“A great thing indeed. The nephew may be King of the North Country one day.”
So Leta nodded, folded her hands, and resigned herself to her fate. After all, as her mother often told her, marriage was the only means by which a maiden might gain power to change the course of history. A strong marriage could be the making of a woman, and even a bad marriage was preferable to no marriage at all.
“And Lord Alistair of Gaheris is the best match to be had among all the earldoms,” Lady Aiven informed Leta later that same day. “He is young, well-formed, strong, and will inherit all his uncle’s estates.”
“Did Earl Ferox never marry and have children of his own?” Leta asked, curious, for she knew little about this family that would soon be hers.
“Oh yes,” her mother replied. “Ferox did marry. Pero was her name, Lady Pero. A charming, delicate thing she was! She was due to have a child too, but she died on the birthing bed, and Ferox never remarried. Brokenhearted, so they say.”
“What of the baby?” Leta asked.
“Dead too, of course.” Lady Aiven shrugged, then gave her daughter a sharp glance. “Don’t look so dispirited. It makes you more whey-faced than ever, and no man wants to marry that. Why should you care about the death of a woman and child you never met? These things happen. It is our woman’s lot.”
“Our woman’s lot,” Leta whispered to herself on this, her second morning in Gaheris. The night before had passed in a blur, and although she’d sat beside Lord Alistair for the whole of a sumptuous banquet, she could not recall two words spoken between them.
She’d spent half the night staring at the drawn curtains round her bed and reviewing the evening’s events without satisfaction. Now she sat, hollow eyed, in the privacy of her chambers and waited for life to happen. But life seemed as disinclined to happen that morning as it ever had in Aiven. Her lady had informed her that she would be invited to dine privately with Lady Mintha later that day and, until then, she must amuse herself in her own chambers.
Like a prisoner.
So much for a grand adventure, rebellious Leta thought bitterly.
What did you expect? practical Leta responded with annoying calm. Romance? Intrigue? Silly girl.
A knock sounded lightly at the door. Leta hesitated, uncertain what to do. Her lady had stepped from the room. Dared she answer the door for herself? A second knock. She couldn’t very well pretend not to be in, could she? Feeling a bit bold, Leta crossed the room and cracked open the door.
She found herself face-to-face with Lord Alistair.
“Oh!” This was as far as her vocabulary would take her on short notice.
“Good morrow, Lady Leta.” Alistair offered a friendly grin as he bowed. He wasn’t a handsome man, though he was, as her mother had told her, well-formed and strong. His face was pleasant enough beneath a shock of bright red hair. Perhaps not what a girl envisions as her future husband or even, for that matter, her future king. But then, Leta knew very well she was no man’s dream come true herself. And she would marry Alistair a year from this very day. Best to put a brave face on it. So she tried a smile of her own in response.
“I wondered,” said Alistair, encouraged by that smile, “if I could interest you in a tour of Gaheris? As you are new to my home, I should like to do what I can to make you comfortable.”
Leta looked him swiftly up and down. He was dressed in riding gear and even held a riding crop in one hand.
He wasn’t intending to seek you out this morning, her practical side said. His mother caught him on his way to the stables and sent him up to court you.
Her rebellious side responded, So what? At least he’s an opportunity to escape these cold rooms!
Leta drew a breath, all too aware she’d let the silence linger too long. “Um. Let me fetch my cloak,” she said.
Alistair waited patiently until she joined him in the passage. Perhaps he was a little disappointed. By agreeing to his proposal, she had certainly deprived him of his last hope for a morning ride. Disappointed or not, at least he was courteous about it, and that could go a long way toward making a marriage bearable, Leta told herself. After all, plenty of young men would have ignored her existence entirely, before and after marriage.
And really, who could blame them?
Alistair led her down the passage, explaining how her chambers were on the same side of the keep as the family rooms. “Since you’re to be family soon enough,” he said with another of his vague but friendly grins, “my uncle thought it best that you be settled with us.”
Leta floundered for an interesting response. “I am comfortable,” she managed. It sounded just as insipid as she’d feared.
Alistair took her through the whole of the keep, pointing out the great hall, the passage leading to the scullery and kitchens. “And the most prized possession of all within Gaheris,” he said grandly, opening a certain door, “the castle well.”
Leta tried to demonstrate interest as she looked into the small, damp chamber housing the castle water supply. Like Aiven’s, it was located within the keep itself so that should siege come upon the castle, the defenders could retreat all the way to the keep and still have everything necessary for life and defense.
“It’s the best water you’ll find anywhere in the North Country,” Alistair claimed proudly.
Leta nodded. Then she asked, “Has this castle suffered under many sieges?”
“More than you can count, though not since my uncle’s mastery,” Alistair replied and seemed pleased to be asked. “And never once has Gaheris fallen!”
Leta knew he expected some comment, but she could think of nothing, so she smiled again.
“Yes,” said Alistair, turning away from her with something of a sigh. “Shall we continue?”
They emerged at last through a door into the inner courtyard. Alistair waved a hand to indicate the castle’s guest wing, where, he informed her, the steward and other servants of high rank lived. “The castle chronicler has rooms there as well, but he rarely emerges from his library,” Alistair said. “And beyond that wall”—he indicated the opposite side of the courtyard—“is a sheer drop down to the river below. Another of Gaheris’s defenses.”
