Dragonwitch Read Online Free PDF Page B

greatest library in all the North Country, as befits the greatest earl.”
    Leta, turning to the voice once more, looked up and realized that there was more to this library than she had first seen. The ceiling opened above her into a loft, a whole second level to this marvelous chamber. She could see no light up there, and the speaker stood beyond her range of vision.
    Somehow, unable to see to whom she spoke, Leta felt emboldened. “You seem to take much pride in Earl Ferox’s possessions,” she said, tilting her head.
    â€œNaturally,” the speaker above her replied. “I copied many of them myself. Though they belong to the earl, they are a piece of me, and I alone can read them.”
    â€œAnd who are you, please?” she asked, moving around the table and straining for a glimpse.
    â€œI am the castle chronicler.”
    The voice was deep but also rather . . . dry, Leta decided. It was the voice of one who spent most of his time in shadows and dust. “Have you no name?” she asked. She heard his footsteps above and thought he moved to avoid her line of vision. He gave no answer, and after a few waiting moments, Leta no longer expected one. She turned back to the table andthe book with the illumination. Candlelight caught the colorful ink and made it shine.
    Once more she traced the letters written beneath. She spoke softly:
    â€œThe dark won’t hide the Path
    When you near the House of Light . . .”
    More footsteps creaked above, and the dry voice spoke again, this time with surprise. “Lights Above! Don’t tell me you can read.”
    Leta withdrew from the table and folded her arms beneath her long cloak. “No,” she said quickly. “Not I.” She felt as though the rest of her was folding up as well. Folding up into the tiny lump of insignificance she had always been.
    The thought made her angry, and the anger pushed her to speak again. “I am right though, aren’t I? This is about the House of Lights?”
    â€œIt is.”
    â€œA funny thing,” Leta continued, looking at the page but keeping her hands to herself, “writing down nursery rhymes. Are there not more important things to which you might turn your hand?”
    â€œAlways,” said the Chronicler. “But sometimes even a chronicler needs to indulge in the unessential.”
    Leta’s gaze ran over the lines and marks that flickered along with the candlelight. She had never been permitted into Aiven’s library unescorted, and the old chronicler who’d holed himself away in there chased women out as a terrier might chase rats. Leta could not recall the last time she had been so near a book.
    â€œAnd these marks and scratches,” she said, speaking softly, “come together to make what I said. To make the rhyme.” She shook her head, smiling in wonder. “That is magic, you know. And you are a wizard!”
    Silence above, then shifting feet.
    â€œMy father’s chronicler could not do this work,” she continued, looking from one page to the next to see the wealth of text held there. “Father says he can scarcely put three words to a page, but he’s the only man I’d ever met until now who could read or write.” She looked up into the shadows of the loft again. “Did you teach yourself?”
    â€œNo,” said the Chronicler. “I was apprenticed when quite young to Raguel, the former chronicler. When he died, I took over.”
    â€œDo you have a special gift? A magic that enables you to learn?”
    â€œAnyone can learn to read or write.” The voice was drier than ever. “Few bother to try. At Earl Ferox’s request, I am attempting to teach Lord Alistair. But he can’t be bothered to apply himself.”
    Leta felt cold suddenly, colder even than when she had stood in the great outer courtyard. “You don’t think much of my lord Alistair, then?”
    Once