Read the previous entry in the series here.
Read the next entry in the series here.

---

The next chapter, “Old Blood,” begins with a letter from Burrich to his counterpart in a lesser court, reporting on a particular charge of his. It pivots thence to Fitz, the Fool, and Nighteyes reaching Fitz’s cabin, exhausted by their efforts and wracked by the pain of Skilling. Nighteyes falls swiftly asleep; Fitz prepares doses of elfbark, availing himself of it before the preparations begin. As the two dose themselves with the plant, Fitz resumes his account of his and Nighteyes’s travels after the Mountain Kingdom, relating their experience with Black Rolf and Holly among the Old Blood community they had encountered previously.

The community is glossed, and Fitz emphasizes his difficulties in keeping hidden among them what he needed–still needs–to keep hidden about himself and his past. That Black Rolf and Holly know his identity, he realizes, but he also notes that they helped maintain his ruse with the others. Fitz and the Fool eat as the former continues to talk about his experiences. He notes that his utter ignorance of Old Blood ways and customs grated on Rolf, as well as disturbing many others in the community; Fitz also muses on Burrich’s passive use of the Wit to oversee his own use of it in his childhood. He continues relating his difficult acculturation to Old Blood ways as he rehearses what he learned from the experience.

Among the things he sees is a joined pair, Delayna and Parela, a Wit-bonded woman and deer. The woman had died and had attached herself to the deer, denying either of them a full life in an attempt to preserve herself. Fitz notes his unease with seeing such a thing and with having done such a thing himself, although he notes that he does not fully understand the choice to do such a thing. And he returns to his narration around the discomfort of that consideration.

Fitz notes that the Old Blood community knowing his identity, as seemed certain, was a threat to him, and he and Nighteyes moved on when they could. The depressing effects of the elfbark begin to be felt, and conversation continues into the night, with the Fool turning to self-doubt and lamentation.

Given the continuing reading of the Wit as metaphor for homosexuality, I have to wonder at parallels with gay culture, though I am far from an expert in that culture; I wonder only, knowing I do not know enough to be able to make any meaningful comment about those parallels. Given the specifically communicative nature of the Wit, I also find myself wondering at parallels with interactions with and among Deaf communities–although I know with them, too, I do not know enough to make any meaningful comments. I can only hope that those among my friends and readers who are members of or more closely aligned with those communities than I will help redeem my ignorance in such things.

I do know, though, that the addictive perils of the elfbark come up once again, and that matters do not seem to be eased with the addition of alcohol to the night’s libations. It’s the kind of thing I saw no few times while I was working at the substance abuse treatment center, people trying to use one drug to blunt the effects of another, itself taken despite its known peril and effects because it works to address pain endured in the process of keeping body and soul together. I recall feeling pity for Fitz before; knowing what I know now, I feel it more.

I can always use more support.

Read the previous entry in the series here.
Read the next entry in the series here.

---

The next chapter, “Heart of a Wolf,” begins with an in-milieu discussion of the Old Blood from Badgerlock’s “Old Blood Tales” before moving on to Fitz relating waking the next morning, taking in what seems to him a more vivid world. He regards himself, realizing he has been disguising himself from the world, and he and Nighteyes decide to discuss more of their past travels and experiences with the Fool. The wolf runs off, and Fitz returns to his cottage, its chores, and breakfast with the Fool.

Fitz and the Fool confer about the former’s arrival at the cottage and the nearby ruined town of Forge. Talk turns to the work of Queen Kettricken to secure peace with the Outislands who had raided and ravaged the Six Duchies years before via a marriage of her son, Prince Dutiful, to a narcheska–“A sort of princess,” as the Fool relates, or “At the very least, a daughter of some powerful noble”–from that region. As they go on, Fitz feels pain from Nighteyes and rushes off to aid him, the Fool following. Fitz finds the wolf choking on fish and frees the obstruction, only to feel pain emerging in the wolf’s body from another source. Failing to reach the wolf with the Wit, he Skills into him, becoming suddenly and strangely aware of the wolf and compelling the old animal’s body to work. The wolf protests, and Fitz has trouble returning to his body again, struggling to do so and eventually succeeding with some help from the Fool. The experience upsets all three, and it takes some time for them all to begin recovering from the inadvertent hurts inflicted upon one another. Raggedly, slowly, they three return to Fitz’s cabin.

