The urchin, eyes round with terror, stared up at the burly cook. He pulled suddenly out of his grasp and pushed his way back to Alistair on the stairway, grabbing his hand and falling to his knees before him. “Etanun!” he cried. “Etanun!”
Alistair shook his head. “There is no Etanun,” he said. “Not anymore.” He bent and gently touched the urchin’s wet head. “I’ve done what I can for you, little mouse. You’ll be safe here.”
With these words, he left. And the urchin remained kneeling upon the dirty kitchen floor.
———
Growling, Cook thumped back across the room and took the child roughly by the collar. “I have no need of another drudge,” he growled. “But orders are orders, and the young master is bound to check on you at least once. What shall I do with you in the meanwhile?”
He looked around, ignoring the little person’s struggles to escape his grasp. Inspiration struck, and he bellowed across the kitchen din: “Scrubber! Come here, scrubber!”
A bent man carrying a mop and bucket hobbled across the room and stood before the cook. “What can I do for you this fine day?” he asked.
“Take this boy,” Cook snarled, shoving the child to the scrubber’s side, “and give him food and work. He doesn’t speak the language, but I’m sure you can make him understand scum scrubbing, eh?”
Smiling, the old scrubber put an arm around the boy’s shoulder and gently guided him back through the room. Relieved to be out of the big cook’s grasp, the child went without protest. The world was all strange smells and sounds, and his toes and ears smarted painfully as they warmed. The urchin swallowed hard, trying to force down tears that would brim despite his best efforts.
Suddenly the scrubber bent and whispered in his ear: “Did you follow the blue star?”
The urchin jumped, backing away and staring at the man. For he had understood the scrubber’s question, spoken in his own language.
“Cé Imral!” he replied eagerly. “Yes! I followed the star, and it led me here, and I am trying to find Etanun and . . . and please, sir, are you he? The Silent Lady delivered your message, and she is even now captive in the dungeons below the Spire! If she is to be saved, I must bring the heir to Fireword! I must—”
“What is that foreign rodent babbling about?” Cook roared from his place by the fire.
The scrubber looked up mildly. “I haven’t the faintest idea,” he replied.
“Well, shut him up, will you?”
But there was no need. The child stared at the scrubber, his mouth open but still. Maybe he was mistaken. Maybe, in desperation, he had only imagined that he understood the old man’s speech.
Maybe he was trapped in this dreadful, freezing world without a soul to help.
By evening, the storm had blown past, leaving a quiet, cold world behind. Stars filled the heavens like snowflakes, waiting to fall.
A lonely guardsman patrolled the wall overlooking the inner courtyard on one side and the drop to the river far below on the other. It was a useless watch, he always felt, for no one would invade Gaheris from this side, even were invasion imminent. But he must follow orders, and he must march while the rest of Gaheris fell into sleep and dreams.
Suddenly, rising from the darkness in the courtyard below, came a voice faint as a whisper.
Open the gate! Let us through!
The guard shivered and hurried along the wall. Sometimes the nights played dreadful games with a man’s fancy.
2
SO THE TWELVE CAME TO THE DOORS OF OMEZTLI, and their voices carried from the ground to our high perch above.
“Cren Cru commands. Send us your firstborn.”
I clutched Tlanextu’s arm in terror. I could not bear to lose him! He took my hand and held me gently.
Then we saw a powerful form rising up from Itonatiu Tower. It was Citlalu, our father. He flew across the city, his wings like a roc’s, blocking the sunlight from view they were so vast! He landed before us, and I shivered with fear and love at the sight of him, for he was King of Etalpalli, bound to the realm by his own blood, by the beat of his heart. He was strong as the nation itself . . . stronger, I thought. The pinions of his wings were like daggers, and he shouted down to the Twelve below:
“Begone to your master! You will take none of mine into that Mound, not while I have life yet coursing through my veins!”
