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A fragment of recorded prophecy regarding the Unexpected Son prefaces “The Beaten Man,” which begins with Fitz considering that fragment in detail. How the prophecy had been thought to apply to him is noted, and Fitz glosses his long friendship with the Fool. Amid his reverie, Fitz realizes that the Fool had reached out to him before, that he had failed to see it, and he sorrows deeply.

As Fitz considers further and prepares to still his mind for sleep, he is disturbed by a Skill-sending from Chade. FitzViglant, having narrowly escaped being killed, will be sent to Withywoods, and circumstances surrounding both the attempt on his life and his sending out are discussed. Chade also notes something is amiss with Fitz and asks after him, only to be deflected.

Taken wholly out of sleep by Chade’s Skilling, Fitz stalks through Withywoods, assessing its condition and his next steps. He makes some arrangement’s for Bee’s things, then finds himself in the kitchens. There, he eats and manages to fall asleep.

Fitz is woken the next morning by baking in progress. He confers with the baker, then takes himself off to bathe and shave. While bathing, he receives word of some itinerant campers on the land, and he frets about their intentions.

The present chapter is another brief one, some twelve pages in the edition I am reading, and I am reminded that I really need to do the intellectual grunt-work of tracing page-counts across the Realm of the Elderlings novels. It wouldn’t be hard to do, I know, just somewhat tedious–though it would have, for me, the concern of distraction. Often, when doing the kind of work I do, I find myself starting to read again–which seems like no big deal when working with books, but there’s a difference between reading to find something and reading to read, and I slip all too often into the latter while trying to engage in the former. It’s not a problem, as such; reading is good, after all, and even though I am in another line of work, now, it is the kind of thing I trained to do for years. But it is a distraction from work I try to do, sometimes even for money.

In terms of narrative effect, the present chapter seems to me to be doing two things. The first is to set up juxtaposition. Consider one antecedent (among many): Macbeth 2.3, the porter scene (to l. 44). Between intense moments of high drama, the play features a comic, bawdy passage; the function of it, as others have attested, is to highlight the intensity of the drama, the juxtaposition between a whiskey-dick joke and the revelation of a royal murder making the latter hit harder.

The second, more overt, is to bring back into the main narrative a character who had been discussed before. It had been a while, both in chapter-count and in in-milieu time, since Lant had been a factor in the text. That he would be bound to come back seems sensible enough; while there is some utility in introducing a concept or character and not bringing it up again in the same novel–I’m minded of comments about Tolkien’s Legendarium and the “deeper history” mentioned in passing at various points in Lord of the Rings–there is also the issue of Chekhov’s Gun, and FitzVigilant is resonant in a narrative centered on FitzChivalry.

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An incomplete letter from Fitz to the Fool precedes “Invisibility,” which begins with Bee fuming at Fitz’s attention to Shun. She changes into new clothes, noting her late mother’s handiwork upon them, and she stumbles onto a strange cloak left by the now-dead messenger. Taking it up, she finds another entrance to the hidden corridors of Withywoods. There, she attends to a cat that she had bidden hunt for her and secrets it away in her hiding-place. Fitz finds her there, and he takes her to what had been Molly’s sitting room, where they will both spend the night.

The present chapter is startlingly brief, only six pages in the edition I am reading. Following immediately after another brief chapter, it creates the impression of accelerating towards some event of import–sensibly enough, since the book is closer to its end at the end of the present chapter than it is to its beginning. To put it in terms of Freytag’s Pyramid, the falling action is clearly underway–although what the climax of the novel is in that sense is not entirely clear to my reading. Is it the arrival of the messenger? The arrival of Shun? Fitz’s agreement to take her on? The death of Molly, even? And, to expand to the whole of the Fitz-focused portion of the Realm of the Elderlings corpus, where is the overall climax? Is it even appropriate to apply Freytag’s pyramid to such an overarching narrative structure?

