He rose, to pour steaming water from the kettle into a fat brown pot. He rinsed it well with the boiling water, then dumped in the paper of herbs he had compounded. I watched him pour the boiling water over the herbs. The scent of a garden filled his chambers. I took the image of the old man putting the lid on the pot, wrapped up the homey simple moment of him setting the pot on the tray with some cups, and stowed it carefully somewhere in my heart. Age was creeping up on Chade, just as surely as disease devoured Shrewd. His deft movements were no longer quite so sure, his bird alertness not as quick as it once had been. My heart ached suddenly with my glimpse of the inevitable. As he set a warm cup of steaming tea in my hand, he frowned at my expression.
“What’s wrong?” he whispered. “Do you want some honey in that?”
I shook my head to his questions, took a sip of tea, and near scalded my tongue. A pleasant taste overlay the bite of the elfbark. After a few moments I felt my mind clear and a pain I had scarcely been aware of went back to sleep. “That’s much better.” I sighed, and Chade sketched a bow at me, pleased with himself.
He leaned close again. “It is still a weak theory. Perhaps we simply have a self-indulgent Prince, who pleases himself with entertainments for his flatterers while the heir is away. He neglects protecting his coastline because he is shortsighted, and because he expects his brother will come home and tidy up his mess. He raids the treasury and sells off horses and cattle to amass wealth to himself while there is no one to stop him.”