He kept living, however. Long after many had thought he would succumb, he continued his labored existence, day after dogged day. He had not yet seen the earls of the North Country offer the crown to Gaheris. He could not die. Not yet.
He nodded to his nephew and bade him rise. “This is a great day for Gaheris,” he said, his voice quavering but determined. “Long have I wished to see the Houses of Aiven and Gaheris united in purpose. Today marks the beginning!”
Even as he spoke, he stepped aside. The hunched mass of his body moved to reveal the form of the maiden standing beyond. And Alistair had his first up-close look at his future bride.
Light of Lumé, she was much younger than he’d thought!
Or perhaps, he decided on second glance, she was merely small for her age. And the way she stood, head bowed and eyes downcast, gave her the look of a young girl rather than the woman he had expected. She wore a white barbet and veil that covered all her hair, decorated by a simple gold thread.
And the eyes she raised to meet his, though gray, reminded him of a fawn’s timid gaze. The poor girl was at least as unhappy about this arrangement as Alistair, which was some consolation at least. Alistair offered her what he hoped was a friendly smile.
“Welcome to Gaheris,” he said.
She opened her mouth. For a moment she said nothing, and he could see by the look in her eyes that she was trying to think of something clever, something charming. He braced himself. In the end, however, she managed only a weak, “I . . . I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Lord Alistair.”
He felt his grin sliding away, so he stepped forward swiftly and offered his arm. “You must be cold,” he said. “Allow me.”
She slid her hand up onto his wrist and walked beside him, her head scarcely coming to his shoulder, and said not a word the rest of the day unless spoken to. There was no doubt in Alistair’s mind.
He would never love Lady Leta of Aiven.
In the gloom of night, a shed door creaked.
By the light of the moon above, a wizened, dirty figure emerged, toting a broom, a mop, and a leaking bucket. He shut the door and latched it firmly, then turned with a sigh to survey the inner courtyard and what the moonlight might reveal. River muck tracked everywhere! And who to clean it up? Certainly not the great lords and their great guests.
This was the work of a scrubber.
So the scrubber swept and mopped and scraped mud and horse droppings from the stone. As he worked, he turned his eye up to the castle keep. He saw a light on in the library, of course. Lifting his gaze one story higher, he saw another flickering candle in a window. Lord Alistair’s room, he knew, and the candle his one feeble defense against the terrors of the dark and his dreams.
The scrubber looked for a light in the guest quarters. But Lady Leta must have been sent to bed, obedient little creature that she was.
The scrubber scrubbed on. More muck would be driven into the crevices come morning, and he would be out here at this same chore yet again. But that did not mean a man shouldn’t try. So on he worked at his lonely task.
But he wasn’t alone. Oh no! He had the moon above and all the starry host watching him. One star in particular, bright blue and low to the horizon, winked with curious interest. The scrubber looked up at it and smiled.
“Starlight, star bright,” he whispered.
Let us out!
Across the way stood a heavy door, the entrance to the Gaheris family crypt. As the scrubber drew near, driving mud before him, whispers reached out to him from beyond the door, whispers no one else heard, perhaps because, in reality, there was nothing to hear.
Let us out!
“Keep your helmets on,” the scrubber said, his bare feet squelching in the mud trailing behind his mop. “It’s not time yet.”
2
THE PARASITE LATCHED HOLD OF ETALPALLI, and I, for the first time, saw death in the eyes of my father, my mother. Immortal, they had ruled the City of Wings since before Time dared visit our demesne. They had seen the rise of the red spires and guided the growth of green things. They ruled from Itonatiu and Omeztli Towers and were, in my eyes, like the sun and the moon themselves.
But the day the Parasite came, my parents looked from their two high towers and saw, for the first time, their doom.
When Leta’s father came to her earlier that spring and said, “You are going to marry the Earl of Gaheris’s nephew,” her first instinct was to rebel.
“I am a person!” she wanted to shout. “I have my own desires, my own passions! I’m not a tool for the manipulation of alliances!”
But as always, it was practical Leta who responded instead.
“Very well, Father. This will be a great thing for Aiven House, will it not?”
“A great thing indeed. The nephew may be King of the North Country one day.”