His voice shook the foundations of Etalpalli. I thought the Twelve would scream with terror and flee the storm of his gaze.
They did not. They merely turned and retraced their path to the Mound and the circles of bronze.
But the next day, they returned. Once more they called up to the heights of Omeztli: “Cren Cru commands. Send us your firstborn.”
Once more my father denied them.
Something about the smell of books made the library feel warm even when it wasn’t. A low fire burned on the hearth, and morning light began to creep through the narrow windows. It felt, oddly enough, like home to Leta. Indeed, it was more of a home to her than Aiven had been.
Now months into her covert education, Leta was still very much a beginner. Nevertheless, the Chronicler sometimes requested her help with the laborious task of cataloguing all the piled-up scrolls and loose parchments not yet copied into bindings. He asked her to sort them according to scribe, which required not so much reading skill as ability to recognize individual handwriting.
But sorting provided her ample opportunity to explore more deeply into the written word. She suspected she was better at it than the Chronicler let on. What’s more, she suspected he was tremendously proud of her.
She glanced up at him from her place at the table where she sat sorting through a small box of old documents. He was bowed over his usual work of copying, having spent much of the morning mixing inks in a variety of vivid hues. How intent his face was, his brow indented with furrows of concentration. It was an intimidating face, truth be known, fierce somehow.
But Leta found, as she studied him quietly from that angle, that those fierce lines had grown very . . . She paused, choosing her words carefully even in her thoughts.
Dear, whispered the secret part of her. The lines of his face are very dear to you.
Sentimental drivel, her practical side responded with a snort. And inappropriate besides! Have you ever thought as much of your betrothed? Have you ever tried?
She frowned and focused once more upon her work. A bubbling well of frustration, which had become all too familiar in the last few months, threatened within her heart. It took a certain amount of resolution to force it back down. So much foolishness!
Shaking her head and selecting another document, she peered at it closely, then blinked, surprised. Up until this moment, she’d thought she knew the hands of all the scribes whose works were collected in Gaheris’s library. The Chronicler’s square script was familiar to her, of course, and the more rounded hand of Raguel, the former chronicler. These two between them had inscribed the bulk of the work to be found in this chamber, but there were other scraps of handwriting both spidery and elaborate, some with spelling more creative than she would have ever believed possible, some in foreign languages.
But this hand was entirely new to her.
“Chronicler,” she said, frowning over the scrap of parchment. “Chronicler, who wrote this?”
He leaned back in his stool, able from that high vantage to read over her shoulder. Leta looked up and saw him frown. Then he slid down and came over to the table, taking the parchment from her hand for closer inspection. His head came up no higher than hers, though he stood and she was seated. It amazed her sometimes how quickly she had grown accustomed to his odd appearance. Remembering how startled she had been that first day back last spring was enough to make her blush!
The Chronicler was unlike any person she had ever seen before. But he was himself. Her instructor, her mentor, her—she hesitated even to think it, for it seemed wrong for a young woman to think such things of a young man several years her eld
er—her friend.
But she hated the Wall.
She watched now as the Chronicler inspected the piece of writing she’d found, and the silence extended too long between them. No expression revealed his thoughts. His face lost its concentrated lines and fell into a relaxed blank. Had the Wall risen yet again? Would he block her out for the rest of the day behind barriers she could not understand? She waited, hoping and dreading she knew not what.
But at last the Chronicler said quietly, “This piece was done by Earl Ferox’s wife.”
He handed the parchment back to Leta and returned to his stool. Relieved enough to breathe once more, Leta stared at the work, the elegant, unfamiliar hand, almost too elegant to be easily read. Now that the idea was in her mind, she could detect a feminine touch. She frowned a little. “I thought you said you’d never known a woman to read or write.”
“I haven’t,” the Chronicler replied. “Lady Pero died before I was apprenticed to Raguel.”
“But this is indeed her hand? She truly could read and write as well as any man?”
