The words of wonder that wind through ages Scribed into stone and standing on leaves that Fell from no tree–no great feat, that– March in their masses as must well be done While I, not worthy, watch them pass by Saluting those soldiers, sentinels of lore, Yearning for years to yoke myself to them.
They walk through the world, while I Remain here, rooted. They rove And carry their contents, commanding attention, Gift I, too, gave them, and gladly I did, Hurt that they heeded no hope that I held. They pass on, proceeding, a parade through ages, Trudging through ticker-tape, teasing the mind With wonder of what might have been, were things otherwise.
No axle-span asks me what I would offer, Bespeaks its forbearance, bids me be patient In dreams in the darkness, when my lights are dimmed. No gold or gemstones glitter before me In inward eye-work, no eager wood Speaks of its strength and surrender to will Of the fruit that it, fertile, felt compelled to avenge. No such man am I to have such a vision And the words of wonder that persist in the world, Beauty in bard-craft, betray all the changes From their time to this, as might well be thought.
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He would often sing of a man from Abas Whose nethers were somehow constructed from glass And those gathered ’round would give him a pass Though that little song was well without class
Something of a source, perhaps? Photo by Liudmyla Shalimova on Pexels.com
But I am no better who have my own song That I bellow out, all day and night long And in all that lowing hope I appear strong Though I do but writhe upon fear’s fork’s prong
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Read the previous entry in the serieshere. Read the next entry in the serieshere.
Following introductory commentary from an older scribe about the magics in use in the Six Duchies, “Spilled Blood” begins with Fitz rushing to assist Patience, whom he thinks has fallen again. He finds that it is Molly who is in need, however, and attended by both Nettle and Patience. Fitz assists Molly to their bedchambers and into bed amid her apologies, and after she lapses into sleep, he quietly retreats to his private study to contemplate matters.
I do always love to reference Katrin Sapranova’s art, such as the piece here, which is used for commentary.
Fitz is interrupted by Revel, sent by Riddle, who shakingly reports violence in the home. Fitz dispatches him to guard Molly’s room and stalks into a more public study, where he finds Revel amid signs of violence and upset. Fitz issues orders and begins a search that ends up being fruitless, and he confers with Revel again, getting more details about the messenger whose presence he has missed.
The search of Withywoods continues, Fitz communing through the Skill with Nettle as he proceeds. He confers with Riddle, who joins him in the hunt as he offers some rebuke for Fitz having long set aside his recommendations regarding security. The search takes them outside, where queries to staff yield additional details but nothing of immediate use.
Further search yields sign of further infiltration already departed, and Fitz finds himself swept up in his magics by a careless handling of a cube of memory stone that the Fool had carved for him. The experience confirms for him the fate of the messenger he has missed, and he begins to seethe in anger at the violation. But there is nothing to be done at the moment, and Winterfest continues as if nothing had been amiss, time passing ever onward.
The present chapter is still firmly in the explicatory phase of the novel, the first act in Freytag’s Pyramid familiar to many from high school English classes. To my rereading, it does more to lay out social particulars than the previous chapter–but then, it has the luxury of doing so. The first chapter has to do more to establish the broader milieu; the second chapter can be more local because the more global view already motioned towards affords it a context in which to exist. Or, again, so it seems to me; I readily admit to having preferences in my worldbuilding, as well as approaching this novel from a position of familiarity with it and with the broader literary contexts in which it exists.
(I may well be among the expected primary readership, but I do not know that I am necessarily representative of that readership. I would probably be arrogant to suggest as much, and to a degree excessive even for my often-hubristic self.)
I do, as I consider the present chapter, find myself put in mind of the beginning of the Tawny Man trilogy. Here, as there, Fitz has been living a life away from the intrigues of court, out in the country and away from many of the dangers he had previously faced. Here, as there, the habits of mind to which he was trained in his youth have fallen away, and he moves about his day-to-day existence. There is the pleasant counterpoint that his present life is one that, while perhaps not offering more ease, does offer more comfort; he is part of a community, respected and honored, and he is with the woman he has long loved.
