“Do you see?” the Chronicler asked. “Even a child’s nursery rhyme—so simple, so small—has much to offer those who will take the time to consider. Those willing to think.” He leaned forward on his stool now, and his face was eager, his eyes interested. “Now tell me, m’lady,” he said, “beyond the simple Faerie tale, beyond the stories you’ve been taught, what do you think it means?”
Leta stared at the book, seeing words she could read where only months before she would have seen nothing more than scratches in dark ink. Those words, those doorways to other worlds, to other times, beckoned to her, and she felt her heart begin to race. How she longed to use her mind as she had never before used it! How she longed to run into places she had never believed possible for one such as herself!
“Are you afraid to answer?” the Chronicler asked.
Leta drew a deep breath. Then she nodded.
“Why?”
Even that was a dangerous question. Clutching the book in both hands, scarcely daring to raise her gaze from it, she said, “Because I don’t think you’ll like it.”
He snorted. “What does that matter? Think something; think something on your own. Not what they tell you to think or what I tell you to think. You are Leta of Aiven. I want to hear your thoughts, for they are neither mine nor anyone else’s. Only yours. This makes them interesting.”
His words pierced the numbness she had felt since meeting Lady Mintha, since coming to Gaheris, since the moment her father had told her she would wed and did not consult her wishes on the matter. They pierced down to a warm, living part of her spirit that she had scarcely been aware existed.
Tell him what you think! her rebellious side cried. Tell him!
He’ll believe you such a fool, her practical side rejoined.
Tell him anyway! Tell him!
So she said, “I think you’re wrong.”
Then she blushed and pressed a hand to her mouth. Never in her life had she dared to cross the will or opinions of anyone! The glory of freedom surged in her heart. Before she could stifle the words, she repeated, “I think you’re wrong!”
The Chronicler laughed a genuine laugh, and the great stones of the Wall crumbled away in that sound. “Do you, now?” he said, his eyes sparkling with mirth and, wonderfully, interest. “Why is that?”
“I think . . .” Blood pounded so hard in Leta’s head, she could scarcely get the words out. “I think the House of Lights is real. I think it stands somewhere in our own country, hidden until the time is ripe. I think the Smallman is a real person, and he will find Etanun’s sword, and he will find the hidden door. He will open up the House of Lights so that we will hear the Sphere Songs again!”
“Silly superstition?” the Chronicler said, but it was less a rebuke than a suggestion for her to consider.
“Maybe,” she replied. “Maybe not. But I believe it.”
“What you believe cannot affect the truth of the matter.”
“Cannot the same be said for unbelief?”
Their eyes met. She saw appreciation written across his face. More than that, she saw what she thought might be pride. Gazing upon her, the Chronicler saw only something that pleased, that inspired.
“A good point, m’lady, and a fair one,” said he. “I will think on it.”
Her heart beat faster still, and Leta thought she might explode with the sudden power she felt tingling through her body. Let Lady Mintha say what she will! Let Alistair ignore her existence! Let her father force her into a marriage and treat her like bargaining baggage! She knew now what none of them knew.
She was Leta. And she had a mind all her own.
“I disagree with you, you know,” said the Chronicler, still smiling.
“And I disagree with you,” Leta replied, full of the joy of contradiction.
4
THE TWELVE ARRIVED SOON AFTER. They are Cren Cru’s servants, his slaves, perhaps his worshippers. They passed through our gates uninvited, breaking barriers that should have been impassable. But once the Mound appears, who can stop him or his work? His Twelve marched into our land, the tramping feet echoing on our unwalked streets, and the Sky People flew into their towers and hid from those blood-cold gazes. Each warrior carried with him—or her, for I saw females in their number—a sharp, bronze stone. They arranged these in a circle around the Mound. The stones glittered in the daylight until the sun himself must have shuddered at the sight.
Cren Cru was come indeed. And when he made his demands, Etalpalli trembled.
Through the Wood Between walked a Faerie who wore the form of a cat and who didn’t give a whisker’s twitch whether anyone believed in his existence or not.
This was the prevailing attitude among fey folk, truth be known. Amid all their philosophical contemplations, many mortals overlooked the fact that Faeries, on the whole, were just as happy to be disbelieved in as believed in.