Many questions, of course, and it is good to have so many; it means there’s more work to do with the texts. So much is, perhaps, a self-serving assertion; I do, after all, do such work, and it is in my best interest to note there’s more of it to do. But the electrician who sees room for more circuits to be installed is not held to blame for it, nor yet the mason who sees where stonework could be built to benefit. And if it is the case that the work I do does not have the immediate benefit that that done by tradespeople carries, it is also the case that any ill done by my work is less harmful–while the good it does may well endure longer.

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Following an excerpted translation done by Fitz of a damaged original, “Honored Guests” returns to Bee’s narrative perspective and glosses the adjustments to her life occasioned by the arrival of Shun and the arrival and departure of the messenger. She accompanies Fitz as he secures her in the hidden corridors of Withywoods so that he can make a full search of the facility, and Bee ruminates on her recent visions as he departs to carry out the search. She records what she recalls, then leaves a message for Fitz and strikes out through the corridors on her own again.

Bee’s escapades in the corridors are detailed, and Fitz returns to recover her. When he does, Bee asks him after the results of his search, which he reports, and she asks him for a knife, which he agrees will come in time. The pair discuss Shun, as well, and Bee is annoyed at having been left with her while Fitz and Riddle confer together. Shun, for her part, seems no happier with it, and the two trade barbs until Fitz returns. Then Bee asks to be taken to bed, sniping at Fitz as she does, and she considers the status of the household after Fitz withdraws.

Bee is disturbed from her reverie by the return of the messenger, who is in markedly poor condition. She calls out, and Fitz arrives in haste and anger, but relents as he recognizes the messenger. The messenger provides information that confirms the veracity of her mission to Fitz, and she delivers her message: the Fool has an heir he asks Fitz to find and ensure is safe. The message delivered, she warns of the danger in her body and dies; Fitz and Bee prepare to burn the body and all the cloth they know it has touched.

After too long a while, I have been at work updating the Fedwren Project. My lack of institutional affiliation and access does complicate that work a bit, to be sure, but it is good to return to reading and addressing scholarly writing. I have no doubt that it is going to get into the write-ups I do here, and, in truth, it ought to do so. There is a growing body of scholarship on Hobb’s works, to which I flatter myself that I can contribute in the rereading, the Fedwren Project, and such other learned (or “learned”) writing that is yet in me to do. So there’s that.

To return to discussion, though: the present chapter seems to further the foreshadowing and issues of gender fluidity at work in the previous chapter. (Discussion of the latter in earlier series is in the Katavić, Melville, Nordlund, Prater, Räsänen, Sanderson, and Schouwenaars sources in the Fedwren Project, which I recall now that I’ve resumed some work on it.) After Fitz’s experience thinking that the messenger was, in fact, the Fool and being surprised at the revelation that she was not, the idea that the Fool has sent word of a son lost along the way, coupled with the translation-excerpt at the head of the chapter, it seems fairly obvious (even without the benefit of a rereading) that the object of the Fool’s message is not as the characters expect.

Admittedly, I am rereading, and I am outside the narrative itself, so I have access to information the characters within the narrative do not. The oversight and lack of insight may be Hobb deploying irony, deliberately or otherwise; it seems a bit heavy-handed to my reading if it is the case, but I also know that I have had trouble catching onto things at times, and I flatter myself (among others) that I am an insightful reader. It may also be the case that Hobb is continuing to make the kind of commentary about gendering that the scholars noted above–and possibly others; again, I am at work on the Fedwren Project, so I may run into other piece yet that I do not presently recognize–identify. I’d not be surprised, of course, or disappointed; I do enjoy seeing that others also have recourse to Hobb’s works, and I hope to continue to contribute to such discussions.

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Following an in-milieu commentary about the Catalyst Wildeye, “A Full House” begins with the arrival of Shun at Withywoods; her reception is detailed, along with Fitz’s wonderings about her situation and circumstances. Fitz also ruminates on the shifts in his relationship with Bee, as well as on the work that has been done on the estate to bring it back into full operation. Shun is visibly displeased with the setting; Riddle, who accompanies her, is somewhat amused. Bee, in the thrall of one of her visions, enters and draws Fitz away, where he finds the Fool in dire straits.