But, here as there, there remains an undercurrent of violence in Fitz; when confronted with the threat posed by the infiltrators, although he is unable to meet it, his mind immediately returns to how to do such things. The statement being made about early training is something that can be teased out, I am sure; perhaps those more current in their scholarship than I could attend to such things.
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To scribing tasks, I set my hand again As I have done at times since those years when I thought myself advanced well in my ken And looked at others as if from on high. The years since passed have given that the lie, Have shown such haughtiness was but a cry A child voiced in the woods when left alone That called not help, but made those nearby prone To staying far away. The years have shown That haughty cry did all too well its task, And now, when it might be that I ask For aid or comfort, show a thinner mask, I am refused. But this is only just; I have thus trained, and thus do this, I must.
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Following a letter from Chivalry to Burrich dating to just after the former’s abdication, “Withywoods” begins with Fitz looking out over guests arriving for Winterfest amid falling snow. Molly chides him for his delay in getting ready for the event, and he, grumbling about changes to fashion, starts to dress. Banter between the pair continues, and Molly leaves to attend to guests as Fitz ruminates upon his situation in life. Festivities continue in earnest as Fitz finishes getting ready, and as he makes to join them, he is pulled aside by his steward, Revel, who warns of uninvited guests acting suspiciously and of a messenger whose arrival was announced and unheard. Fitz issues directives to see to each, and he joins the revelry.
This kind of thing, yes, if not exactly this thing. Photo by KATRIN BOLOVTSOVA on Pexels.com
The festivities are described as Fitz joins them, and though he is not an adroit dancer, he does what he can in the midst of things. Molly and Fitz confer about events and about Patience, who yet lives with them. Patience then takes Fitz aside, and they confer until interrupted by the arrival of Web and Swift, whom they welcome warmly. Fitz considers Web’s continued insistence that he bond through the Wit again, not wanting to replace Nighteyes, and the two confer about the uninvited guests who seem not to show up to their Wit.
As festivities continue, Fitz steps quietly aside for a moment before resuming his conversation with Web. Web urges Fitz to seek a new bond, and Fitz demurs, considering what he has and what he has lost. But his answers seem to satisfy Web, and matters between them are eased. Further conversation between the two is halted by an urgent summons from Molly, delivered by one of her sons; Fitz hastens off to attend to his wife.
The present chapter, first in the novel and in the series, carries out well its expected explicatory role. The novel is situated in the larger chronology of the Six Duchies, with explicit references back to both the Farseer and Tawny Man trilogies. Changes most relevant to Fitz and the characters most closely connected to him from the previous series are noted in passing in a way that lays them out sensibly without being heavy-handed, and explanations for the current state of Fitz’s life are provided without them seeming abusive or insulting. (Both are often problematic, if the readings I have done of other books in continuing series are any indications. There’s a challenge in setting things up to reward returning readers while not confusing new ones. Not everyone addresses that challenge well.)
The chapter also begins to hint at a driving conflict, something gestured towards in the prologue of the novel: the perils of complacency. Fitz is in a position in which he could be expected to be at some ease–and he is, in fact, at ease, perhaps overly so. The neglect of the messenger and the not-very-hesitant admission of the uninvited and clearly lying guests to his holiday celebration both speak to a certain desultory or lackadaisical attitude at odds with Fitz’s presentation in the earlier novels, although it might well be argued that a decade of married life as the petty noble of a country estate, a life that is a retirement from intense and fatally perilous public service, justifies so much. It is no small thing, after all, to remain properly paranoid across years of little happening, and my own experience suggests that the pleasantry of life with an agreeable spouse is decidedly softening–and it is not a bad thing, in itself, to be soft.
So much said, this is a Six Duchies novel, and it is Fitz. He has to find trouble, or it him, one way or another. (Honestly, there wouldn’t be quite so much story, else.) And it is clear in the present chapter that there are at least two sources of trouble waiting for him, if not more (although, since this is a rereading, I may be remembering rather than anticipating). There’s a lot of novel to go, though, and a lot of rereading yet to do–and I find, again, that I look forward to doing it!
