How much the Chronicler understood in her eyes, no one could guess. But at last he whispered, “It is all Faerie stories. Men of old trying to make sense of a senseless world. Nothing more.”
Leta swallowed and dropped her gaze. But the flash of rebellion had not quite gone from her spirit. She moved a little away from the book that now seemed dangerous, the written words full of power and desire.
She whispered, “My father has come to take final leave of Earl Ferox.”
“I know.”
“And then Alistair will be made Earl of Gaheris.”
“I know.”
She could not look at him. But she said, “What about you, Chronicler?”
“I am nothing,” the Chronicler replied. “I do not matter in these great events.”
“What about . . . what about me?”
The Wall redoubled with such tremendous force, Leta almost felt it slap her face. She took a step back, her arms tightening about her small frame, her gaze fixed upon the legs of the Chronicler’s stool.
The Chronicler said, “You will marry Lord Alistair as you should. You will bind Aiven to Gaheris. And one day, m’lady, you will be queen. A great queen, able to read and to write. You will be stronger than these men can begin to guess, and you will serve the North Country as you rule by Alistair’s side.”
She could not believe it. He spoke of some other girl. Not Lord Aiven’s useless daughter, fit only to sit quietly in her chambers. Fit only to bear children and pass them off to nursemaids while she stitched at tapestries and thought of nothing.
But that wasn’t her anymore. Leta knew it deep down, even if she did not yet believe it. Worlds were open to her that no other could see, for she could read and she could think. She could travel to distant lands and glean the wisdom of ancient times and histories.
“You will be a great queen,” said the Chronicler.
“Is that why you’ve taught me?” Leta said. She looked at the Chronicler then, full in the face, seeing every detail etched out in the glow of those three candles. “For the good of the North Country?”
Even in the candlelight, his cheeks drained of color. He was sinking back into that silent fortress he had built for himself from the time he was young, from the time he was first made to realize that he was different from other children, from other young men. The muscles in his cheek tightened, though otherwise he was still as stone.
At last he said, “I have work to do, m’lady. You should return to the hall and Alistair’s side.”
Leta’s hand darted out. Her practical self didn’t have time for a word, for she moved before thought. She dashed the books and papers from his desk, knocking them in a shower to the floor along with one candle, which snuffed out the moment it struck stone.
And she cried, “Why are you such a coward? You tell me that I make myself less than I could be, that I hide inside what people tell me I am! But how are you any different?”
Then, catching up with herself, she realized what she had done. She stared down at the mess on the floor beneath the Chronicler’s high stool. He sat there quietly, looking at her with wide eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
The next moment she had fled the library, leaving the door standing wide behind her. She ran down the cold corridor, her slippered feet soundless on the stone. Tears froze on her burning face.
4
ONE FINAL DAY, THE TWELVE CAME to Omeztli. Citlalu and Mahuizoa were scarcely recognizable by then. Their feathered wings molted but did not replenish, and their limbs were gray and wasted. These were not the immortal rulers of a Faerie demesne! They were no better than mortals, unable even to fly. Broken creatures. I could not bear to look at them.
But when the Twelve called up the tower, “Cren Cru commands. Send us your firstborn,” my father and mother replied as if in one voice: “Not while we’ve yet life coursing through our veins!”
With those final words, they fell from the rooftop of Omeztli Tower. They fell and crashed upon the stones below, winged beings made flightless. Dead.
And Tlanextu became King of Etalpalli.
Other earls arrived, some by river, some by road, all wrapped in heavy furs with dustings of snow on their great shoulders. They came with large retinues, and Gaheris was filled to bursting. Soon even the fields beyond the castle walls were crowded with fine tents, and nighttime was full of campfires in the snow, like so many stars fallen to earth. Alistair stood wrapped in furs upon the walls of his uncle’s keep and thought how like a siege it looked, all those tents, all those fires.
“They’ve come to honor you,” his mother reminded him.