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.”