The present chapter raises an important point regarding consent for medical attention–even lifesaving medical attention. Both Fitz and the Fool plunge recklessly into another to save their life; Fitz delves into Nighteyes, and the Fool into Fitz. Both who receive the treatment resent it, even as they recognize it saved them to receive it. The Fool claims a higher purpose, needing Fitz to effect positive change in the world; Fitz is, frankly, selfish, although a kind of selfish that evokes some sympathy. After all, even a beloved pet commands no small devotion, and Nighteyes is more than a pet to Fitz; the two are more a hybrid being than two separate entities, and it makes sense for people to try to save parts of themselves as well as those whom they love. Even so, the acts do deprive those who receive them of some of their agency, making for some complicated ethical implications and calling for some deeper thinking. As good reading should.

Care to send me some support?

Read the previous entry in the series here.
Read the next entry in the series here.

---

A chapter titled “The Quiet Years” follows, opening with a reminiscence from Fitz about his birth and upbringing, his efforts at creating a coherent history of his nation. He follows by glossing over the next days with the Fool, who seems to seamlessly reintegrate himself into Fitz’s and Nighteyes’s lives. At length, they exchange more reports of their time apart, Fitz relating his life since the Fool left him at the dragon garden in bits and pieces, keeping himself from relating some of his deeds and losses. He does, however, dwell upon having visited Verity-as-Dragon, as well as a place where he saw a vision surrounding the Fool.

The Fool presents the crown worn in the vision and places it upon his head. Nothing happens, surprising both of them. Fatigue and drink overtake them, and Fitz retires for the evening.

I am taken by the reminiscence with which the chapter opens. I’ve noted before the Asimovian move of grounding chapters in in-milieu reference materials, something I appreciate, being a scholar prone to grounding my own work in reference materials from my own milieu no less than a long-time reader of the Good Doctor. Accordingly, the device attracts my attention readily, and I am all too happy to pay that coin. And in the present case, the opening passage is particularly compelling, the piecing-together of disparate and not always complete sources being something with which, as a medievalist, I am familiar. Similarly the concern about possibly perpetuating the errors of others–intended or inadvertent–is one with which I struggle; I work from sources, cited and remembered and internalized to the extent that I do not always know where they end and I begin anymore, and like all things human, they are subject to error and to being superseded, to having their mistakes and failings pushed forward by my work and made, in part, my own.

Too, there is the metaphor at the end: “A child sees the acorn of his daily life, but a man looks back on the oak.” Aside from the somewhat problematic nature of gendering–Hobb is on record as affirming her continued use of the masculine as the default neutral, a practice with which I disagree, and I am far from alone in it–there is a lot to unpack. It is, of course, inexact; a child and an acorn are not at the same stages in their respective developments, for one thing. And, as a Texan, I am aware of many uses of good oak wood; it makes for tasty smoked foods, among others. Too, an oak is more prone to break than to bend, even if it can endure a damned lot before it does; I have to wonder, as I think on it some more to write this, if that doesn’t actually justify the masculine pronoun, an unwillingness to adapt being often taken as a hallmark of toxic masculinity. It’ll bear more consideration, I think.

And, yes, this ties in. It’s the same crown.

I can always use your help!

Read the previous entry in the series here.
Read the next entry in the series here.

---

The next chapter, “The Tawny Man,” opens with what seem to be Fitz’s later recorded musings on the Old Blood and its presence in the lands claimed by the Six Duchies. It turns to Fitz rehearsing the passage of time while Hap is away, things going generally well despite Fitz longing for something else, for which Nighteyes chides him.