“That she could,” the Chronicler said. “According to my predecessor, she was the cleverest woman in all the North Country. Delicate of body but strong of mind.”
Leta felt warmth fill her at this thought, a bond to this woman she had never met. “What does it say?” she asked.
“It’s a bit of nonsense,” said the Chronicler, picking up his quill and pumice. “An older version of that nursery rhyme you know, the one about the Smallman and the House of Lights. This version must have been that one’s forerunner. It’s a better piece. Nonsense, but better nonsense.”
“How would Lady Pero have come upon it? And why would she take the time to write it down?”
“Everything should be written down,” he replied, “however unimportant it may seem. She must have heard significance in this piece when some wandering minstrel visited Gaheris and sang for her and the earl.”
With that, he bowed again over his work, leaving Leta to study Lady Pero’s writing on her own. She knew she should set it aside and go on with her cataloguing. But somehow she could not resist trying to make out the words, disguised as they were behind embellishments and curls. Her lips formed the sounds under her breath.
“Fling wide the doors of light, Smallman,
Though furied falls the Flame—”
The library door opened, and Lady Mintha stood looking down on them. Leta gasped and dropped the slip of writing, her body filled with the urge to flee. But she couldn’t move.
Mintha looked at her as though she could not see her, her gaze unwilling to admit what she did not expect to find. She said, “What by Lumé’s name are you doing here?”
“I . . . I’m sorry, my lady,” Leta said, rising and curtsying, scrambling for something more to say. She had over the last several months prepared many explanations should she be caught at the books. But she had grown so used to being completely ignored by the members of Gaheris’s household, especially Lady Mintha and her son, that the need for excuses had faded into obscurity.
Now, when need pressed, she found her tongue tied.
Lady Mintha studied her, taking in the ink stains on Leta’s fingers and the pile of work surrounding her. Then her gaze flashed, however briefly, to the Chronicler, who had turned upon his stool and regarded her, his face a cool mask.
What conclusions Lady Mintha drew, Leta could not guess. She said only, “You should not be in this part of the keep unchaperoned. What would your good father say? Return to your chambers at once.”
Leta did not try to protest. Years of ingrained subservience worked their own power on her limbs, and she dropped Lady Pero’s writing and scurried from the room, her head bowed, her face hidden behind her veils. She paused once she gained the hall, however.
You should never eavesdrop, said her practical side. Do what you’re told and return to your rooms.
She took a few more steps.
But why would Lady Mintha visit the Chronicler today? rebellious Leta wondered and froze her in place. She has no interest in books.
It’s not your business. Go on, fool girl!
But Leta ground her teeth. Then, before she could change her mind, she slipped back to the door, hiding a little behind the wall and peering through the crack. Lady Mintha stood in such a way that her rich green robes filled most of Leta’s view, blocking all sight of the Chronicler. Every word they spoke, however, rang clearly against the stone walls.
“All of them must know,” Lady Mintha was saying. “Without delay. Urge them to make their way to Gaheris to bid their last respects. And make certain they know that, should they come, it will be seen as a pledge of loyalty to the new earl.”
“Yes, my lady,” said the Chronicler, his voice very soft and emotionless.
“You do understand the importance of this task?” Lady Mintha pressed. “Your wording must be clear, the intent unmistakable. My brother has trusted you these many years to hold the best interests of Gaheris dear to your heart. I would not like to think that trust misplaced.”
“It is not misplaced, my lady,” said the Chronicler.
Leta saw Lady Mintha draw herself up even taller than she was already. Even from this position, where she could not see her face, Leta could guess at the expression of command Mintha wore. It was an expression as much a part of the Gaheris family line as their coat of arms or insignia.
“You are loyal to Earl Ferox,” Mintha said. “May you prove equally loyal to his heir.”
