“If he returns,” I said gloomily.
“When. The Elderlings will be with him.” Chade looked at me sourly. “Try to believe in something, boy. For my sake.”
Without a doubt, the time that I spent under Galen’s tutelage was the worst period of my life at Buckkeep. But the week that followed that night with Chade runs a close second. We were an anthill, kicked apart. No matter where I went in the Keep, there were constant reminders that the foundations of my life had been shattered. Nothing would ever be as it was before.
There was a great influx of folk from the Inland Duchies, come to witness Regal becoming king-in-waiting. Had not our stables been so depleted already, it would have taxed Burrich and Hands to keep up with them. As it was, it seemed like Inlanders were everywhere, tall, towheaded Farrow men, and brawny Tilth farmers and cattlemen. They were a bright contrast to the glum Buckkeep soldiers with their mourning cropped hair. Not a few clashes occurred. The grumble from Buckkeep Town took the form of jests comparing the invasion of the Inlanders with the raids of the Outislanders. The humor had always a bitter edge.
For the counterpoint to this influx of folk and business in Buckkeep Town was the outflow of goods from Buckkeep. Rooms were stripped shamelessly. Tapestries and rugs, furniture and tools, supplies of all kinds were drained out of the Keep, to be loaded on barges and taken upriver to Tradeford, always to be “kept safe” or “for the comfort of the King.” Mistress Hasty was at her wit’s end to house so many guests when half the furniture was being hauled off to barges. Some days it seemed that Regal was attempting to see that all he could not carry off with him was devoured before he left.