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“That’s done.” Tyreste’s voice broke. He downed more ale. “She can’t help.”
“Sorry to hear that, Tyreste,” Asterin said slowly, watching him. Eventually his gaze traveled back to the pouch. “Is there no one for hire? No local you trust, who would keep your secrets?”
“If there was, is it safe to show them whatever is inside?”
Asterin nodded to himself, thinking. “It’s not safe to show anyone until we know what the letters say, and once we do, it may be even less safe.”
“Letters? Between whom?” Tyreste asked.
“A young woman and a young man,” Sesto answered. “The letters are two hundred years old, or more. My Old Ilynglass is still rather spotty, but my rough translation tells me the letter writer from Duncarrow was a young man writing to his cousin here in Witchwood Cross. As for her identity, well, she was a Wynter. That much Icouldread.”
Even the name, Wynter, was a blow. Tyreste squinted, to expel the way Anastazja’s blonde waves felt sifting through his fingers. She’d raced out of his life with a quickness, but there was no escaping her. “What’s the connection between Duncarrow and Witchwood Cross?”
“Two hundred and fifty years ago, Drazhan Wynter traveled to Duncarrow to guard one of their princesses, Imryll of Glaisgain. Instead, he fell in love with her and brought her home to Witchwood Cross. All Wynters since descend from these two.” Sesto shrugged. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard the tale, living here. Drazhan and Imryll are legends in the north, as I hear it.”
“It’s starting to sound familiar.” Now he remembered. Though the account was chronicled inTheBook of All Thingschapter for the Northerlands, the matter of the runaway princess had been erased entirely from the Rhiagain chapters. A proper royal embarrassment. “Why do we care about letters between cousins?”
With a cautious glance at the half-gone men on the other side of the tavern floor, Asterin leaned in. “Has there been any trouble with the Ravenwoods?”
Tyreste flinched. “The Ravenwoods? What kind of trouble?”
“You tell us,” Sesto said.
“I wouldn’t know if there was. It isn’t as if the ravens eat in our taverns or buy from our markets.” Tyreste scratched through the stubble on his cheek. When he’d moved to Witchwood Cross, he’d harbored an elaborate fantasy about the Ravenwoods being completely integrated into society with men. The opposite had proven true, and as far as he knew, they never came down from their mountain keep at all. “Can’t say I’ve ever seen one beyond the skies. If I have, I didn’t know it.”
“No rumors of problems? Nothing out of the ordinary?” Asterin probed.
“Like I said, I wouldn’t know. No one here would. They don’t come down from their little mountain fiefdom unless they have to.” As he’d said it,no one here would,he realized there were some who might. One in particular… whose family had a long-standing alliance with the Ravenwoods, and whose ancestor was one of the letter writers.
Always fucking Ana.
“Could be nothing,” Asterin said, sitting back. “These letters are two hundred years old, after all, and whatever troubles were bothering the cousins might belong in the past with them.”
Tyreste tilted his head. “And yet you wouldn’t have traveled for weeks, in treacherous conditions, if you believed that. So why? Why do these letters matter to you now?”
“Because Icanread some of the Duncarrow lad Paeris’s words, enough to wonder...” Sesto glanced to the side. “If there isn’t some nefarious business between Duncarrow and the ravens. The kind that transcends time.”
“Transcends time? What does that even mean, Sesto?”
“The Meduwyn,” he whispered. “The Rhiagain sorcerers.”
Tyreste folded his arms and flopped back with a laugh. “Sorcerer is a colorful way of saying they have magic, just like a third of the kingdom does. They’re not the immortal, all-powerful beings people like to whisper about, you know.”
Asterin wasn’t smiling, nor laughing. “Mortain. Oldwin. Recognize those names?”
Tyreste didn’t answer. Of course he recognized them. They were known throughout the kingdom as the king’s henchmen. Hissorcerers,used to shock and subdue crown enemies.
“Their names, Tyreste, arein these letters.” Asterin poked the stack with his finger. “Two-hundred-year-old letters.”
“If they’re not immortal, they certainly have some sort of arrangement, don’t they?” Sesto said more than asked.
Tyreste cleared his expression. His thoughts he left tucked away, not wanting them to interfere with whatever Asterin and Sesto were about to say next. “All right. I agree, that’s strange.”
Sesto rolled his eyes toward Asterin. “Strange.”
“There are probably other sorcerers with the same names. A lot of men are named after their fathers and grandfathers.”
“There are always explanations, if we’re determined enough to believe only what’s convenient,” Asterin said slowly. “Sesto couldn’t decipher much, but he read enough to be concerned. Enough to realize...” His voice lowered to a whisper again. “Something terrible was going on then, and if the same perpetrators are around, having outlived those who knew what foul business they were up to, why would it not be happening now?”
