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She moved to the window and the light, to read, but her face registered her confusion. Clutching the letters to her chest with one hand, she turned and signed with the other,Is this Vjestikaan?
Some of it.
She shifted the letters under one arm to free up her other hand.How are you going to translate a language you cannot read, silly?
They’re not all in Vjestikaan.
Addy squinted and turned her focus back to the stack. She held the letters close as she sifted through, shooting wary looks at Tyr every few seconds.Some are in Old Ilynglass.
Indeed.
From a boy named...Her eyes narrowed.Paeris of Glaisgain? Is he related to Imryll of Glaisgain?
How do you know about that?
My scholar from Books of All Things teaches us the histories of Witchwood Cross.
Don’t suppose he taught you some Vjestikaan?
Addy laughed.No more than the few words you know.
Her knowledge of the Wynters might prove useful, but until he grasped the seriousness of the correspondence, he didn’t want his little sister anywhere near them.
Can I stay? I won’t be in your way. Promise.
Tyr crossed his arms and fought the low groan brewing in his throat. He always tried not to make sounds that made her feel more excluded.If you mean that promise.
That’s what a promise is, brother.
Wouldn’t be the first time you broke one when mischief called.
She grinned.Can I pick a book from your library?
“Library” was generous. His collection consisted of a small shelf with a couple dozen books, all gifts from Asterin and Rhiain. Even with the coin he made from translations, he couldn’t afford to buy his own—and even if hecouldafford it, there were far more practical things to spend coin on.
Go on.
Addy scampered off and disappeared into the back room.
Tyr went back for his ale and settled into a chair. The uneven legs knocked along the floor. Rikard the Mouser sounded a long, grating meow before dropping in for another nap.
The letters were in chronological order, all dated. He studied the first, written by Zofia Wynter in Vjestikaan, decided he was no better at reading the language today than he had been the day before, and set it aside for the one underneath, from Paeris.
He went for his quill and ink but changed his mind. He’d read first, then transcribe everything later.
Tyr twisted in his chair, trying to get comfortable, and read.
Dearest Zo,
I know I should not complain about the precariousness of midwinter to you, living in your ice fortress, but this has been an especially vexing season. Ships cannot reach Duncarrow when the tide is so fickle, and so we’ve been subsisting on a ration of dried meats and fruits for the past month. I’ve forgotten the taste of fresh meat.
Tyr’s eyes, heavy from the long night, started to close. Translating in his mind was taxing, and he was nearly spent. He blinked hard and pushed through, determined to finish at least one letter.
Mother has been unwell. Medicine offers little relief. I don’t understand why Mortain or Oldwin cannot heal her. They say it’s not in their charge, but I know they heal. I’ve seen it! I suspect they enjoy lording their power over us. Lest we ever forget they’re immortal, their sallow skin and soulless eyes are there to remind us.
Grandfather tells me never to say a foul word against either of them. More of a warning, really. He’s terrified of them both, but especially Mortain. He won’t say why. He thinks they can read his mind, and he’s likely right.
What does your grandmother say about the Meduwyn? Does she speak of her time in Duncarrow, when she was a princess? Or does she keep those thoughts to herself as well?
