Mintha growled. She let go of her son and backed away, moving to the window and gazing down into the courtyard below. Alistair could hear her heavy breathing as she collected herself. When she spoke again, her voice was calm but edged with an ice that was more dreadful than the fire of her wrath.
“This is not the attitude I expect from you. This marriage must take place. You must secure the alliance with Aiven to have any hope for the future crown.”
There it was again. In the last ten years of his life, Alistair could not remember a single conversation with his mother that didn’t revert to kingship. The Crown was the darling wish of her heart. He had been brought up with his gaze always turned to the future unity of the North Country. His uncle also talked of it with an air of grave certainty that made one almost believe it possible. For Lady Mintha, it was nothing short of a consuming passion.
But neither of them knew of his nightmares.
Alistair shuddered. Then he said heavily, “Let it be, Mother. If the earls were going to unite under a king, they would have stuck a crown on Uncle Ferox’s head long ago.”
Mintha turned from the window, narrowing her eyes at her son. The light from the day outside fell upon her, making her very pale beneath her dark veils. But her eyes were bright.
“The earls had reason enough for not crowning Ferox,” she said, her voice low as though she feared being overheard. “There was talk of it for many years.”
“Which came to nothing.”
“Who would crown a sonless king?” Lady Mintha asked, her voice dismissive. Then it hardened into the sharp resolve it always held when she spoke on this subject. “You are their new hope. The hope of Gaheris. The hope of the North Country. And if you prove yourself a worthy successor to Ferox, you will see the earls kneeling at your feet soon enough. But you must secure alliances now. Earl Clios is behind you, and Ianthon and Sondmanus. Aiven is the key. You make certain this marriage takes place; you make certain you have Earl Aiven at your right hand, and kingship is only a matter of time.”
Alistair glared at the illustration of Akilun but did not dare to glare at his mother. “It will be a matter of some time,” he said. “Uncle Ferox isn’t going to hand over Gaheris next week. We have years yet, and I’m not going to concern myself with a future too far away to consider.”
“Your uncle will not live to the year’s end.”
A stone dropped.
Both Mintha and Alistair turned at the sound and watched the Chronicler’s pumice roll across the floor to the edge of Mintha’s long gown. The Chronicler, silent upon his stool, stared at it as though it were his own life rolling away from him. Ink from an overturned inkwell dribbled to the edge of the desk and began to drip into his lap.
“What are you doing here?” Lady Mintha’s voice washed the room in frost.
The Chronicler, brought back to himself, put out a hand to catch the dripping ink, then fumbled for a blotting cloth, hastening to wipe up the mess. Busy with this task, he replied in his dry, quiet voice, “Allow me to remind you, my lady, that this is my library.”
“Your library?” Mintha picked up the pumice stone, hefting it in her palm. “Is that what you think, Chronicler? Is that what you’ve been led to believe all these years? That anything within Castle Gaheris is yours?”
“Mother,” said Alistair, rising and taking the stone from her, half afraid of what she might do with it. “The Chronicler was here already, as he always is. You intruded upon his privacy, not he on yours. Have a little courtesy.”
“Courtesy? To a scribbler?” Lady Mintha gave the Chronicler a final look, a look he met with equal coolness. In that moment they were surprisingly alike, this tall, proud lady of the castle and the humble, misshapen servant. Alistair could easily believe that anyone who stepped between them would either turn into a pillar of ice or burst into flame.
He took his mother’s arm and pulled her gently away. “We’ll speak of this later,” he said. “I am in the middle of my reading lesson, in accordance with Uncle Ferox’s wishes.” He led her to the library door and opened it.
And found Leta standing there.
Mintha and her son stared down at her, and she stared down at their feet. A long, silent moment hung between them, full of too many questions. How much had she heard? How long had she stood there?
Then Mintha exclaimed, “Gracious, child!” putting a hand to her heart. She masked her scowl behind a quick smile and stepped quickly out into the hall, drawing her son behind her. “You did give us quite a turn! What are you doing in this lonely quarter?”
Leta, still without looking, opened her mouth but said nothing. So Mintha continued to fill the silence. “Are you here to meet this handsome son of mine, perhaps?” She pinched Alistair’s cheek winsomely and laughed. “Has he quite charmed you yet?”