“You are early, my lord.”
Alistair shrugged. The library boasted only three windows, mere slits in the stone, all west and south facing and admitting none of the morning light. Thus the room was full of candles sitting in wooden, wax-filled bowls. Their glow cast Alistair’s face into ghoulish shadows, emphasizing the dark circles beneath his eyes.
The Chronicler frowned with measured concern as Alistair took a seat at the long table in the center of the room. “Another restless night?”
Alistair buried his face in his hands. Then he rubbed at the skin under his eyes, stretching his face into unnatural shapes, and ended by pulling at the roots of his hair. “You’re an intelligent, learned man, are you not, Chronicler?”
“So some would say,” the Chronicler acceded.
“Have you,” Alistair continued, still pulling at his hair and studying the grain of the wooden table before him with unprecedented concentration, “in all your readings, picked up a word or two concerning dreams?”
The Chronicler set aside his quill and pumice stone, then folded his arms as he turned on his stool to more fully look upon the young lord. “What manner of dreams?”
“Recurring,” said Alistair darkly. He stared at the table as though he should like to burn it with his gaze. The candlelight shone into the depths of his eyes, turning the pale blue irises to orange.
The Chronicler tipped his head to one side. “Are we speaking of a dream you have experienced, Lord Alistair?”
Alistair nodded.
“In this dream, did you see an ax, a sword, or any form of iron weaponry suspended above your head?”
“No.”
“Did you see the face of one long dead calling out to you from behind a shadowy veil?”
“No.”
“Did your last-night’s supper confront you in an antagonistic manner?”
“What?” Alistair looked up.
“Did it?”
“Why would I dream something like that?”
The Chronicler leaned back on his stool, reaching to a near bookshelf from which he selected a volume. The vellum pages were neatly copied in a flowing, if shaky script, and all was beautifully bound up in red-stained leather. The Chronicler flipped to a certain page illuminated with images more fantastic than accurate. He read:
“Ande it dide com aboot that Sir Balsius, moste Noble Earle of Gaheris, saw withyn the Eiye of hyse Mynde a sertayn Mutton upon which he hade Et the night prevyus. And thyse Mutton did taxe Hym moste cruelly for having Gnawed upone its Joints. And it spake unto Hym thus, sayinge: ‘And surely You, most jowl-som Lorde, will die upon the Morrow, and the Wolfs will Gnaw upon Thyy Joints.’ So it dide Transpyre that Sir Balsius betook Hymselfe to the Hunt, and—”
“Wait, wait!” said young Alistair, his brow puckering. “You’re telling me that this Earl Balsius—”
“Your great-great-grandfather, if I recall the chronology correctly,” said the Chronicler.
“—dreamt about an antagonistic mutton and died the next day?”
“According to my predecessor, yes.” The Chronicler shut the book and smiled a grim, mirthless sort of smile at the young lord. “But I give little credence to these so-called histories. Dreams are merely dreams, and stories are merely stories. They are subjects of curious interest but nothing upon which to base your life.”
He shoved the volume back into its place with perhaps a little more vehemence than was called for. Alistair, however, did not notice. He was trying to recall what he’d eaten the night before.
“What about,” he said, embarrassed but eager to know, “what about a pale-faced child?”
“Come again?” said the Chronicler.
“A pale-faced child. Paler than any child I ever saw. Like a ghost or a phantom. Running along the edge of a bottomless chasm, and . . .” Alistair stopped, his mouth suddenly dry, and stared into the flickering candle flame, unable to continue.
“Is this your recurring dream, my lord?”
“Perhaps. Some of it.”
“Well, no doubt about it, then,” said the Chronicler. “You’re going to die.”
“What?” Alistair nearly knocked the candle over as he spun to face the Chronicler. “Do you mean it?”
“You saw the pale-faced child beside the bottomless chasm?” The Chronicler selected another volume, slid down from his stool, and approached Alistair at the table. “Then there can be no doubt about it. You’re going to die. A slow, lingering death brought on by study and academic application.” He plunked the book down in front of Alistair. “As long as you’re here, you might as well start reading. Open to the tenth page, please.”
Scowling, Alistair watched the Chronicler climb back onto his stool, wishing he were clever enough this early in the morning to think of something nasty to say. But too many sleepless nights in a row, waking at dawn to frozen feet and nose, had sapped him of any cleverness with which he’d been born.