Fitz takes up the Fool and begins to attend to him–finding him a her, and not the Fool, though much like him. She rouses under his ministrations and reports being sent as a messenger to him. Amid the report, Riddle intrudes, and Fitz tasks him with finding assistance. As Riddle departs on the errand, Fitz assigns tasks to Bee, as well, though she remains to confer briefly with him. The messenger delivers what of the message she can, although she notes that she has likely preceded danger.

Fitz leaves off the messenger to attend to Shun, who is verbally displeased at her situation and lays out her objections at length. Fitz realizes the depths of Shun’s despair, and he reaches out to her–only to be interrupted by Bee, who reports that the messenger has departed in haste. Fitz begins to puzzle out the issue as Riddle returns, and he and Bee move to investigate. Wariness begins to settle onto Fitz once again, and Bee begins to take it up, as well.

The present chapter does a fair amount of foreshadowing–it can hardly not, what with prophetic figures at play and the overt discussion of coming dangers from multiple sources, as well as Fitz’s admission of his lapsing wariness and assassin-appropriate paranoia (although it’s not paranoia if there are people out to get you). Too, it is the second appearance of a strange, pursued messenger in the narrative, and simple narrative structure suggests that a third will arrive. (Interestingly, the first messenger was almost completely missed, while the second was received but not fully. Narrative tropes suggest that the third messenger will deliver the message in full, but some other break will occur; typically, the first two set a pattern that the third violates. Admittedly, however, there is precedent for a decline in threes; the example of Lancelot’s judicial combat defenses of Guinevere comes to mind as an example for me for what may be an obvious reason.) Consequently, there’s some forward-looking at work, and at both narrative and structural levels, something I appreciate seeing.

I note, too, that the present chapter returns to something identified by several sources (as attested here) as something of a motif in the treatment of the Fool and his people: gender fluidity. While the term is not used within Hobb’s work (so far as I recall), the concept it describes very much is, and it surfaces in the present chapter in confusion about the messenger. Bee predicts that a man has arrived, and Fitz accepts the prediction as stated until presented with physicality that belies it–although the Fool had noted (and had been depicted as) being flexible in the expression and presentation of gender, something about which Fitz knows (and should know better than to assume). The notion of physicality determining gender, then, is not a stable one among the Fool’s people (nor necessarily among Fitz’s), and, given the foreshadowing at work already, it has to be thought that that flux will be of some moment, moving forward.

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After a passage from Bee’s dream journal, “Dreams” begins with Bee receiving her first visit from Wolf-Father. The latter confers with Bee at length, guiding her through her fear and the corridors she had meant to explore before losing her light, exhorting her to use other senses than sight to find her way. She manages to return to her starting place, where she finds Fitz frantically searching for her. Angry in his fear for her, he forgets for a moment to wall himself off, and she detects his fear and the love that underlies it. As he tends to her, she lays out some–but not all–of her exploits, and Bee allows Fitz to put her to bed.

Bee fights sleep, then, first because she seeks to find the place in her bedroom from which she could be covertly observed, second because she does not want to dream. She ruminates on her dreams, images that transcend time, and falls asleep–into a prophetic dream. She wakes from it with a new determination to record what she sees, stalking about Withywoods to collect what she needs to begin to do so. She surprises some of the household servants as she does so, and when Fitz, somewhat vexed at not finding her in her bedroom, speaks with her, she voices reluctance to burn candles her mother had made. He agrees, and he lays out the impending arrival of Shun. Discussion thereof ensues, and Bee lays out her need for writing materials in details Fitz cannot mistake. The revelation shocks him, and he assents to hre request.

