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I cross the short distance and deliver it to her. She unrolls the parchment and skims it briefly, before surprising me by asking, “How did you get this?”
“What do you mean? It was sent with Noé from D’heilar.”
“It’s not addressed to you.”
“What?” I hesitate. “How do you know that?”
“Because it’s addressed to Kharon, First Deve of the Bear Realm.”
Excuse me?“You’re sure?”
“Well, of course, I’m sure. It’s written right here.” She points to a line of squiggles.
“But our emblem is on the outside,” I counter.
She turns it over and brings the letter closer for a better look. “Is that what it is? A rendering of a mountain lion?”
Irritation begins to boil in my gut. “Well, it’s certainly not a bear.”
“No, I suppose not. Should I read it anyway?” she asks, sounding intrigued.
To her mind, that would be wrong? Because it’s not addressed to the correct person?“It wasn’tourmistake,” I say, the one chiding her now. “I have no doubt we should read it.”
She brightens. “Okay, then.” She clears her throat. “My dear friend,” she starts, then snorts. “Well, this wasn’t written by the King himself, that’s clear.”
At my frown, she clarifies. “My cousin has nodear friends. He has people who fear him or people who pander to him. That’s all.”
I scratch at my beard.She doesn’t have a favorable opinion of the King?
She goes back to her task. “I hope this letter finds you well. I would have you know that the whore has been sent north . . .” Her voice peters off as we realize she is thewhorebeing referenced.Definitely not a favorable opinion of each other, then.I watch her skim down the page, her obvious fury gaining ground until she reaches the bottom and crushes the parchment between her hands.
“What are you doing?” I demand, seizing it from her as she leans over to toss it onto the simmering coals in the brazier.
Throwing the fur off her shoulders, she stands and tries to snatch it back, but I lift it over my head. “You will burn that immediately!” she orders.
“I will do no such thing! What does it say?”
“That repulsive, parasitic sycophant. That swiving, rat bastard. That disgusting –”
Some of the words she spews I know intimately, the others I can guess at by their context. “Who?” I interrupt her tirade. “The King?”
Her rage-filled tone matches her expression perfectly as she spits, “No. Not the King. Mattice Dulat.”
The name rings a vague bell, but I’m forced to ask, “And he is?”
“A monster.” Her hand presses to her side where the burn marks mar her skin.
“He did that to you?” I ask, shock hitting me like a sledgehammer.“Who is he?”
Her only response is to glower at the letter that’s still held out of her reach. When it becomes obvious that I’m not going to let her destroy it, she retreats to the other side of the brazier where I see she has her other fur again arranged on the floor.
“No,” I say, taking hold of her arm. “First you’ll answer my questions.”
I swing her back around and am caught completely off guard as she thumps me on the chest with her little fist. “Let go of me!”
I tsk. “Settle down.” But she has the nerve to hit me again, twice, forcing me to drop the letter to capture her wrists. This only incites her to fight harder.
“Let me go,” she shrieks, yanking against my hold. “Let go! Let go! Let go!”