They are interrupted by the sudden arrival of a mounted visitor, whom they are surprised and elated to see is the Fool, almost unrecognizable for his golden hue. They begin reconnecting almost immediately, returning swiftly to their old friendship, and the Fool makes a brief loan of his fine horse, Malta, to Fitz, who delights in the brief ride he takes upon her and returns to his home to find the Fool preparing dinner. They sit to eat and confer, the Fool noting that he has returned to Fitz to employ him again towards creating a better future. The Fool also notes being exceedingly wealthy from adventures near Bingtown amid their conversations, and they give each other broad information about their years apart. The Fool presses for more, noting that he will be staying, and they go to bed, the Fool offering his old teasing once again as they do.

I do note with some amusement that the Fool named his horse Malta. It’s another clue about something that emerges, as memory serves, more fully and explicitly in the text of the present novel; the book’s old enough that spoiler warnings don’t really apply, but I’ll still hold off on the discussion–even if it should be pretty obvious at this point.

I’m taken more by the depiction of the friendship between Fitz and the Fool that presents itself in the present chapter. It seems to me an enviable thing, even if I am not entirely sure how I ought to read it. After all, it is a work of fiction, and fiction focuses and accentuates by its very nature; done well, it gives the appearance of truth without pretending to be the truth, denying that it is the truth in its very name, but that does force the question of whether any or all of what it depicts is, in fact, a lie. Can such friendships only exist between such as the Fool and Fitz, neither of them beings that could exist in the readers’ world? Or is the friendship one of the most human things about them, the impossible characters made to seem more true because they have something which some share and to which others aspire? It goes to the very value of fiction as a practice; it is a question with which I grappled and will soon help others to grapple with as I continue to ponder what focus my classes will have, generally and in this instructional year…

My teaching starts again next week; kick in to help?

Read the previous entry in the series here.
Read the next entry in the series here.

---

The next chapter, “The Hedge-Witch,” opens with a discussion of a hedge-witch and her magic’s efficacy before pivoting to Fitz and Hap moving through their summer together, Fitz considering apprenticing the boy in or near Buckkeep and denying that he postponed to avoid the pain of parting from him. He also mulls over the effects his most recent meeting with Starling has had on him, as well as on the passage of time’s effects on Nighteyes.

When Fitz, under his alias of Tom Badgerlock, and Hap visit a nearby market town, they meet a hedge-witch Hap had first met in Buckkeep: Jinna. Introductions are made and characters are described, and Fitz is distracted as Hap invites Jinna to stay with them when she passes that way. Fitz rehearses what he knows of hedge-witches as he observes Jinna peddle her wares until a neighboring farmer, Baylor, arrives. Baylor insinuates that Fitz or Nighteyes has taken some piglets he had had, and Fitz braces for a fight with the man, citing his traumas as impetus for his tendency towards violence; the attitude cows the man and intimidates many onlookers, and conversation swiftly shifts to perceived depredations of the Old Blood. The rest of the day passes uneventfully; Jinna sells much, while Fitz and Hap do not, and they fret over the apprenticeship fee to come.

Later, as they head home, Hap asks Fitz about his origins. Fitz is moved to sympathy, and they make their way to their cottage. Along the way, Nighteyes queries Fitz about the decision to send Hap to an apprenticeship and travel, regarding both ideas as foolhardy. At the cottage, Hap and Fitz confer about the apprenticeship fee, Hap offering to hire himself out to raise the money, and Fitz takes inordinate pride in the young man.

That night, Fitz dreams a Skill-dream, communing unknowingly with a young man at Buckkeep and with a cat. The latter attracts Nighteyes’s attention, and both settle back into sleep. The next day sees Hap strike out to raise money, and Fitz somewhat listlessly attends to domestic tasks, drawn to Skill and resisting it. A not-much-later evening sees Jinna call on him, availing herself of the offer of hospitality made at the market; she reports having met Hap on the road, and the two pass a convivial evening together. They confer about reading and education, disagreeing on some particulars but agreeing on several points.

The next morning sees Jinna and Fitz make a trade of goods. As they do, Jinna susses out that Fitz is of the Old Blood, and Fitz is convinced of the efficacy of Jinna’s hedge-magic as well as unsettled by her insights. But they part amicably with something of a promise to meet again.

