Dance of the Court

Chapter One

The Skill magic is one possessed by many of the Farseer line. Though it is not rare for others of strained Farseer lineage to possess the Skill, none have been officially recognized for over three decades. Only the nobility of the Farseers may be taught by the Skillmaster, unless the magic of another is particularly strong, and the need for a coterie is great.

- Privacy and Privilege, by Skillmaster Jubileena

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I can hear the music.

It is a wistful sound, straying always at the edge of my conscience. It tugs at me, lulling me into a false state of security. The plucking of this Skill music drives me to the edge of insanity. I can only listen to it the way one keeps something dangerous in their peripheral vision. If I turn to face the melody, I will be swept away into the Skill stream, my mind and soul sucked away from me and plunged into the deadly mental river of pure magic. I would be left a great, drooling babe, my body unmoving, performing only the necessary functions needed to survive. I would have no control over my body. My mind would be lost amongst the murmurs and whispered promises and powerful rush of the Skill.

I would Forge myself.

The Skill stream is one of unimaginable pleasure. Braver hearts than I have plunged into it, unable to resist the temptation.

They have all died.

Some say the Skill is a blessing, and others view those who possess it with jealousy. But I know the truth.

The Skill is a tool that may be wielded to protect my sovereign and the Farseer line.

A dangerous tool, yes; but a tool all the same.

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We must rise early for Skill training. Always it is done in the High Tower, once known as Verity's Tower to those who loved him in the days of old. I rise earlier than most - in addition to Skill lessons, weapons training with Tope, countering with court life and seamlessly executing my duties as an emissary of my bloodline, I am also training to be an assassin.

But such is the fate of the bastards of the Farseer line.

I was offered a choice, and informed that if I accepted, I would be killing people for my Queen. Lanton never minced his words. I would be a murderer, but I would also be doing so for the crown, which would make the deaths correct. Not noble, and not right, but simply correct.

At the age of three I was returned to Buckkeep Castle by my mother. A pale Bearns woman, she had coddled me as a toddler simply because I reminded her of my father. King Merry was a man as free with his heart as he was with his sword. I am not his only bastard.

Queen Vigilance has never approved of her husband's lusty ways, even now that he is deceased. It was a hunting accident, they told me, and I believe them still. There are some promises that a boy must cling to, in order to keep his head above the treachery and secrecy that a royal court always contains.

I am pledged to my Queen, and to her true-blooded sons after they inherit the throne. At six she claimed me not as her half-son, but as a faithful servant to her reign. She has bound me with the promise that she will always see I am clothed and fed and educated. Sometimes I wonder why she did not acknowledge me as her son - such a thing would have bound me to her regardless of empty promises. I suspect that it is painful for her to think of me as such.

So I began my training, a six and half year old learning the uses of poisons and the quickest ways to kill a man. At first my tasks began simply - I was to cause a thread to dangle from Lady Whimsy's sleeve, without her noticing. I was to carefully remove all of the yeast from the bustling kitchens, so that the bread would have to be baked flat for that night's feast. Again and again I proved my loyalty to my Queen, and was repeatedly tested.

Lanton is the one training me in my assassin's work. He has the dark eyes and skin of a Farseer, but his brown hair is very light and the angle of his jaw is such that he could look very pleasant if he tried. He has a short temper but a kind heart. One of the reasons I fall so earnestly into my studies is because I want to please him. Lanton is still the closest thing I have ever had to a father.

My half-brothers have always been aware of my presence, though Prince Heedful has never felt an overt fondness for me. I often catch his dark eyes on my back, and it is all I can do not to shrink back from his gaze. Prince Gracious is not so intimidating - as children, we often played together. He is younger than his lanky brother by almost four years.

There is another bastard at court, though I see little of him. He and I may exchange courteous words, though I have often caught his gaze lingering wistfully on Queen Vigilance. I will not begrudge him that - often I have wondered if I would not be another person entirely, if a loving mother had raised me.

But wishing is not becoming of a bastard.

It is not becoming of an assassin, either.

It is odd, serving as a diplomat to the Farseers. While I verbally carry out the will of my Queen, I also drop poisons into crystal cups and whisper honeyed words that could sway the opinion of a ruffled Lord. Though my lineage is obvious in the proudly spaced features of my face and the dark coloring of my hair, my eyes are shaped differently and my nose is smaller than the others of my line. At a glance one can tell me for a bastard. Lanton says that I will regret that fact some day.

I suspect that Lanton is also a bastard. I think he is about forty years old, but his eyes are bright yet. When I was younger he seemed ancient to me, but now I see him as a man in his prime, flattering nobles at court and then spying on them in the secret chambers woven throughout the castle. He also functions as an advisor to the royal family. He is in so many places at once and knows so much that at times I fear for him. However, few know that he is truly an assassin. Most see him as a low yet handsome noble of the court. Many other courtiers resemble the Farseers, as the offshoots of the line have become widespread. If they see the telling brow on Lanton's face, they do not remark upon it.

"Hand me the goat's leaf, boy," Lanton requests softly, his eyes intent on the concoction bubbling over the fire before him. I have ground many leaves and flowers into special piles, and now must brush them onto a thin sheet of paper, which he carefully adds to his brew.

It bubbles some more, becoming so frothy that the color seems white. He stirs in another pile without asking for it, and the brew goes completely transparent.

Together we put out the flames beneath the cauldron, and watch the bubbling liquid cool down, the bubbling noises slowing and finally ceasing. As we wait Lanton turns to me with a smile that tells he is extremely pleased with himself. "How has your Skill training been going, boy?"

"Well," I reply with a vague smile. Lanton was once trained in the Skill, but for some reason he can longer use it. I have tried groping at him before with a tendril of the Skill and sense only an empty place where his magic once filled him. He will not tell me what happened to him, and I will not ask.

"You get along to your bed, now. You'll have a good hour's sleep before you need to wake," He tells me, almost gently. There is genuine fondness in his gaze. He turns back to his concoction, pulling on a pair of thick gloves. In one hand he holds a glass vial, and pours the silvery liquid into it using a wrought iron ladle. I am certain I do not want to know what we have just created. I will probably help him use it later.

"Thank you, sir," I say respectfully, bobbing my head. For a boy of thirteen years I am willing to accept any amount of sleep that I am rewarded with.

Carefully I creep along the dusty, dark passages, past hidden peep-holes and secret entrances. I finally find the entrance into my own chamber, and gently trigger the hidden door. It opens silently and I slip through, into the darkness of my impersonal chamber. I set my candle on my night stand and go through the motions of checking the order of my chamber. A threat can be hidden anywhere. I am always careful to leave my room slightly messy - it is easy to tidy a spotless room, but it can be hard for a trespasser to recall exactly the pattern of the folds of my bedspread, or precisely how the sleeve of my shirt looked as it trailed to the floor. Once I am certain there is no threat, and that I have not failed a test set for me by Lanton, I tug off my soft sheepskin boots and gratefully collapse into bed.

I am not finished. Ensuring that my Skillwalls are in place, I seal them tightly. I fall into the space between dreams and sleep. It is a black, unrestful area for my mind to be in, but at least when I am there the Skill stream cannot tempt me. I am afraid that one day I will give in to its sweetness, to its offer of the ability to simply let go of who I am and what I do.

As an assassin for the Farseer crown, I am a useful tool, especially because I possess the Skill. But I am also a dangerous tool.

Fortunately for me, my enemies have not yet realized this.

Nor has my Queen.

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Author's Note: This is a crossover between Newsies and Robin Hobb's books. I will update as soon as I can, especially if it is well-received. XD