Years ago, with blood and magic, Nighteyes and I had roused these sleeping shapes and sent them winging to Verity’s aid. Verity. My king. He and the old Skill-user Kettle had poured all their memories and even their lives into a magnificent dragon, shaped from Skill-stone, from the same stuff that made up the pillars. And as a dragon, Verity had risen and carried both Kettricken and Starling back to Buckkeep, so that his queen might bear his son and continue his lineage. The dragon he had made at such a cost led the battle against the Red-Ship Raiders and the Outislanders.
And when all had been vanquished and peace returned to our shores, Verity-as-Dragon had returned here, to slumber with the others in the deep shade beneath the looming trees.
I found him. I brushed the snow from him, clearing it from the magnificent wings now folded close to his side. I swept his head clean of snow, wiping it away from his closed eyes. Then I pulled off my snowy gloves and set my bare hands to his cold and stony brow. I reached, not with the Skill but with the Wit, and I sought for the king I had served and then lost. I felt the dim flicker of some sort of lingering life in the stone. And when I did, I poured into my touch all the Skill and the Wit I could muster. I opened my heart and confided all to the cold stone dragon. It was not pouring memories into stone as Verity had done to wake his creation. This was a simple reaching to my uncle, to my king, an outpouring of all that had befallen me and all I hoped to do. All my anguish I shared with him, the loss of my wife and child, the Fool’s torment, Chade’s fading, all of it.
And when I was emptied far beyond tears or hopes of vengeance, I stood still and empty in the cold beside the frozen dragon. A foolish quest. I was here for the night now, with no tent, no fire. I pushed snow aside to bare years of fallen leaves. I sat down between his outstretched front legs and leaned back against his head, slumped on his paws in slumber. I drew my legs in close to me and pulled my hood well forward. I curled up against my king and hoped the cold would not deepen too much tonight. The Skill-stone he was carved from was cold against my back. Was Verity cold, somewhere? Or did he and Kettle play at Stones in some other world, beyond my reach? I closed my eyes and longed to join them.
Oh, Fitz. You feel so much.
Did I imagine it? I huddled perfectly still. Then I stripped my glove from my hand and set my bare palm to the scaled cheek of my king.
Nothing is really lost. Shapes change. But it’s never completely gone.