“What is that?” Leta asked, pointing to something along that same wall. It was a small mausoleum in marble with a heavy wooden door, rather finely made, eye-catching amid the harsh and militaristic lines of Gaheris.
“The entrance to the family crypt,” Alistair replied, leading her toward it. “Beyond the door, a stairway leads down to the vaults where my ancestors are laid. My father is there. What’s left of him.”
Leta shivered at this and drew her cloak more tightly about herself. She felt as though she looked upon her own final resting place. After all, she would marry into the House of Gaheris and someday be laid among the lords and ladies of the castle. “Our woman’s lot,” she whispered.
“What was that?” her betrothed asked.
But she merely shook her head. He beckoned her to follow him to the outer courtyard, which was a veritable market square open to the farmers who tilled the fields beyond Gaheris’s walls. The housecarls’ barracks lined the north wall, with the stables and smithy on the west. It was all much grander than Aiven, though Leta knew her father was considered the second most powerful earl in the North Country. No wonder all talk of possible kingship centered on Gaheris House and no other!
“Do you hunt?” Alistair asked as they neared the stables.
“I . . . I never have,” she replied, ducking her head before she could see the disappointment on his face.
“Well, never mind,” he said, his voice cheerful if a little forced. “My mother dislikes the hunt herself. She calls it a bloody ritual of—”
“My lord! My lord Alistair!”
A stableboy came running up to them, bowing and touching his forelock and hardly sparing a glance for Leta. “It’s your red hunter, my lord! Master Nicon wishes you to come at once!”
“Ah, the same old trouble, e
h?” Alistair said, his voice light but with a trace of concern behind the lightness. He turned to Leta. “I must see to this. The stables are no place for a lady. Shall I . . . shall I escort you back?”
He looked frustrated at the prospect despite that ever-determined smile. Leta hastily replied, “Oh no, I can find my way well enough. And if I miss a turn, surely someone will direct me.”
Relieved, Alistair bowed over her hand and kissed it in a distracted manner. The next moment, he was hastening off behind the stableboy, and Leta watched his red head disappear into the gloom of the stables.
There was nothing for it. She must return to her rooms and the boredom of a day highlighted only by a prospective supper with her future mother-in-law. “Our woman’s lot,” she muttered again and retraced her steps through the gates. Determined to ignore the crypt with its fine marble, she turned her head away and saw, on the opposite side of the inner courtyard, a humble shed.
Even as she watched, a wizened little man emerged from it, a lowly scrubber carrying a mop over one shoulder. He saw her too and grinned and bowed. What an ugly creature he was, as old as age itself! She gave a cool nod and hastened on to the keep.
Oddly enough, as she passed through the doorway into the dim and drafty halls, Leta met no one. She continued to meet no one as she climbed the first set of stairs and paused at the top, trying to remember from which way she had come. The passages right and left looked exactly alike to her, so she took the right one and went up another winding stair, though she was certain by then she’d chosen incorrectly. Arriving at a long, well-furnished passage that seemed familiar, she hurried to its end and opened the final door, expecting to come upon her own rooms.
She stood at the threshold of the castle library.
Leta paused, her mouth open and her eyes wide. What a wondrous sight! Why had Alistair, amid all his boasting of wells and defenses, neglected to show her this room? It was dark and dusty, lighted only by a few candles, but she could smell the wealth of knowledge contained therein. Volume upon bound volume filled the various tables and shelves lining the walls, and a hundred or more scrolls! A long table littered in papers took up half the floor space on one side, and a desk covered with inkstands and parchment was drawn up to one of the windows.
You should shut the door, practical Leta advised. Shut the door, own your mistake, and retrace your steps. Someone will have noticed you’re missing by now.
Yes, and what a stir that will be! rebellious Leta thought, amused. And she stepped into the library and closed the door.
A book lay open on the long table, a candle lighting its pages. Leta approached with all the reverence due holy things and leaned over to look upon the written pages. One page boasted a fine illumination of a house, she thought, though it was turned away from her. With tentative fingers she gently moved the book to a better viewing angle.
And there it was. The House of Lights. She would recognize it anywhere, the heart of all North Country history and legend. The House of Lights, built by Faerie hands and filled with the light of a magical lantern. The illuminator had depicted it as it once was, its doors flung open and light pouring out in sacred brilliance that was almost song. Beneath it all were written words. Leta put out a hand as though to catch them even as they danced across the page.
“I wouldn’t touch that if I were you.”
“I’m sorry!” The words fell from Leta’s mouth, as much a reflex as her hastily removed hand. She whirled about, expecting to see some stern figure standing behind her. But there were only more shadows and more books. “I’m so sorry. I have never seen so many books in one place before.” She spun slowly as she searched the library for some sign of the speaker. “How many are there? A hundred at least, I should imagine. Two hundred even! Aiven cannot boast half that. Indeed, I think my father possesses no more than twenty bound volumes, even were you to combine all his estates.”