Preparations for Shun’s arrival ensue, and Bee takes the opportunity to ferret away supplies for her own use, both in her rooms and in the hidden corridors. Her own preparations are detailed, and she works to record the prophetic dreams she recalls. Her own studies also receive attention, including Molly’s emerging writing and Patience’s acerbic marginalia in gift-volumes given her and Chivalry. She also reads old letters Patience had kept, puzzling out details of the tangled histories of her forebears, and she stumbles onto Fitz’s written ruminations as she continues searching for writing materials. Among them is a consideration of his early days in Buckkeep with Nosy, and what might well be his earliest encounter with the Fool. Bee muses on the implications of what she finds, and, when she asks him, Fitz lays out some of his history with the Fool. It leaves some awkwardness between them.

There is a bit of retcon in the present chapter, in that it establishes Fitz’s awareness of the Fool earlier than that character’s first mention in the text as published. It is, admittedly, not to be wondered at that such a detail might slip a bit in the years between compositions–both in-milieu and in the writer’s world. And it is not a large slip; it’s a difference of one chapter only (out of some 400 between). But it is still a small vexation, a slight inconsistency that frustrates analysis somewhat, and if it is the case that I don’t do a lot of that work anymore, I still do some, and others also have such work to do.

More generally, however, the present chapter seems to make much of metacommentary–here, writing about writing. It’s something of a recurring topic in Hobb’s work, as witness this, this, and this, doubtlessly among others. The present chapter fairly dwells in it, Bee musing at some length on the utility of writing as a means of organizing one’s thoughts and sifting through information to arrive at understandings. (I’m minded of the “write to learn” thrust of much of my own writing instruction, as well as my instruction in teaching writing.) The attention paid to Molly’s writing and its development in form and content, as well as to the marginalia Patience left behind also speaks to it, pointing usefully to the ways in which writing and its changes bespeak characters’ development, even if out of narrative sight. Affective reader that I am, I perceived similarities between what Bee reports and my own experiences owning the physical objects of texts and working with the words and ideas contained within them. (There are differences between the two, as well as to the studies of the two.) I’ve noted marginalia in copies of books that I own; I’ve made no few margin-notes, myself, over many years of study within formal programs and without. And even the contents of this rereading series, in addition to my papers, are of similar thrust, if likely not of similar extent (even assuming the unshown realities within the milieu; of course the instantiated thing is of greater extent than the uninstantiated). Consequently, I found myself in the pages…again. It does seem to happen to me a lot. I’m not entirely sure what it says about me that I do.

In any event, as I have remarked elsewhere–the links’re above–it is not a strange thing that a writer would attend to the work of writing within the writing. “Write what you know” is old advice and often repeated; a writer, especially one with a long publication history, presumably knows writing. I do have to wonder how much emerges from the writer’s personal practice, as opposed to observed and reported practices of others; biographical criticism is, of course, always fraught, but I maintain that ignoring the contexts of composition is not the best way to approach any text–or any work in any medium, really.

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Following a letter from Fitz to Nettle that warns against much investigation of the Skill Pillars, “Chade” begins with Fitz reminiscing about his erstwhile mentor’s tendency towards drama as he answers his summons. While he waits, he is approached by a young woman who makes seeming advances towards him, the which he rebuffs gently until Chade arrives, with Riddle assisting. Fitz reminisces about his long experience with Riddle, as well, and he and Chade confer for a time, not entirely pleasantly. Fitz realizes Nettle is Skill-riding Riddle, and he accompanies the men to a room prepared for them.

The woman from before greets them in the room, and Fitz is somewhat surprised to find Chade including her in their activities. Fitz intuits that she is of Farseer blood, and he is embarrassed to realize that she has duped him thoroughly. A casual comment comes from her that Fitz perceives as a threat to Bee, and he reflexively moves to eliminate the threat. Chade partially defuses the situation by noting the need to test Fitz again, citing the effects of grief upon him. He also notes his plan to place the woman, called Shun, in Fitz’s household, ostensibly as an aide for Bee, but more fully as a guard for her and a means of providing for her.

