rh.royalassassin-第1章

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　　　　　　　Dreams　and　Awakenings
　　　　　　　
　　　　　　　WHY　IS　IT　forbidden　to　write　down　specific　knowledge　of　the　magics？　Perhaps　because　we　all　fear　that　such　knowledge　would　fall　into　the　hands　of　one　not　worthy　to　use　it。　Certainly　there　has　always　been　a　system　of　apprenticeship　to　ensure　that　specific　knowledge　of　magic　is　passed　only　to　those　trained　and　judged　worthy　of　such　knowledge。　While　this　seems　a　laudable　attempt　to　protect　us　from　unworthy　practitioners　of　arcane　lore；　it　ignores　the　fact　that　the　magics　are　not　derived　from　this　specific　knowledge。　The　predilection　for　a　certain　type　of　magic　is　either　inborn　or　lacking。　For　instance；　the　ability　for　the　magics　known　as　the　Skill　is　tied　closely　to　blood　relationship　to　the　royal　Farseer　line；　though　it　may　also　occur　as　a　〃wild　strain　〃　among　folk　whose　ancestors　came　from　both　the　inland　tribes　and　the　Outislanders。　One　trained　in　the　Skill　is　able　to　reach　out　to　another's　mind；　no　matter　how　distant；　and　know　what　he　is　thinking。　Those　who　are　strongly　Skilled　can　influence　that　thinking；　or　have　converse　with　that　person。　For　the　conducting　of　a　battle；　or　the　gathering　of　information；　it　is　a　most　useful　tool。
　　　　　　　Folklore　tells　of　an　even　older　magic；　much　despised　now；　known　as　the　Wit。　Few　will　admit　a　talent　for　this　magic；　hence　it　is　always　said　to　be　the　province　of　the　folk　in　the　next　valley；　or　the　ones　who　live　on　the　other　side　of　the　far　ridge。　I　suspect　it　was　once　the　natural　magic　of　those　who　lived　on　the　land　as　hunters　rather　than　as　settled　folk；　a　magic　for　those　who　felt　kinship　with　the　wild　beasts　of　the　woods。　The　Wit；　it　is　said；　gave　one　the　ability　to　speak　the　tongues　of　the　beasts。　It　was　also　warned　that　those　who　practiced　the　Wit　too　long　or　too　well　became　whatever　beast　they　had　bonded　to。　But　this　may　be　only　legend。
　　　　　　　There　are　the　Hedge　magics；　though　I　have　never　been　able　to　determine　the　source　of　this　name。　These　are　magics　both　verified　and　suspect；　including　palm　reading；　water　gazing；　the　interpretation　of　crystal　reflections；　and　a　host　of　other　magics　that　attempt　to　predict　the　future。　In　a　separate　unnamed　category　are　the　magics　that　cause　physical　effects；　such　as　invisibility；　levitation；　giving　motion　or　life　to　inanimate　objects　…　all　the　magics　of　the　old　legends；　from　the　Flying　Chair　of　the　Widow's　Son　to　the　North　Wind's　Magic　Tablecloth。　I　know　of　no　people　who　claim　these　magics　as　their　own。　They　seem　to　be　solely　the　stuff　of　legend；　ascribed　to　folk　living　in　ancient　times　or　distant　places；　or　beings　of　mythical　or　near…mythical　reputation：　dragons；　giants；　the　Elderlings；　the　Others；　pecksies。
　　　　　　　I　pause　to　clean　my　pen。　My　writing　wanders　from　spidery　to　blobbish　on　this　poor　paper。　But　I　will　not　use　good　parchment　for　these　words；　not　yet。　I　am　not　sure　they　should　be　written。　I　ask　myself；　why　put　this　to　paper　at　all？　Will　not　this　knowledge　be　passed　down　by　word　of　mouth　to　those　who　are　worthy？　Perhaps。　But　perhaps　not。　What　we　take　for　granted　now；　the　knowing　of　these　things；　may　be　a　wonder　and　a　mystery　someday　to　our　descendants。
　　　　　　　There　is　very　little　in　any　of　the　libraries　on　magic。　I　work　laboriously；　tracing　a　thread　of　knowledge　through　a　patchwork　quilt　of　information。　I　find　scattered　references；　passing　allusions；　but　that　is　all。　I　have　gathered　it；　over　these　last　few　years；　and　stored　it　in　my　head；　always　intending　to　mit　my　knowledge　to　paper。　I　will　put　down　what　I　know　from　my　own　experience；　as　well　as　what　I　have　ferreted　out。　Perhaps　to　provide　answers　for　some　other　poor　fool；　in　times　to　e；　who　might　find　himself　as　battered　by　the　warring　of　the　magics　within　him　as　I　have　been。
　　　　　　　But　when　I　sit　down　to　the　task；　I　hesitate。　Who　am　I　to　set　my　will　against　the　wisdom　of　those　who　have　gone　before　me？　Shall　I　set　down　in　plain　lettering　the　methods　by　which　a　Witgifted　one　can　expand　her　range；　or　can　bond　a　creature　to　himself？　Shall　I　detail　the　training　one　must　undergo　before　being　recognized　as　a　Skilled　one？　The　Hedge　wizardries　and　legendary　magics　have　never　been　mine。　Have　I　any　right　to　dig　out　their　secrets　and　pin　them　to　paper　like　so　many　butterflies　or　leaves　collected　for　study？
