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　　　　　　　The　Earliest　History
　　　　　　　HISTORY　OF　THE　Six　Duchies　is　of　necessity　a　history　of　its　ruling　family；　the　Farseers。　A　plete　telling　would　reach　back　beyond　the　founding　of　the　First　Duchy　and；　if　such　names　were　remembered；　would　tell　us　of　Outislanders　raiding　from　the　sea；　visiting　as　pirates　a　shore　more　temperate　and　gentler　than　the　icy　beaches　of　the　Out　Islands。　But　we　do　not　know　the　names　of　these　earliest　forebears。
　　　　　　　And　of　the　first　real　King；　little　more　than　his　name　and　some　extravagant　legends　remain。　Taker　his　name　was；　quite　simply；　and　perhaps　with　that　naming　began　the　tradition　that　daughters　and　sons　of　his　lineage　would　be　given　names　that　would　shape　their　lives　and　beings。　Folk　beliefs　claim　that　such　names　were　sealed　to　the　newborn　babes　by　magic；　and　that　these　royal　offspring　were　incapable　of　betraying　the　virtues　whose　names　they　bore。　Passed　through　fire　and　plunged　through　salt　water　and　offered　to　the　winds　of　the　air；　thus　were　names　sealed　to　these　chosen　children。　So　we　are　told。　A　pretty　fancy；　and　perhaps　once　there　was　such　a　ritual；　but　history　shows　us　this　was　not　always　sufficient　to　bind　a　child　to　the　virtue　that　named　it　。。。　
　　　　　　　

　　　　　　　My　pen　falters；　then　falls　from　my　knuckly　grip；　leaving　a　worm's　trail　of　ink　across　Fedwren's　paper。　I　have　spoiled　another　leaf　of　the　fine　stuff；　in　what　I　suspect　is　a　futile　endeavor。　I　wonder　if　I　can　write　this　history；　or　if　on　every　page　there　will　be　some　sneaking　show　of　a　bitterness　I　thought　long　dead。　I　think　myself　cured　of　all　spite；　but　when　I　touch　pen　to　paper；　the　hurt　of　a　boy　bleeds　out　with　the　sea…spawned　ink；　until　I　suspect　each　carefully　formed　black　letter　scabs　over　some　ancient　scarlet　wound。
　　　　　　　Both　Fedwren　and　Patience　were　so　filled　with　enthusiasm　whenever　a　written　account　of　the　history　of　the　Six　Duchies　was　discussed　that　I　persuaded　myself　the　writing　of　it　was　a　worthwhile　effort。　I　convinced　myself　that　the　exercise　would　turn　my　thoughts　aside　from　my　pain　and　help　the　time　to　pass。　But　each　historical　event　I　consider　only　awakens　my　own　personal　shades　of　loneliness　and　loss。　I　fear　I　will　have　to　set　this　work　aside　entirely；　or　else　give　in　to　reconsidering　all　that　has　shaped　what　I　have　bee。　And　so　I　begin　again；　and　again；　but　always　find　that　I　am　writing　of　my　own　beginnings　rather　than　the　beginnings　of　this　land。　I　do　not　even　know　to　whom　I　try　to　explain　myself。　My　life　has　been　a　web　of　secrets；　secrets　that　even　now　are　unsafe　to　share。　Shall　I　set　them　all　down　on　fine　paper；　only　to　create　from　them　flame　and　ash？　Perhaps。
　　　　　　　My　memories　reach　back　to　when　I　was　six　years　old。　Before　that；　there　is　nothing；　only　a　blank　gulf　no　exercise　of　my　mind　has　ever　been　able　to　pierce。　Prior　to　that　day　at　Moonseye；　there　is　nothing。　But　on　that　day　they　suddenly　begin；　with　a　brightness　and　detail　that　overwhelms　me。　Sometimes　it　seems　too　plete；　and　I　wonder　if　it　is　truly　mine。　Am　I　recalling　it　from　my　own　mind；　or　from　dozens　of　retellings　by　legions　of　kitchen　maids　and　ranks　of　scullions　and　herds　of　stable　boys　as　they　explained　my　presence　to　each　other？　Perhaps　I　have　heard　the　story　so　many　times；　from　so　many　sources；　that　I　now　recall　it　as　an　actual　memory　of　my　own。　Is　the　detail　the　result　of　a　six…year…old's　open　absorption　of　all　that　goes　on　around　him？　Or　could　the　pleteness　of　the　memory　be　the　bright　overlay　of　the　Skill；　and　the　later　drugs　a　man　takes　to　control　his　addiction　to　it；　the　drugs　that　bring　on　pains　and　cravings　of　their　own？　The　last　is　most　possible。　Perhaps　it　is　even　probable。　One　hopes　it　is　not　the　case。
　　　　　　　The　remembrance　is　almost　physical：　the　chill　grayness　of　the　fading　day；　the　remorseless　rain　that　soaked　me；　the　icy　cobbles　of　the　strange　town's　streets；　even　the　callused　roughness　of　the　huge　hand　that　gripped　my　small　one。　Sometimes　I　wonder　about　that　grip。　The　hand　was　hard　and　rough；　trapping　mine　within　it。　And　yet　it　was　warm；　and　not　unkind　as　it　held　mine。　Only　firm。　It　did　not　let　me　slip　on　the　icy　streets；　but　it　did　not　let　me　escape　my　fate；　either。　It　was　as　implacable　as　the　icy　gray　rain　that　glazed　the　trampled　snow　and　ice　of　the　graveled　pathway　outside　the　huge　wooden　doors　of　the　fortified　building　that　stood　like　a　fortress　within　the　town　itself。