Interestingly, while there’s some mention of other magics in the Six Duchies than the Skill and the Wit, there’s not much explication of them prior to the present chapter. Hobb doesn’t do as a number of other fantasy authors do and lay out a system of magic (I recall Lyndon Hardy for some reason), but I have to wonder if it’s not precisely in the elision of systemic detail that Hobb is able to achieve the verisimilitude for which she attests striving. Getting mired in details offers opportunities for getting the details wrong, or in running into contradictions with them–plot holes that annoy no few readers (among them me, when I notice them). Glossing minutiae avoids that problem, even if it does force the writer to strike a careful balance. Enough has to be depicted to be distinct, but not so much can be depicted as to run into the aforementioned problems. Hobb manages it well in the present chapter, which helped me read the book the first time–and has helped me reread it once again.

I’m about to start back up in the classroom; help support my teaching?

Read the previous entry in the series here.
Read the next entry in the series here.

---

The following chapter, “Partings,” begins with “cited” commentary on the Wit before moving to Fitz watching as Hap falls asleep at the fireside. Leaving Nighteyes with the boy, Fitz returns to his cottage, musing over his arrival at his present life from the Cleansing of Buck and the reintroduction of Starling into it amid assignations. He contemplates the looming finality of their relationship, as his own codes will not permit him to knowingly cuckold another. Starling does not take the news well, seeing rebuke–to some degree rightly–in it.

Starling also lets slip that she had known Chade had visited, and Fitz pieces together that she has been an informant for his old mentor for some years. She also lets slip that tensions between the Six Duchies at large and the Old Blood population within it are rising, with a partisan group among the latter–the Piebalds–presenting trouble. The story underlying the group’s name is explicated, and Starling notes that there is some suggestion that Fitz yet lives. She also relates more news and rumor concerning the Old Blood in the kingdom, as well as actions taken against them. Involvement in such matters by Kettricken and Chade is noted, too, just before the hurt between Starling and Fitz is reawakened. Hap ventures in at about that moment and receives the brunt of the minstrel’s tongue, and Fitz rather flatly sends Starling away. A sense of something new coming prickles Fitz as she departs.

That something else is coming is clear, of course, from it being only the third chapter of the novel. That so much of the chapter is taken up with explication doesn’t hurt that, either–and there’s some value in putting that explication in the mouth of a minstrel, a sort of traveling memorial in the Six Duchies; it makes sense for such a person to hold forth on events throughout an area. (I’ll note, too, that some of the commentary looks ahead to another of Hobb’s works; I’ll end up treating it in the reread, I’m pretty sure, if not for a long while.) So that much reads as authentic, organic, consonant with experience and observation; it’s a good thing.

Less good, although not dissimilar from events in the readerly world, is the continued treatment of the Wit magic as metaphor for homosexuality. Again, the metaphor will be substantially frustrated, and in the present series, but, as in the Farseer novels, the magic–an inborn quality–is still linked with depravity. It remains…uncomfortable, but my comments about discomfort continue to apply. And what is my discomfort reading against that of those who do suffer under such an onus? It’s something to keep in mind…

Help me round out the month the right way?

Read the previous entry in the series here.
Read the next entry in the series here.

---

The next chapter, “Starling,” begins with an encyclopedia-like description of the minstrel before moving into Fitz musing over her keeping Hap away and his own laziness in attending to the upkeep and maintenance of his humble home. When they return, he notes the changes to them and to himself, contrasting them and considering that he needs to see to Hap’s apprenticeship and training. Fitz greets the pair warmly, and Starling returns the warmth, but Hap is standoffish and goes aside; Nighteyes accompanies him as Fitz sees to Starling.