　　　　　　　I　try　to　consider　what　one　might　do　with　such　knowledge；　unjustly　gained。　It　leads　me　to　consider　what　this　knowledge　has　gained　for　me。　Power；　wealth；　the　love　of　a　woman？　I　mock　myself。　Neither　the　Skill　nor　the　Wit　has　ever　offered　any　such　to　me。　Or　if　they　did；　I　had　not　the　sense　nor　ambition　to　seize　them　when　offered。
　　　　　　　Power。　I　do　not　think　I　ever　wanted　it　for　its　own　sake。　I　thirsted　for　it；　sometimes；　when　I　was　ground　down；　or　when　those　close　to　me　suffered　beneath　ones　who　abused　their　powers。　Wealth。　I　never　really　considered　it。　From　the　moment　that　I；　his　bastard　grandson；　pledged　myself　to　King　Shrewd；　he　always　saw　that　all　my　needs　were　fulfilled。　I　had　plenty　to　eat；　more　education　than　I　sometimes　cared　for；　clothes　both　simple　and　those　annoyingly　fashionable；　and　often　enough　a　coin　or　two　of　my　own　to　spend。　Growing　up　in　Buckkeep；　that　was　wealth　enough　and　more　than　most　boys　in　Buckkeep　Town　could　claim。　Love？　Well。　My　horse　Sooty　was　fond　enough　of　me；　in　her　own　placid　way。　I　had　the　truehearted　loyalty　of　a　hound　named　Nosy；　and　that　took　him　to　his　grave。　I　was　given　the　fiercest　of　loves　by　a　terrier　pup；　and　it　was　likewise　the　death　of　him。　I　wince　to　think　of　the　price　willingly　paid　for　loving　me。
　　　　　　　Always　I　have　possessed　the　loneliness　of　one　raised　amid　intrigues　and　clustering　secrets；　the　isolation　of　a　boy　who　cannot　trust　the　pleteness　of　his　heart　to　anyone。　I　could　not　go　to　Fedwren；　the　court　scribe；　who　praised　me　for　my　neat　lettering　and　well…inked　illustrations；　and　confide　that　I　was　already　apprenticed　to　the　royal　assassin；　and　thus　could　not　follow　his　writing　trade。　Nor　could　I　divulge　to　Chade；　my　master　in　the　Diplomacy　of　the　Knife；　the　frustrating　brutality　I　endured　trying　to　learn　the　ways　of　the　Skill　from　Galen　the　Skill　Master。　And　to　no　one　did　I　dare　speak　openly　of　my　emerging　proclivity　for　the　Wit；　the　ancient　beast　magic；　said　to　be　a　perversion　and　a　taint　to　any　who　used　it。
　　　　　　　Not　even　to　Molly。
　　　　　　　Molly　was　that　most　cherished　of　items：　a　genuine　refuge。　She　had　absolutely　nothing　to　do　with　my　day…to…day　life。　It　was　not　just　that　she　was　female；　though　that　was　mystery　enough　to　me。　I　was　raised　almost　entirely　in　the　pany　of　men；　bereft　not　only　of　my　natural　mother　and　father；　but　of　any　blood　relations　that　would　openly　acknowledge　me。　As　a　child；　my　care　was　entrusted　to　Burrich；　the　gruff　stablemaster　who　had　once　been　my　father's　right…hand　man。　The　stable　hands　and　the　guards　were　my　daily　panions。　Then　as　now；　there　were　women　in　the　guard　panies；　though　not　so　many　then　as　now。　But　like　their　male　rades；　they　had　duties　to　perform；　and　lives　and　families　of　their　own　when　they　were　not　on　watch。　I　could　not　claim　their　time。　I　had　no　mother；　nor　sisters　or　aunts　of　my　own。　There　were　no　women　who　offered　me　the　special　tenderness　said　to　be　the　province　of　women。
　　　　　　　None　save　Molly。
　　　　　　　She　was　but　a　year　or　two　older　than　myself；　and　growing　the　same　way　a　sprig　of　greenery　forces　its　way　up　through　a　gap　in　the　cobblestones。　Neither　her　father's　near…constant　drunkenness　and　frequent　brutality　nor　the　grinding　chores　of　a　child　trying　to　maintain　the　pretense　of　both　home　and　family　business　could　crush　her。　When　I　first　met　her；　she　was　as　wild　and　wary　as　a　fox　cub。　Molly　Nosebleed　she　was　called　among　the　street　children。　She　often　bore　the　marks　of　the　beatings　her　father　gave　her。　Despite　his　cruelty；　she　cared　for　him。　I　never　understood　that。　He　would　grumble　and　berate　her　even　as　she　tottered　him　home　after　one　of　his　binges　and　put　him　to　bed。　And　when　he　awoke；　he　never　had　any　remorse　for　his　drunkenness　and　harsh　words。　There　were　only　more　criticisms：　Why　hadn't　the　chandlery　been　swept　and　fresh　strewing　herbs　put　on　the　floor？　Why　hadn't　she　tended　the　beehives；　when　they　were　nearly　out　of　honey　to　sell？　Why　had　she　let　the　fire　go　out　under　the　tallow　pot？　I　was　mute　witness　more　times　than　I　care　to　remember。