Discussion of Shun’s background follows, and Fitz puts questions to Chade through the Skill that the latter deflects. Shun expresses her distaste at the situation, which Chade validates, but he also lays out her situation as a bastard Farseer–which Fitz knows well. Fitz agrees to assist Chade with Shun, and Chade claims Shun as his own, calling her by his own surname of Fallstar. Fitz then makes to return home, deflecting attempts to keep him present; as he leaves, he and Riddle confer, Fitz averring that matters are well with him and Bee. And as he departs, Fitz ruminates on his erstwhile mentor further.

Given my comments about the past few chapters of the novel, I feel I have to note that the present chapter is a more “normal” length, not quite thirty pages in the edition I’m reading. And it does focus narrowly on a single scene, so that more “normal” length makes sense to my reading.

A couple of things strike me about the present chapter aside from the length. In it, Shun is described as being some nineteen years of age, which prompts Fitz to consider her origin. Some of that is confirmed, or at least heavily implied, by Chade’s recognition of her by surname, assigning Fallstar to her; it might well be thought that Chade, himself a Farseer bastard put to ungentle use by the Farseers, would be more careful about generating more such. (Given that Chade has access to a hangover cure, as well as any number of other fantastic concoctions, and given the attested existence of silphium, it would not be beyond imagining that Chade could have contrived birth control or an abortifacient. Indeed, Chade remarks upon several of the potential effects of his chemistries, suggesting that they might well be able to prevent conception.) However that might be, Shun’s age seems to my reckoning to put her conception between the events of Assassin’s Quest and Fool’s Errand, although, on reflection, it might have been during the former. I’m not at this point aware of any formal chronology, although I don’t doubt it could be sussed out from what is in the text, and I’m sure that some explication of the dating involved could be done to some effect; it’s the kind of thing that makes for a good short essay, really (and if the essay’s already out there, please let me know).

I wander once again, of course. I often do when I work with Hobb’s writing, getting lost in rereading as I look for things I remember. While it did, admittedly, complicate the work of writing my master’s thesis, one conference paper or another, a book chapter and a follow-up essay, an early publication, and teaching materials, I think it also speaks to the quality of Hobb’s writing. If it is so easy to get back into reading it, after all, it would seem to be doing something right.

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Once another piece from Badgerlock’s Old Blood Tales concludes, “Explorations” returns to Bee’s point of view and follows her progress towards her bolt-hole after Fitz’s departure to answer Chade’s summons. She begins to make plans for the space and to search out the other spaces connected to it. Her explorations take some time, enough to consume the candle she had carried with her, and she is left in darkness between the walls. The loss of light begins to panic her, and she calls aloud for the lost Molly before sinking into wordless fear.

The present chapter is remarkably brief, a scant seven pages in the edition I’m reading. It marks a sharp contrast from the sprawl of the previous chapter, although it is at a good length. It focuses narrowly on a single event, and it leaves the focal character in a place from which she will have to be extracted. The break in action occurring where it does prompts further readerly engagement with the text. That is, readers are almost compelled to read on to see what happens next, and if it is the case that the “cliffhanger” is a commonplace, it is also the case that it is a commonplace because it works.

Too, the chapter does well at presenting both the childlike joy of exploring tunnels and the like and the fear of being lost in what would otherwise be a familiar place. It is, perhaps, my affective reading once again that I note as much, but for me, the chapter conveys the feelings authentically, and the sudden juxtaposition of them highlights the fear admirably. It’s not horror, as such, but it certainly moves that way, and it does so effectively–more effectively, in some ways, than the gorier presentations often associated with acts of horror, because it is a more common experience and therefore one that lodges more fully into the mind. (Although Hobb also handles the more “normal” horrific in the series, as witness here and elsewhere.)

Perhaps it is being played for pathos, but novel-reading isn’t necessarily a strictly intellectual exercise–nor is it the case that more formal pieces are exempt from such play.