She turned then toward the door, and Leta only just had time to dart into the shadows along the wall and crouch there, cowering, before Mintha swept past, her robes flowing behind her like battle standards. She did not look to the right or left but moved swiftly down the passage, as though, having accomplished her important deed, she now fled some evil goblin’s den.
Leta waited until she was quite certain Mintha had gone before she crept back to the door. Her gaze went first to the desk, where she expected the Chronicler to be seated. He was not there, however, so she glanced about and found him instead standing by one of the windows, his small frame nearly hidden in the lower shadows. The afternoon light struck his pale face and his fair hair.
“Chronicler?” Leta said quietly, half afraid to be heard.
He turned. His face was now mostly hidden from the light, but she saw the curve of his cheek, half his mouth, and one eye. It was bright. Too bright and glassy.
“What is it?” Leta wanted to hasten across the room to him but did not dare. So she hung back in the doorway, helpless. “Are you unwell?”
His face was stricken and silence enveloped him. But it was not the Wall she had come to expect from him. This silence sparked with energy, like rubbed wool on a cold morning bites at an unwary hand.
“Please,” Leta said, desperate to break the tension of that stillness. “Please, tell me.”
He opened his mouth but remained unspeaking a frozen moment. Then he said, “Earl Ferox is dying.”
Tears spilled over onto his cheeks.
Leta felt her heart stop, then begin to beat a wild rhythm in her breast. She said nothing aloud, but both sides of her mind, practical and rebellious, clamored at once in her head.
So that’s who you are, Chronicler.
Every night, he heard the voices crying out from the crypt.
Open the gate! Let us out!
They were his ancestors, Earl Ferox thought as he lay and gasped for air upon his sickbed. The cold of autumn nights penetrated the heavy curtains of his great bed like icy, ghostly fingers pressing through to caress his gray cheeks. His breath steamed the air before his face no matter how high they piled the fur rugs across his wasted frame, no matter how bright his servant kept the blaze on his hearth. But while his face burned with cold, his insides burned with fire.
Let us out!
They would come for him, he thought. If any fool heeded their voices and opened the crypt door, all the spirits of the great lords who had mastered Gahe
ris earldom before him would pour from the darkness, sweep up the stone stairs of the castle, and come for him as he lay helpless upon his bed. They knew his sin. They would not be forgiving.
Open the gate!
The curtain near his head moved. The dying earl drew a strangled breath and struggled to push himself upright. He saw long, gnarled fingers grasping and pulling back the heavy brocade. “Who is it?” the earl cried, though his voice was so thin his own ears could scarcely hear it.
“No one at all,” said the old scrubber, leaning over the earl’s bed.
“Ah,” said the earl as he fell back upon his pillows, his face sagging with weakness. But his eyes were relieved. “Ah, but you aren’t no one, are you?” he said, shaking his head slowly.
“I am no one anymore.” The scrubber sat on the edge of the bed, sighed, and bent over to rub his sore feet. “I’ve been no one for such a long time.”
The earl coughed—small, spasmodic puffs from his once powerful chest. “Tell me,” he said when at last the spasm passed. “When will the House of Lights be reopened?”
“When your son is king,” the scrubber replied with a shrug.
The earl frowned, drawing several painful breaths before he could find more words. “I have no son,” he said.
The scrubber shrugged again. Then he stood, creaking, and carefully rearranged the warm rugs across the earl’s body, tucking them in about him as gently as any nursemaid might. “Too bad,” he said with a sad smile. “In that case, I suppose the House of Lights will never be reopened.”
3
SO FOLLOWED DAY AFTER DAY. Always the Twelve returned to make Cren Cru’s vicious demand. Always Citlalu, King of Etalpalli, refused to comply. Every morning I woke with dread, afraid that Tlanextu would disobey our parents, would go with the Twelve and vanish into the Mound like the hundreds upon hundreds of others I saw vanishing every day. This fear was so great that at first I did not see what was becoming of Citlalu and Mahuizoa. Not until near the end did I realize.
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