There was silence for a long moment. Then the same voice spoke. “Ferox boasts the greatest library in all the North Country, as befits the greatest earl.”
Leta, turning to the voice once more, looked up and realized that there was more to this library than she had first seen. The ceiling opened above her into a loft, a whole second level to this marvelous chamber. She could see no light up there, and the speaker stood beyond her range of vision.
Somehow, unable to see to whom she spoke, Leta felt emboldened. “You seem to take much pride in Earl Ferox’s possessions,” she said, tilting her head.
“Naturally,” the speaker above her replied. “I copied many of them myself. Though they belong to the earl, they are a piece of me, and I alone can read them.”
“And who are you, please?” she asked, moving around the table and straining for a glimpse.
“I am the castle chronicler.”
The voice was deep but also rather . . . dry, Leta decided. It was the voice of one who spent most of his time in shadows and dust. “Have you no name?” she asked. She heard his footsteps above and thought he moved to avoid her line of vision. He gave no answer, and after a few waiting moments, Leta no longer expected one. She turned back to the table and the book with the illumination. Candlelight caught the colorful ink and made it shine.
Once more she traced the letters written beneath. She spoke softly:
“The dark won’t hide the Path
When you near the House of Light . . .”
More footsteps creaked above, and the dry voice spoke again, this time with surprise. “Lights Above! Don’t tell me you can read.”
Leta withdrew from the table and folded her arms beneath her long cloak. “No,” she said quickly. “Not I.” She felt as though the rest of her was folding up as well. Folding up into the tiny lump of insignificance she had always been.
The thought made her angry, and the anger pushed her to speak again. “I am right though, aren’t I? This is about the House of Lights?”
“It is.”
“A funny thing,” Leta continued, looking at the page but keeping her hands to herself, “writing down nursery rhymes. Are there not more important things to which you might turn your hand?”
“Always,” said the Chronicler. “But sometimes even a chronicler needs to indulge in the unessential.”
Leta’s gaze ran over the lines and marks that flickered along with the candlelight. She had never been permitted into Aiven’s library unescorted, and the old chronicler who’d holed himself away in there chased women out as a terrier might chase rats. Leta could not recall the last time she had been so near a book.
“And these marks and scratches,” she said, speaking softly, “come together to make what I said. To make the rhyme.” She shook her head, smiling in wonder. “That is magic, you know. And you are a wizard!”
Silence above, then shifting feet.
“My father’s chronicler could not do this work,” she continued, looking from one page to the next to see the wealth of text held there. “Father says he can scarcely put three words to a page, but he’s the only man I’d ever met until now who could read or write.” She looked up into the shadows of the loft again. “Did you teach yourself?”
“No,” said the Chronicler. “I was apprenticed when quite young to Raguel, the former chronicler. When he died, I took over.”
“Do you have a special gift? A magic that enables you to learn?”
“Anyone can learn to read or write.” The voice was drier than ever. “Few bother to try. At Earl Ferox’s request, I am attempting to teach Lord Alistair. But he can’t be bothered to apply himself.”
Leta felt cold suddenly, colder even than when she had stood in the great outer courtyard. “You don’t think much of my lord Alistair, then?”
Once more that wall of silence was her answer. She wondered if the Chronicler had not heard her soft voice and opened her mouth to repeat her question when she heard from above:
“He will make a fine Earl of Gaheris one day. He is just the man old Ferox would wish to inherit, and he will earn
the respect of all the North Country.”
Leta waited, but the Chronicler said no more. She stood shivering in the candle’s glow, studying the illumination of the House of Lights and wondering if the Chronicler found her tiresome. Perhaps it was time to return to her rooms, to her lady’s scolding, to supper with Lady Mintha and a groom who did not want her.
Instead, she said, “Could you teach me?”
“What?”
The answer came quick and sharp, and Leta almost lacked the courage to continue. “Could you teach me?” she said, forcing herself to speak. “To read?”
“You?”
In rushed Leta’s practical side, raging vehemently. Don’t be a goose! You are a woman. Don’t forget your place. You can’t learn to read and write! You are intended to marry and bear children.
Leta cringed and almost bowed out then and there.
But her rebellious side replied, Pttttthp! with such clear articulation that her practical side was shocked into silence.
“Why not?” she demanded, a little breathless, as though she’d just run a mile in the cold.
Another long silence. Then the Chronicler said, “I’ve never known a woman to read or write.”
“Does that mean it can’t be done?” Leta asked, half fearing his answer.
At first, nothing. Then the stamp of feet across the loft. Leta turned and realized that there was a narrow, spiral staircase in one corner leading down to the floor on which she stood. She saw a shadow moving and knew the Chronicler was descending. He stepped into the candlelight.
He was young. She noticed this with a start, for she had assumed from his voice that he was older than her father. But indeed, he was as young as Alistair, younger even.
He was also a dwarf.
Though his face and features were fine, his body was disproportionate, his arms and legs too short, his chest like a barrel. He looked up at her, his eyes pale and bright in the candlelight, and they glittered with an expression she could not quite read. As though he was always angry and barely suppressing that anger even now.
Leta realized she was staring. She blushed and looked away.