“There must be another way.” His voice was almost despairing. Leta stood with her back to the wall beneath the scaffolding on which he stood, her heart racing, hoping he would not somehow sense her presence. “They must know something more that they aren’t telling us,” he persisted. “They’re useless maggots, but they can’t have forgotten their own heritage so quickly!”
The poor goblin still clinging to the balustrade spoke hesitantly. “They have a library.”
“What?” Corgar said. “What did you say?”
“They have a library,” said the unfortunate goblin, wishing to heaven he was down below with the other slave drivers. Dragon’s flame, he’d be happy to be hauling rubble with the slaves rather than endure a moment more of Corgar’s stare! “Where they keep records of deaths and births and the like. We found it two days back, and it’s more writing than we’ve ever seen.”
“And?” Corgar demanded. “Do they have records of the House of Lights?”
“Perhaps,” said the goblin. “There were pictures that looked likely. But—”
“But what?”
“None of us can read the mortal writing.”
Leta believed Corgar would take his stone knife and hack the goblin’s face in two. The monster turned, however, and looked out into the inner courtyard once more, his teeth grinding like mortar and pestle. He gazed upon the little people crawling below him, and he hated the sight of them, hated the smell of them.
“Who among you can read?” he cried. His voice overwhelmed the shouts of the slave drivers, the thick thudding of stone chains, and the growl of breaking rock. All eyes turned to where he stood above.
“I need a mortal who can discern the scratchings of your language,” he said. “Stand forth, any of you who can read for me!”
Pale faces exchanged glances. Leta, her heart beating a furious pace in her breast, crouched down into a ball.
Some daring soul whispered, “The Chronicler?” But the whisper swiftly hushed. Throats and lungs thick with dust, none dared speak out.
“So he must be dead,” Leta whispered, her lips forming the words, though she made no sound. “He must be dead, or they would have him read.”
Her heart sank like a dead weight.
Corgar surveyed the blank dullness below him. Suddenly he leapt from the wall, falling like a bolt from the sky and landing with a crash upon the stone below, which broke beneath the impact. He crouched, recovering himself, then strode forward and grabbed the nearest mortal to him. Leta, her eyes flying wide, saw who it was he grabbed, and her heart bounded into a frightful pace.
Corgar lifted his knife and, swinging Lady Mintha off her feet, held her suspended before all those gathered. “I’ll gut you all,” he cried, “one by one, beginning with this one. That, or you can tell me who among you reads!”
Keep your mouth shut, her practical side begged. Keep it shut, fool girl!
But her other side responded, And watch him kill Alistair’s mother before your eyes?
Leta fell forward, dragging her chains behind. She could make only a few paces, but it was enough movement to catch Corgar’s eye. He turned to her, and she saw the recognition on his face.
“I can read,” she said. “Please, let the lady go.”
Corgar stared at her. “Of course,” he said. He dropped Mintha, who fell at his feet, shuddering and scrabbling uselessly at broken stones. “Of course. It must be you.”
Goblins stepped forward on either side of Leta. One of them grabbed her arm while another began fumbling with her heavy chains. She stood frozen beneath Corgar’s gaze, wishing to break free but unable to do so. It wasn’t until the goblin holding her arm dragged her away that she felt herself liberated of those stone-hard eyes.
Someone grabbed her other hand.
She turned. For an instant she saw Lady Mintha. For an instant she saw urgency in that once-beautiful face. A coldness was pressed into her hand, and her fingers closed about it instinctively.
Then the instant passed, and Leta was dragged from the cold inner courtyard into the frozen keep. Up the stairs they led her and down a passage she knew well but which had grown unfamiliar and now stank of goblins. She hadn’t the time even to look at what Mintha had given her. But she knew. She felt its contours in her hand.
It was a key.
4
HE STRODE INTO MY VISION ONE NIGHT even as I reveled in the destruction of yet another House, high on a cold mountain. I sat amid the debris, fountaining my flame to the sky, when I heard that voice I knew so well calling to me.
“Dragon!”
I turned. I saw Etanun standing there with his sword upraised.
“Dragon,” he bellowed, and there was a fury of passion in his voice. “You will die for the death you have dealt!”
“And who will see to that?” I asked.
“I!” he replied. “I shall kill you now!”
“Kill me, then,” I replied, letting my fire spill forth.
We fought there on the scene of that destruction. And though my flame had never been hotter, it could not prevail against the brilliance of Halisa. I was foolish and I was angry, and I gave him an opening. Driven by rage, by vengeance, he drove that sword into my heart.
It was no more pain than I had already experienced twice at his hand. I scarcely cared even as I fell, crashing into the ruins of the House.
I died my first death.