Florien. It was odd; she had never even thought about his having a name. Not since she asked on that first day. And it hadn’t mattered to her. Name or not, he was who he was, and she knew him, and she trusted him. Whom had he to trust now?
Maybe he would come to her. Had she not proven her friendship to him over many months? Maybe he would come to her for help. But there was nothing she could do, and Mintha would watch her like a hawk! No, it would be best if he fled, far and farther still, without a word to her, without a look, without a thought. How he would escape, she could not guess. Even the secret passage rang with the footsteps of soldiers. Mintha had taken the key from the earl’s dead body and unlocked the heavy bolts of the door hidden behind a tapestry in Ferox’s chamber. Leta had watched her do it and watched the soldiers march into the dark passage beyond. Even now, she thought she could hear the pound of feet beyond her wall, and she shuddered as though they searched for her.
“Some of the earls might rally to him,” she whispered to her own clenched hands. “Not all of them are like Father.”
Not all of them wished to see the North Country united under a king. Some preferred to master their lands beholden to no authority. Those earls might support Ferox’s son. They would see in him no threat of a future king as they might in Alistair. They might fight for his right to inherit his father’s lands. They might—
“No,” she told herself and relaxed her fists. “Don’t be stupid.”
After all, even if it were true, what kind of life would that be for the Chronicler?
A sudden pounding at her door startled Leta to her feet. Did those fool soldiers think she might hide her former teacher in her own chambers? Drawing herself to her full height, she strode to the door and flung it wide, demanding as she did so, “What cause have you to . . . oh.”
A child, brown and wide-eyed, crouched before her, hands wringing. Leta could almost remember having seen this humble scrubber boy before, hard at work in various corners of the castle. “Lights Above!” she said, taking in the terror in that face. The boy looked as though he had seen a ghost. “What is the matter?”
“Allees-tar,” the boy said, his eyes pleading to be understood.
Leta shook her head. “Say again?”
The boy chewed his lip, his eyes darting up and down the corridor. Then he reached out and took Leta’s hand in both of his and spoke urgently. “Allees-tar.”
“Alistair?”
The boy nodded.
A coldness took hold of Leta at the mention of her betrothed’s name. “What about him?”
But the boy did not notice her icy voice or stance. He repeated the name and tugged at Leta, motioning and signing for her to follow. There was no understanding the child. Leta shook her head, her teeth grinding. “He must want me. A first time for everything under the sun!”
She grabbed her cloak, for it was far too cold to wander the castle corridors without one. Best to get the encounter over with as soon as possible, she decided. She followed the boy to Alistair’s room. At the door, she pushed ahead and entered first so as not to seem dragged like a dog. She must retain at least some form of dignity.
Then she saw the state in which her betrothed lay.
“Alistair!” She hastened to his side, leaning over him on the bed. Her mouth gaped, and she grabbed the one candle and held it closer for a better look. She saw the boiling, smelled the poison.
One side of her mind said: SCREAM!
It’s as well you aren’t afraid of blood, her practical side responded.
RUN! roared the panicking Leta.
Someone’s got to take care of this. And you want something to distract you. It might as well be you.
SCREAM, dragons eat you!
But as usual, practical Leta won the day.
She turned to Mouse. There was only a slight tremor in her voice when she spoke. “Fetch fresh water and some bandages.” Then she shook her head. “How silly of me. You don’t understand, do you? Stay with him, and I’ll fetch them myself.”
In the end, it probably took less time for her to get her own supplies. No one bothered with her. The castle remained in a quiet uproar of heated whispers and the occasional running messenger. The searching soldiers seemed to have finished their search and, baffled, started over again with a little less vim and a lot more thoroughness. She left her bedroom door wide open, welcoming them to enter and disturb what they liked. She had nothing to hide. She took some old petticoats, a pair of shears, and her washbasin back with her to Alistair’s room, and found Mouse fidgeting over him like a frightened sparrow.
The wound was nastier even than she remembered. Several times Leta had to force herself not to vomit, and her head whirled sickeningly. But she got it clean even so, and succeeded in stopping the bleeding. Alistair remained unconscious, and a fever was developing.