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Zusatztext Praise for Robin Hobb and Fool’s Errand “Fantasy as it ought to be written . . . Robin Hobb’s books are diamonds in a sea of zircons.” —George R. R. Martin “[Robin] Hobb has created a world brimming with detail and complexity [and] once again proves herself a full master of the epic fantasy.” — Tulsa World “Splendid . . . Despite some truly wrenching twists! there is a welcome sense of new beginnings.” — Locus Informationen zum Autor Robin Hobb is the author of the Farseer Trilogy, the Liveship Traders Trilogy, the Tawny Man Trilogy, the Soldier Son Trilogy, and the Rain Wilds Chronicles. She has also written as Megan Lindholm. She is a native of Washington State. Klappentext "Fantasy as it ought to be written . . . Robin Hobb's books are diamonds in a sea of zircons."-George R. R. Martin For fifteen years FitzChivalry Farseer has lived in self-imposed exile! assumed to be dead by almost all who once cared about him. But now! into his isolated life! visitors begin to arrive: Fitz's mentor from his assassin days; a hedge-witch who foresees the return of a long-lost love; and the Fool! the former White Prophet! who beckons Fitz to fulfill his destiny. Then comes the summons he cannot ignore. Prince Dutiful! the young heir to the Farseer throne! has vanished. Fitz! possessed of magical skills both royal and profane! is the only one who can retrieve him in time for his betrothal ceremony! thus sparing the Six Duchies profound political embarrassment . . . or worse. But even Fitz does not suspect the web of treachery that awaits him-or how his loyalties will be tested to the breaking point. Praise for Robin Hobb and Fool's Errand "[Robin] Hobb has created a world brimming with detail and complexity [and] once again proves herself a full master of the epic fantasy."-Tulsa World "Splendid . . . Despite some truly wrenching twists! there is a welcome sense of new beginnings."-Locus Leseprobe Chapter I Chade Fallstar Is time the wheel that turns, or the track it leaves behind? —Kelstar’s Riddle He came one late, wet spring, and brought the wide world back to my doorstep. I was thirty-five that year. When I was twenty, I would have considered a man of my current age to be teetering on the verge of dotage. These days, it seemed neither young nor old to me, but a suspension between the two. I no longer had the excuse of callow youth, and I could not yet claim the eccentricities of age. In many ways, I was no longer sure what I thought of myself. Sometimes it seemed that my life was slowly disappearing behind me, fading like footprints in the rain, until perhaps I had always been the quiet man living an unremarkable life in a cottage between the forest and the sea. I lay abed that morning, listening to the small sounds that sometimes brought me peace. The wolf breathed steadily before the softly crackling hearth fire. I quested toward him with our shared Wit magic, and gently brushed his sleeping thoughts. He dreamed of running over snow-smooth rolling hills with a pack. For Nighteyes, it was a dream of silence, cold, and swiftness. Softly I withdrew my touch and left him to his private peace. Outside my small window, the returning birds sang their challenges to one another. There was a light wind, and whenever it stirred the trees, they released a fresh shower of last night’s rain to patter on the wet sward. The trees were silver birches, four of them. They had been little more than sticks when I had planted them. Now their airy foliage cast a pleasant light shade outside my bedroom window. I closed my eyes and could almost feel the flicker of the light on my eyelids. I would not get up, not just yet. I had had a bad evening the...