As Starling settles in, she and Fitz confer about his return to Buckkeep, and she marks the changes in him before waxing eloquent on the virtues of urban life and privations of rural; Fitz finds himself musing on might-have-beens, and their talk continues over dinner as Nighteyes reports Hap is well out in the field. Fitz and Starling have sex, and, in the night, Fitz makes his way to where Hap is camping for the night. He stokes the fire and wakes the youth, learning what has him out of sorts; Starling is married, and not to Fitz, and Hap thinks the disjunction between what he has been taught and what he has learned makes a mockery of him. Fitz and Hap confer about the revelation and return to accord, Hap moving on to relate his experience in Buckkeep.

One incident stands out, one in which Hap watched a woman be stoned to death for being possessed of the Wit, the magic that allows communion with animals. Fitz is stunned into silence as Hap continues, relating fears of another war coming. Conversation resumes, and Fitz considers next steps he must take, and he and Nighteyes confer about what they will do together. The wolf notes approaching changes, “like a bigger predator coming into our hunting territory.”

The present chapter and the previous do a fair amount of what early portions of a novel are “supposed” to do; they offer exposition, setting up information about the milieu and major characters within that milieu. In the case of the present series, itself a sequel, there is also the burden of glossing events in the previous series, allowing the present one to stand alone–although it is certainly enriched by reading the earlier novels. (Or consulting a handy rereading guide, perhaps?)

Of particular note is the focus on the opprobrium under which the Wit magic operates. I’ve noted, following others, that the Wit serves as a metaphor for homosexuality (here, here, here, and here, if not elsewhere), and, considering the publication of the novel in the early 2000s, persecution of homosexual people was still a concern. (It remains one even as I write this, although less emphatic of one, for which I am grateful.) As I consider it now, it gets…less comfortable; I’ve heard any number of people argue that permitting homosexual relationships will lead to bestiality, and the Wit trends in that direction, so that the metaphorical connection is…squicky. (This leaves aside furries, of course, but that’s a whole ‘nother thing.) Admittedly, the metaphor breaks down–in the present series, no less–but still…

Uncomfortable re/reading isn’t bad reading, though. We should have to reconsider things over time. Even if we remain with earlier conclusions, we’re the better off for it.

I can still use your support!

Read the previous entry in the series here.
Read the next entry in the series here.

---

The first chapter in the first novel of the Tawny Man series, “Chade Fallstar,” opens with the cryptic Kelstar’s Riddle: “Is time the wheel that turns, or the track it leaves behind?” It moves thence to Fitz, narrating in first-person, noting the return of a familiar figure to his life when he was thirty-five; he muses on middle age and its uncertainties as he details his situation and circumstances leading up to the arrival; Nighteyes, the wolf, sleeps and dreams, and Hap, his fosterling, is away with the minstrel, Starling. Nighteyes wakes and rebukes Fitz for his angsty reminiscences and abjures the lingering draw of the Skill that Fitz details.

Fitz is further shaken from his reverie by the wolf’s announcement of a stranger approaching. It is Chade Fallstar, Fitz’s mentor in assassination, now openly a royal councillor; he is described as he brings gifts and news to his grand-nephew. Fitz notes that he goes by Tom Badgerlock in his current life, citing a shock of white hair, as he tends to his guest and asks after his purpose; Chade reports on his lost daughter, Nettle, and his and Nettle’s shared foster-father, Burrich. Fitz tries to puzzle out his old mentor’s motives as reporting continues, and Chade eventually lets slip that the queen, Kettricken, and he want Fitz to return to Buckkeep to serve as tutor to the sole prince of the realm, Dutiful.

Fitz initially refuses the offer, though not without reservation, and Chade presses him about his reasoning. Fitz continues to articulate his refusal, noting his willingness to leave aside the pension he had quietly been receiving; Chade does leave the topic aside, and his visit continues amicably afterwards. Among the topics treated is Chade’s experimentation with blasting powder, which he demonstrates in Fitz’s hearth, to their mutual regret.

The next morning, Chade makes ready to leave, and Fitz sends him off with a selection of offerings from his home. After, Fitz muses on the visit as he and Nighteyes make to hunt, and he contemplates returning to the Mountain Kingdom and what he found–and left–there.

