play along with whatever silly game of make-believe he’d conjured up that day. Inordinately pleased with himself, Papa would have said.
“One friend to another, may I escort you back to the keep?” Riddle asked, glancing around at the dark gardens. “It’s late for a lady such as yourself to be out unaccompanied.” “I’m quite capable of getting back to my room by myself,” Nettle replied tartly, smoothing her skirt with her hands before rising. Riddle leapt up after her far more gracelessly, bedraggled primroses still in hand. “Just to the keep door, then?” He insisted. “It’s good manners,” he added, offering her an arm.
He had a point and she knew it. Besides, she didn’t really have anything against the idea. In a selfish way, she hadn’t wanted anyone to see them together, because then this conversation would continue belonging only to them. No one could ask her a thousand questions about the young man she was speaking to if no one saw them speak. “Just to the door,” she stipulated, taking his elbow gingerly.
“I suppose I do have a parcel or two I could send with you next time you go to see my mother,” she told him reluctantly, and he beamed down at her. He was very tall, standing up, and she had to crane her neck to see into his face. “I’d be happy to,” he assured her. “I’ll be sure to find you before I leave.” They had made it to the door, and they both paused, peering at each other curiously, unsure of how to end this strange exchange. It was Riddle, of course, who spoke first.
“Well, I bid you goodnight, Nettle. I’m glad I happened upon you here this evening. I enjoyed our talk very much.” He thrust forward the wilting yellow flowers, still clutched tight in his fist. “A token of our friendship,” he said gallantly, as a limp petal fluttered to the ground between them. Nettle was horrified to find herself stifling a giggle. Riddle, on the other hand, seemed delighted.
“And I made you laugh? Then tonight has been a success!” He declared, and shoved the flowers into her hand. “Good night, Riddle,” she said firmly, taking them with a small shake of her head. “I’ll find you, before I go,” he repeated, more seriously, and she nodded, turning to go inside. “Thank you,” she told him, “For the handkerchief and the flowers and…” He nodded wordlessly as she trailed off. “Of course,” Riddle said quietly, and she slipped into the keep without a backward glance.
Back in her room, she put the hopeless flowers into water and folded the handkerchief neatly, smelling it once more before tucking it carefully under her pillow. She thought of her father and her mother and Tom Badgerlock and dragons as she readied herself for bed. It was all too much, sometimes. The trajectory her life had taken overwhelmed her in a way that was difficult to describe. But Riddle had been right. Talking to him about it made the burden feel less heavy, somehow. Nettle couldn’t remember the last time she hadn’t felt heavy.
“Friends,” she murmured under her breath, casting a last look at her flowers as she blew out the candle beside her bed. It was one her Mama had made for her special, and it smelled of lavender and nettle. Mama had sent her with a whole box of them, when she’d been spirited away to Buckkeep. “They’ll tell you all kinds of things about who you are in that place, Nettle,” Mama had said as she briskly helped Nettle pack her bags. “But I want you to listen to me, and listen well. You belong to yourself, do you hear me? You are your own person, your father’s child and mine. That’s who you are. Don’t ever forget that.”
Then she’d squeezed Nettle tight and wiped the tears from her eyes. “Now be a brave girl and work hard. Make us proud.” And Nettle had tried, tried so hard, but it was so lonely, sometimes. She hadn’t been lonely tonight, though. Nettle settled her head against the pillow, thinking of Riddle and his wide smile, and recalled that her Papa used to smile at Mama that way, long ago, before everything went wrong. That’s what she wanted to see tonight, she decided. Papa’s smile, and Riddle’s.
Nettle closed her eyes and dreamed.