Snarling another curse, the Chronicler scrambled to his feet and tried to push past. But the scrubber put out his mop handle and impeded him. “Let me by, old fool!” the Chronicler said, grabbing the handle in both hands.
“I think not. Many apologies, Your Majesty,” said the scrubber. With a flick of his skinny wrist and mop, he turned the Chronicler in the direction he wished him to go and, pushing between his shoulders with the soggy end of his tool, started him walking. “You need a place to hide. Word has already spread through the guards, and you’ll not get past the gates. Best to keep your head down until further notice, don’t you think?”
Though he wanted to fight, to lash out, the Chronicler found himself moving as directed. Strangely enough, he felt relieved. It was good to have all desperate choices taken from his hand. The scrubber propelled him across the courtyard opposite the old Gaheris crypt toward an old shed, a humble building the Chronicler had never noticed before. The scrubber unlatched and opened the door with many creakings.
“There we go,” he said, pushing the Chronicler through. “No one will think to look for you here. But don’t come out until you know it’s time. Understand, Your Majesty?”
The Chronicler stumbled into the dankness of the shed. He whirled around to face the scrubber, saying, “Why do you call me that?”
“Call you what?”
“Majesty!”
“Why?” The scrubber scratched the back of his head, his cloudy eyes as wide and unblinking as an owl’s. “Because you’re the King of the North Country. Or you will be. Time is such a funny thing; it’s all the same in the end.”
“Daft fool,” the Chronicler growled. “I’m not an earl, much less a king. By all the Dragon’s brood, I’d be glad even to be counted quite a man!”
“Tut, so much fussing,” the scrubber said, shaking his head and making a sour face. Then he leaned in, his crusty eyes close to the Chronicler’s. “Look around you, Your Majesty. Tell me what you see.”
Taking a step back—for the scrubber’s breath was putrid—the Chronicler glanced from side to side. “An old, drafty shed,” he growled, shivering.
“Pity,” said the scrubber and shrugged. “Lie low. They’ll not find you here. You’ll know when it’s time to emerge.”
“But . . . wait!” the Chronicler began. The shed door slammed in his face. He stood in frozen darkness, hiding like a rat in a hole. He bowed his head, drawing a heavy breath. Never before had he felt so stripped of all manhood. In that moment, his desperation and sorrow too keen to bear, he almost wished they would find him.
Find him, and kill him quickly.
Alistair staggered in the darkness.
He felt as uneasy on his feet and in his mind as though he were inebriated, though he hadn’t tasted drink all day. One does not drink when one’s uncle is dying. One does not drink on the verge of being declared master of all one surveys. One does not drink on the day when the expectations of a lifetime are about to be fulfilled, when age passes away and youth steps into rightful forefront.
But one might possibly drink if one’s future, title, prospects—entire life, when it came right down to it—were stripped away in the sudden blink of an eye.
A son! A legitimate son!
And yet, of all sons . . .
No wonder Ferox had kept it secret. No wonder he’d allowed everyone to assume the child died at birth. Alistair cursed as he staggered down a side passage, choosing byways of Gaheris Castle that were less traversed, hoping not to meet any of the North Country earls as he fled to . . . fled where? Where could he go?
Embarrassed, disinherited, bewildered, he wandered like a ghost in the nighttime corridors.
He should have seen the resemblance long ago. When the Chronicler knelt at the dying man’s side, it was impossible not to see how he, for all his abnormal proportions, favored Earl Ferox. How could Alistair, through all those laborious hours of alphabets and finding words in scribbled ink, have missed the resemblance? But the Chronicler had such a way of hiding himself away. After all, one doesn’t like to stare at those less fortunate; Alistair had made it a point not to look too closely at the little fellow who was his own age but the size of a child.
The little fellow who was now, by all legal rights, Earl of Gaheris. The little fellow who, in the course of a single moment, had taken everything Alistair possessed.
He didn’t know where he would go. Somewhere he wouldn’t have to face his mother. He knew how she would be. Even now, he could picture her taking aside various earls, planting words in their ears, plotting against Ferox’s dying wishes before the man’s body had quite gone cold. Of course there would be an uprising. And Alistair did not doubt that sufficient support would muster behind him to establish him in his uncle’s seat. Even as he strode the dark passages, fury disorienting his brain, he knew that all was far from lost. He would still be Earl of Gaheris.
But to do so, he would have to go against his uncle’s wishes. He would have to kill his cousin.