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Following a short entry in Bee Farseer’s dream journal, “My Own Voice” opens with a shift in narrative perspective to Bee as she recounts having “freed” her tongue. The day she did so is recounted in great detail, along with Bee noting her position in Withywoods relative to the other children on the estate. Similarities between her and Fitz are also noted, and Bee’s isolation from the other children is attested. So, too, is the beginning of her ability to see branching paths ahead of her, and she begins to exert agency by choosing among them. The choice allows another, larger child to abuse her in such a way that a strip of flesh holding her tongue awkwardly in her mouth is severed; the abuse enacted, she flees from them and recovers.

Having recovered and begun to familiarize herself in private with the formation of words, Bee returns to her attempts at finding fellowship with the other children on the estate. The attempt goes poorly, with the other children assailing her with murderous intent. A servitor on the estate saves Bee and rebukes the other children harshly, and Bee learns their fear of her. She gives them more occasion for wariness by speaking clearly before and to them, and she begins to settle into new routines, the which are described. Some of Bee’s apprehension about Fitz is explained, and he tries to begin to bond with her over games similar to those he had used to play in Buckkeep. Bee’s performance exceeds expectations.

On another day, Bee accompanies Molly as she tends her flowers. Molly dies during doing so, and it is some time before Fitz comes looking for her. Finding them, finding Molly dead, grief pours out of him through the Skill, and Nettle realized what has happened. Bee is overwhelmed by the outpouring, and they recognize one another in their grief. She also whispers a verse from her dreams.

When I first read Fool’s Assassin, many years ago, now, I found myself confused by the present chapter. I had long been accustomed to Fitz’s first-person narration, and I had seen Hobb attempt to use a similar perspective with Nevare Burvelle in the Soldier Son novels. (I’ll get to them at some point, I know, but it will be a while, yet.) For the novel to shift to another narrative perspective, though, and one that is not much dissimilar from Fitz’s, was somewhat jarring for my initial reading. It took me a while to realize what was going on, which annoyed me–not because of the writing, but because my arrogant self chafed at not knowing. (It still does, but that’s another issue, entirely.) It was easier this time around, to be sure, but I recall it being a sticking point in the initial reading.

Yet again, as should not be a surprise at this point, I found myself reading affectively as I read the present chapter. Molly’s death–which, as things go, is a good one; we should all be so lucky as to pass in such peace–made it seem to me like somebody was cutting onions nearby. It’s not the first time, of course, even if I do feel somewhat silly at being moved (again) in such a way over a work of fiction. After all, “it’s just a book,” “it’s not like it’s real,” and “there’re things in the world worth weeping over” without looking for them in fiction. Each of those is true, certainly, and my eyes often water despite no allergen’s effect, and yet I am affected.

More “normally” or formally, I note a slight Shakespearean movement at the end of the chapter. It’s not the first time I’ve marked such a thing, as witness this. (I might have to post the paper here sometime, probably after I work on it some more. There’s a difference between a conference paper and a more developed work, and it might be good to see if I still have what it takes to do the more developed work.) It’s a commonplace in Shakespearean narration that the ends of scenes will rhyme; it’s also a commonplace in Shakespearean narration that supernatural workings rhyme. (I’m put in mind of Oberon in Midsummer Night’s Dream, for one example.) The “poem” Bee whispers into Fitz’s ear at the end of the chapter–“When the bee to the earth does fall, the butterfly comes back to change all”–though presented as prose (there ought to be a line-break at the comma), and though not strictly metrical (both “lines” can be read as trimeter, with three stressed syllables each, but the counts of unstressed syllables are irregular), seems to partake of that kind of thing (Oberon’s incantations–especially in 2.2.33-40–are in tetrameter rather than the accustomed Shakespearean pentameter, after all). I’m not going to ascribe some grand motive to the coincidence; rather, I think this is an instance of Hobb being a writer of her background, presenting the “poem” in a way that “that kind of thing should be done.”

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