The Tawny Man series is the first of Hobb’s series that I started buying while it was still coming out, and I lament that I did not pick up a hardcover of Fool’s Errand when it hit shelves; I did not make the mistake again. It was a delight to return to Fitz and the Fool, to the Six Duchies, the first time I read the book; it was one of those I bought, sat to read, and lifted my eyes from the pages only a few hours later, having finished. I feasted upon it hungrily, wolfing it down (yes, pun intended) as it were bread and I a starving young man; I glutted myself upon it. But it is better than bread and beef and beans and beer at the board, for when taken in, it yet remains and can be feasted upon again and again.

At least until the pages tear and the binding falters. But my copy’s not nearly there yet.

Help me track down and snag a hardcover?

Read the previous entry in the series here.
Read the next entry in the series here.

---

The brief epilogue, “Metamorphosis,” focuses on the serpent, Shreever, finding rest after the struggles to return to the ancient cocooning grounds. Relatively few of the serpents survived, a small population from which to rebuild a species, but hope persists as the return of dragons is promised.

I appreciate that the novel ends on a note of hope–not untrammeled hope, as there are losses acknowledged, but hope, nonetheless. Although the new normal that promises to emerge in the Realm of the Elderlings is a different one, entirely, it seems it may be a good and useful thing, one more attentive to many. And I can hope that the readers’ world will follow suit, somehow, sometime.

The series will continue with a return to the Six Duchies in Robin Hobb’s Fool’s Errand.

Support my pressing ahead with this project?

Read the previous entry in the series here.
Read the next entry in the series here.

---

The final full chapter, “The Rain Wild River,” starts with Althea considering the progress of the Paragon as the ship and a small crew continue to work on behalf of the nascent dragons. The crew’s dispersal is noted, as is Amber’s work to further decorate the figurehead in a motif of charging bucks. The two review their progress towards the ancient spawning grounds, including the loss of serpents and the moodiness of the liveship. The serpents’ arrival and cocooning are glossed, and Althea muses on her younger nephew, Selden, whose connection to the dragons is noted, as is Clef’s progress learning to read and write.

The Paragon calls out to be run aground in a clear channel of one of the Rain Wild’s tributaries. The ship notes they are at the site where an older pirate had stashed his largest prize, a treasure ship bound for Jamaillia with annual tribute. The history of the hoard is noted, and it is given to the crew’s claim. Work to retrieve the hoard proceeds, with materials and labors described; Brashen is taken with Althea and begins plotting out with her how they will employ their shares of the take. Brashen considers Althea as he calls a halt to the retrieval efforts against the oncoming evening and storm.

Later, Amber approaches the figurehead with a request for a specific item from the take, a wizardwood crown. The ship remembers the crown, although not in great detail, and Amber appropriates it. The ship guesses that she is soon to leave, which she confirms, noting a need to head north to friends long unseen. The ship also notes how one of the former crews died, as well as that Kennit died twice, saved by the ship–at some cost to Kennit. Amber waxes philosophical, and they part in peace.

Althea dreams badly, and in the dream, the ship visits her, calling her to the foredeck. She arrives there, and the ship demands the hurt that had been caused her–not the memory, which is hers, but the continuing pain of it, which the ship draws from her. She wakes fully on the foredeck, Brashen rushing to her amid the storm and takes her below decks. There, she reports her violation to him and pleads with him for a continued relationship; they reconcile, the effects of which are felt throughout the ship as Amber takes her leave with the ship’s blessing.

It makes sense to some degree, of course, that the lingering narrative thread of Althea’s trauma resolving would receive attention in the final chapter–even if it is something of a deus ex machina at work. From the vantage of re-reading, of course, it makes sense in the broader context; even without that, reading through the Elderlings novels in order of publication offers some clues about the mechanism at work. That, combined with the overt foreshadowing of future work in Amber’s discussions, not only ties up the plot of the Liveship Traders novels, buy integrates them more fully with the other novels in the milieu–it serves a structural function, even if perhaps at the cost of the narrative.

The novel’s not done, of course; there is an eplilogue. And then the reread moves on to the Tawny Man novels, including the last paperback Hobb I’ve bought…

Help me get settled in better?