A roaring blush spread up Leta’s neck and flooded her face—a flush of embarrassment that he should dare mention a woman’s body and of shame at the truth he spoke.
The Chronicler slid from his stool and slowly crossed the room. “They’ve told you that the outer shape of you determines the inner shape of your spirit. And you, foolish, foolish girl, have believed them! You make yourself less than you could be and hide instead.”
He stood before her now, his head tilted to meet her gaze. She wanted to look away but dared not. How angry he was, with an anger that frightened her for she could not quite understand it. His frame shook with the potency of his feeling, and his hands were fists.
“You’ve believed them,” he said, his voice an accusation. “You’ve let yourself be made into something you were never meant to be. Tell me—tell me, Leta!—have you not longed all your life to prove them wrong?”
“Our woman’s lot,” said the voice of her mother in her head.
“Insipid thing,” Lady Mintha repeated.
But the Chronicler took her by the hand. Though his fingers were cold and ink stained, his grip was surprisingly strong. Leta tried to pull away, but he would not release her.
“Where is the maid who came to me,” he said, “and dared me to believe she could learn anything a man could learn? Where is she?”
The Wall was gone. Leta saw suddenly the whole of the Chronicler’s heart and life exposed in dangerous vulnerability. And she knew that he sought an answer not only for her but also for himself. Her spirit lurched with a pain she could not name, reaching out to what she saw in his eyes. Somehow she thought she could give him the answer he needed. But she did not know what that answer might be.
Frightened, Leta closed her eyes, her final shield against those things she could not fathom.
For a moment, the Chronicler held on, studying the bowed face of the girl before him. Then he let go her hands and stepped back a pace or two, folding his arms. “Tell me what the rhyme means, m’lady,” he said.
She heard the return of the Wall. For the first time, its presence relieved her; she felt it cosseted her own spirit as much as his. But she also knew that it made for a restrictive fortress, more a prison cell than a protection.
She found her voice in little more than a breath. “I think it means that we will have a king. When Etanun’s sword is found. When the House of Lights is opened once more.”
“Good enough.” The Chronicler’s voice was as hard as his pumice stone, but it bore an edge of determination. “So who is the Smallman?”
Leta shook her head. It was heavy with unshed tears, but she knew now that she would not shed them. “Um. The Smallman is . . . is the future king. The one who will find the door to the House of Lights.”
“And the House of Lights? What is that?”
“The House that Akilun and Etanun built,” she said. “The last one, the one not burned by the Flame at Night.”
Here the Chronicler shook his head and returned to his own desk. He climbed up onto the stool, faced about, and folded his arms again. “Have you ever heard the word metaphor, m’lady?”
Leta shook her head.
“Metaphor,” said he, “is the use of a symbol to represent an idea. Do you follow?”
Though she hated to, Leta shook her head again.
“No.” He grunted and shrugged his shoulders up to his ears, looking ceilingward. “Let me explain. The House of Lights doesn’t exist. You understand that, don’t you?”
Leta frowned but made no answer, so the Chronicler continued. “It is a symbol passed down through ages of oral tradition, via minstrels and songsters of generations past. A symbol of enlightenment, of understanding. The House of Lights is no literal house but a representation of the understanding humanity desires to attain in a dark and confusing universe.
“The Smallman, or Smallman King, as you have named him, is also a symbol. He is not a real person or, at least, not any one person. He represents mankind. Small-minded. Ignorant. Struggling to make sense of life. He is a figure created by bards long ago, searching always for this House of Lights, for enlightenment, and standing up to all foes who oppose him in this quest. When he succeeds at last, ‘the night will flame again.’ The darkness of ignorance will be driven out by the light of understanding.”
His voice was confident as he spoke. Here, in this realm of books and academic speculation, he held uncontested sway. Here he was stronger than any man of twice his height and double his breadth. Though the protective Wall remained firmly in place, a glimmer of light shone from beyond it, revealing the life that dwelled within.