“Unreal lives,” Alistair said. “Unreal, untrue, unlived. I have no interest in holing myself away in dark rooms, poring over pages of these fool letters. I have a life of my own to live.”
“Unless, of course, this pale-faced child of your dreams has its way,” said the Chronicler.
Alistair’s cheeks drained of color. He looked sickly in the candlelight. “Don’t mock me, Chronicler. Remember your place.”
But the Chronicler was one of those people unable to be intimidated by rank. He turned and fixed Alistair with a stare, and Alistair immediately wished he could take back his words.
“You mock yourself,” said the Chronicler, “wasting your energies worrying about dreams when there is work to be done. Or do you think the kingship will land upon you without merit? You, Earl Ferox’s illiterate nephew?”
Alistair wanted to rage. But rage didn’t come naturally to his nature. Besides, he was terribly, terribly tired. So he wilted beneath the Chronicler’s stare and managed only a muttered, “I don’t see how reading and writing will make me a better king. Will it strengthen my ability to lead earls, bind alliances, or battle Corrilond?”
“The Kings of Corrilond read,” said the Chronicler.
“Well, then I won’t be a King of Corrilond, will I?”
The Chronicler’s mouth opened, and Alistair braced himself as for the whip. The Chronicler may not have possessed anyone’s idea of manly prowess, but he did possess a tongue quicker and sharper than any cat-o’-nine-tails and a wit to match. Some of the tongue-lashings Alistair had received during library altercations left scars, and he did not relish taking another.
He was spared by a knock at the door and the entrance of his mother’s page. Alistair turned to the boy with relief. “What is it?”
“Her ladyship wishes to inform you of the arrival of the envoy from Aiven.” The page bowed quickly, his eyes darting from Alistair’s furious face to the Chronicler’s and back again. “Your bride, my lord.”
“Oh.” The heat drained from Alistair’s body, leaving him suddenly cold and a little clammy. “Of course. Thank you, and tell Mother that I will be down directly.”
The page left and Alistair, without a word to the Chronicler, went to one of the south-facing library windows and looked out. He heard the thump of his teacher sliding off his high stool, but he did not turn around. His gaze swept across the courtyards of Gaheris and down the path leading up from River Hanna. He saw the flag of Aiven, white with the crest of a griffin in red, and the retinue, some on foot, some on horseback. In the midst was a horse-borne litter in which he was certain rode Lord Aiven’s eldest daughter, Lady Leta.
The entourage entered the outer courtyard, and Alistair could see the curtains of the litter drawn back. The Chronicler climbed up on a low step beside him and also looked out the narrow window.
“Well,” said Alistair as the girl emerged. “There she is. My bride.” He frowned a little. “What do you think of her?”
The Chronicler’s eyebrows lifted, and his voice was as dry as it had ever been when he replied, “She looks a proper milk-faced lass. Just what you’d expect in an earl’s wife.”
“I suppose you’re right,” said Alistair, and while he felt he should be angry with the Chronicler, he couldn’t work up the strength for it.
“You’d better go down and meet her,” the Chronicler said. “Your lesson this morning is through.”
“Maybe one more verse?” It was only almost a joke.
“Face it like a man,” the Chronicler said, and though they had just been at odds, he clapped the young lord on the back. “You can’t escape her now she’s here.”
“No. I suppose not.”
Lady Mintha, sister of Earl Ferox, wrapped her fur-edged robe tightly about herself as she waited to receive the Aiven envoy. The cold morning tipped her features a raw red but could do nothing to emphasize the chill in the gaze she turned upon her son.
“Alistair!” she cried, her smile freezing his blood as Alistair, still buckling his cloak, hastened to join her in the inner courtyard. “You’ve kept us waiting in the cold, my darling. I was beginning to think your uncle would be obliged to escort Lady Leta inside himself.”
“Forgive me, Mother,” Alistair said, dropping a kiss on his mother’s cheek . . . or rather, on the air just above. He feared his lips might ice over if he actually touched her. Then he offered a hasty bow to his uncle.
Earl Ferox, though he had been a magnificent man in his prime, trembled like a gutted old tree, still standing but only just clinging to life. His eyes, once bright with warrior’s fire, were filmed over with dullness. A few years younger than his sister, he was not an old man. But the wasting disease struck even the mightiest, and neither leech nor herbalist could prolong the span of his days.