Dragonwitch by Anne Elisabeth Stengl Page B

to your rooms.
    She took a few more steps.
    But why would Lady Mintha visit the Chronicler today? rebellious Leta wondered and froze her in place. She has no interest in books.
    It’s not your business. Go on, fool girl!
    But Leta ground her teeth. Then, before she could change her mind, she slipped back to the door, hiding a little behind the wall and peering through the crack. Lady Mintha stood in such a way that her rich green robes filled most of Leta’s view, blocking all sight of the Chronicler. Every word they spoke, however, rang clearly against the stone walls.
    â€œAll of them must know,” Lady Mintha was saying. “Without delay. Urge them to make their way to Gaheris to bid their last respects. And make certain they know that, should they come, it will be seen as a pledge of loyalty to the new earl.”
    â€œYes, my lady,” said the Chronicler, his voice very soft and emotionless.
    â€œYou do understand the importance of this task?” Lady Mintha pressed. “Your wording must be clear, the intent unmistakable. My brother has trusted you these many years to hold the best interests of Gaheris dear to your heart. I would not like to think that trust misplaced.”
    â€œIt is not misplaced, my lady,” said the Chronicler.
    Leta saw Lady Mintha draw herself up even taller than she was already. Even from this position, where she could not see her face, Leta could guess at the expression of command Mintha wore. It was an expression as much a part of the Gaheris family line as their coat of arms or insignia.
    â€œYou are loyal to Earl Ferox,” Mintha said. “May you prove equally loyal to his heir.”
    She turned then toward the door, and Leta only just had time to dart into the shadows along the wall and crouch there, cowering, before Mintha swept past, her robes flowing behind her like battle standards. She did not look to the right or left but moved swiftly down the passage, as though, having accomplished her important deed, she now fled some evil goblin’s den.
    Leta waited until she was quite certain Mintha had gone before she crept back to the door. Her gaze went first to the desk, where she expected the Chronicler to be seated. He was not there, however, so she glanced about and found him instead standing by one of the windows, his small frame nearly hidden in the lower shadows. The afternoon light struck his pale face and his fair hair.
    â€œChronicler?” Leta said quietly, half afraid to be heard.
    He turned. His face was now mostly hidden from the light, but she saw the curve of his cheek, half his mouth, and one eye. It was bright. Too bright and glassy.
    â€œWhat is it?” Leta wanted to hasten across the room to him but did not dare. So she hung back in the doorway, helpless. “Are you unwell?”
    His face was stricken and silence enveloped him. But it was not the Wall she had come to expect from him. This silence sparked with energy, like rubbed wool on a cold morning bites at an unwary hand.
    â€œPlease,” Leta said, desperate to break the tension of that stillness. “Please, tell me.”
    He opened his mouth but remained unspeaking a frozen moment. Then he said, “Earl Ferox is dying.”
    Tears spilled over onto his cheeks.
    Leta felt her heart stop, then begin to beat a wild rhythm in her breast. She said nothing aloud, but both sides of her mind, practical and rebellious, clamored at once in her head.
    So that’s who you are, Chronicler.

    Every night, he heard the voices crying out from the crypt.
    Open the gate! Let us out!
    They were his ancestors, Earl Ferox thought as he lay and gasped for air upon his sickbed. The cold of autumn nights penetrated the heavy curtains of his great bed like icy, ghostly fingers pressing through to caress his gray cheeks. His breath steamed the air before his face no matter how high they piled the fur rugs across his wasted frame, no matter how bright his servant kept the