　　　　　　　The　doors　were　tall；　not　just　to　a　six…year…old　boy；　but　tall　enough　to　admit　giants；　to　dwarf　even　the　rangy　old　man　who　towered　over　me。　And　they　looked　strange　to　me；　although　I　cannot　summon　up　what　type　of　door　or　dwelling　would　have　looked　familiar。　Only　that　these；　carved　and　bound　with　black　iron　hinges；　decorated　with　a　buck's　head　and　knocker　of　gleaming　brass；　were　outside　of　my　experience。　I　recall　that　slush　had　soaked　through　my　clothes；　so　my　feet　and　legs　were　wet　and　cold。　And　yet；　again；　I　cannot　recall　that　I　had　walked　far　through　winter's　last　curses；　nor　that　I　had　been　carried。　No；　it　all　starts　there；　right　outside　the　doors　of　the　stronghouse；　with　my　small　hand　trapped　inside　the　tall　man's。
　　　　　　　Almost；　it　is　like　a　puppet　show　beginning。　Yes；　I　can　see　it　thus。　The　curtains　parted；　and　there　we　stood　before　that　great　door。　The　old　man　lifted　the　brass　knocker　and　banged　it　down；　once；　twice；　thrice　on　the　plate　that　resounded　to　his　pounding。　And　then；　from　offstage；　a　voice　sounded。　Not　from　within　the　doors；　but　from　behind　us；　back　the　way　we　had　e。　〃Father；　please；〃　the　woman's　voice　begged。　I　turned　to　look　at　her；　but　it　had　begun　to　snow　again；　a　lacy　veil　that　clung　to　eyelashes　and　coat　sleeves。　I　can't　recall　that　I　saw　anyone。　Certainly；　I　did　not　struggle　to　break　free　of　the　old　man's　grip　on　my　hand；　nor　did　I　call　out；　〃Mother；　Mother。〃　Instead　I　stood；　a　spectator；　and　heard　the　sound　of　boots　within　the　keep；　and　the　unfastening　of　the　door　hasp　within。
　　　　　　　One　last　time　she　called。　I　can　still　hear　the　words　perfectly；　the　desperation　in　a　voice　that　now　would　sound　young　to　my　ears。　〃Father；　please；　I　beg　you！〃　A　tremor　shook　the　hand　that　gripped　mine；　but　whether　of　anger　or　some　other　emotion；　I　shall　never　know。　As　swift　as　a　black　crow　seizes　a　bit　of　dropped　bread；　the　old　man　stooped　and　snatched　up　a　frozen　chunk　of　dirty　ice。　Wordlessly　he　flung　it；　with　great　force　and　fury；　and　I　cowered　where　I　stood。　I　do　not　recall　a　cry；　nor　the　sound　of　struck　flesh。　What　I　do　remember　is　how　the　doors　swung　outward；　so　that　the　old　man　had　to　step　hastily　back；　dragging　me　with　him。
　　　　　　　And　there　is　this。　The　man　who　opened　the　door　was　no　house　servant；　as　I　might　imagine　if　I　had　only　heard　this　story。　No；　memory　shows　me　a　man…at…arms；　a　warrior；　gone　a　bit　to　gray　and　with　a　belly　more　of　hard　suet　than　muscle；　but　not　some　mannered　house　servant。　He　looked　both　the　old　man　and　me　up　and　down　with　a　soldier's　practiced　suspicion；　and　then　stood　there　silently；　waiting　for　us　to　state　our　business。
　　　　　　　I　think　it　rattled　the　old　man　a　bit；　and　stimulated　him；　not　to　fear；　but　to　anger。　For　he　suddenly　dropped　my　hand　and　instead　gripped　me　by　the　back　of　my　coat　and　swung　me　forward；　like　a　whelp　offered　to　a　prospective　new　owner。　〃I've　brought　the　boy　to　you；〃　he　said　in　a　rusty　voice。
　　　　　　　And　when　the　house　guard　continued　to　stare　at　him；　without　judgment　or　even　curiosity；　he　elaborated。　〃I've　fed　him　at　my　table　for　six　years；　and　never　a　word　from　his　father；　never　a　coin；　never　a　visit；　though　my　daughter　gives　me　to　understand　he　knows　he　fathered　a　bastard　on　her。　I'll　not　feed　him　any　longer；　nor　break　my　back　at　a　plow　to　keep　clothes　on　his　back。　Let　him　be　fed　by　him　what　got　him。　I've　enough　to　tend　to　of　my　own；　what　with　my　woman　getting　on　in　years；　and　this　one's　mother　to　keep　and　feed。　For　not　a　man　will　have　her　now；　not　a　man；　not　with　this　pup　running　at　her　heels。　So　you　take　him；　and　give　him　to　his　father。〃　And　he　let　go　of　me　so　suddenly　that　I　sprawled　to　the　stone　doorstep　at　the　guard's　feet。　I　scrabbled　to　a　sitting　position；　not　much　hurt　that　I　recall；　and　looked　up　to　see　what　would　happen　next　between　the　two　men。
　　　　　　　The　guard　looked　down　at　me；　lips　pursed　slightly；　not　in　judgment　but　merely　considering　how　to　classify　me。　〃Whose　get？