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It is not only the susurrations of my own air conditioner as it Strips the water out of the air that Holds too much of it in lowering clouds that Hesitate to relieve themselves Not thinking the oak and cedar and mesquite here Mildew growing atop limestains But the low hum of the neighboring office’s coolers Singing as they hold the flowers Pitches changing as hands reach in to pluck out What those same hands lodged inside
It is that time of year, and I do so enjoy seeing them… Photo by nagaraju gajula on Pexels.com
The music on in the background Trying to balance engagement and nonannoyance Because there are differing tastes that come in the door at odd whiles And some of us have to sit and hear the songs all day Never does manage quite to cover up those noises Or those of the highway just outside People racing past what are just barely not residences And all too often finding obstacles they did not expect
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She sent me a message Let me know that someone we’d known Someone I’d worked with Had retired And we chatted for a while afterward She noting that she was going Up for a job Me noting that I have one Each remarking that things are going well And they are And it was good to be back in touch
Image related and still mine.
There is some talk of getting together again Marking the decades that have passed since we met Since we parted Some of us staying where we had been Others flying away Still others lingering around for a time until Circumstances changed and we were Called away to other lives
They aren’t bad words to have said or heard Even as the years have passed and Paths have been trod that will never open again There is some comfort in being recalled Fondly enough to be seen again
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Following front matter that includes a pair of maps and the text of a letter from Queen Desire to Fennis of Tilth, the prologue begins with Fitz rehearsing his early experience of hating and fearing Desire. The circumstances of his finding the letter receive some attention, as do Fitz’s changing attitudes toward the woman. Fitz also reflects upon his early impressions of Withywoods, contrasting them with the reality of the place he encountered when he moved there.
I know it needs work…and the room does, too. Image is mine. Clearly.
Fitz continues, shifting to a far more melancholy musing that expresses some sympathy for Desire’s position and begins to bewail his own inattentions and infelicities (7):
Lessons learned too late. Insights discovered decades later. And so much lost as a result.
As I noted in the previous entry, I’m moving directly into the Fitz and the Fool Trilogy, rounding out what is currently the main line of the Realm of the Elderlings novels before going to pick up other things (such a s the Soldier Son novels and some shorter works). I’ve got a couple reasons for doing so. One is simple momentum. Another is that I have a coming conference paper that will need me to have looked at the books again, and moving directly into treatment of them helps me to do the work I need to do for that paper. Yes, it might come off as a bit of laziness, but I’m doing this in and around working outside academe; I have to make time to read when I can, and I need to make it count for as much as I can when I do it.
As might be expected, this is not the first time I am reading the book–nor rereading it. I comment about my first experience with the book here, close to ten years ago, when I’d completed reading the signed copy I was lucky enough to get. Too, I have written at least one paper that deals with the series of which the present volume is the first, doing that some years later so that I have to have reread the text at least the once. (I often fall into the trap when writing academic papers of getting into reading when I’m looking for citation and argumentative materials, which does not speed the process of composition.) So it’s not with wholly fresh eyes that I’m coming back to this text–but it has been a while. The volumes of the Fitz and the Fool trilogy are substantial, and I haven’t had the luxury of as much time to read as I would like; as I note above, I have to fit it in when I can–and this isn’t something I can really read to my daughter quite yet.
And as to the text itself…the foreshadowing is quite deep. It promises great ill for FitzChivalry Farseer. But then, that’s par for his course…
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Harken and hear how the old poet sang, The Heodening hearth-man Heorrenda replaced, Of troubles that took place in times ere his own, Found in them and faith for himself some ease, Knowledge that nobody is not without troubles, And others will often endure far worse, Recited a refrain that rings down the years.
Pretty! 01. The Lady Chapel by Ella Foster at the Exeter Cathedral website, here, used for commentary
Dear child, delightful in all of my days, Cold is the comfort in moments of conflict That words can work, however well made, But better a blanket that bears the night’s chill When put on than none, for when it is worn And the longer it’s lifted, the less is the cold, The greater the gain of good warmth in it.
My body has borne that blanket not seldom, Sought for solace in scribe-works of old And makings of words from more modern days. It gave to me gifts, the greatest I have, And treasures far truer than troubles in life, Even the evils that evince themselves. Those passed away; so too may this one.
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Elliott RWI 