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Tyr waited for his heart to slow, for the heat to drain from his cheeks, before returning his focus to the mysterious translation.
I have never seen my grandmother so alarmed. Sometimes I’ll catch Grandfather holding her, in complete and utter silence, and it terrifies me. The matter of the missing Ravenwoods is awful enough, but it’s her reaction that tells me we have a much bigger problem on our hands than I can wrap my mind around.
What can it mean? I know not. Yet I have heard her whisper a name you’ll recognize.
Mortain.
But that cannot be, can it? For the Mortain you speak of is from the time of our fathers, but Grandmother speaks of him as though he is quite a bit older than she. Are there more than one? Is her Mortain different than ours? He must be, unless the rumors about the Meduwyn are true, but though my mind is open to all possibilities, immortal sorcerers are far-fetched, even for me.
One thing I know for certain: Grandmother is terrified of him. Of what he might do. Of what he may have already done.
How are these matters connected? I don’t know, but I intend to find out. But please, do not go snooping around Duncarrow, Par. Whoever—whatever—Mortain is, he’s powerful enough to make the strongest woman I know quake with fear.
Please, please convince your grandfather to visit! I would love to see Onkel Octavyen, but mostly, I am dying to see you again. There are some things I cannot say in writing, even in code.
With love, Zo
Rikard leaped onto the table with a pebbly grunt. His tail twitched as he circled the letters in ruffled suspicion.
“You must have seen who it was, eh, boy?” Tyr gave him a loving stroke.
The mouser lifted his chin for more.
“It’s too bad you can’t speak.”
Rikard rumbled a dark meow.
“Or maybe I’d rather not know what you’re thinking.”
This little one carries the world in his heart,Ana had said once.Don’t you, Riki?
Ana was the only one who had ever spoken to Rikard like he was on her level. There were times Tyr suspected the mouser might follow her home one night and leave him for good. But it was Ana who had left.
She’s in deep trouble.The thought swept through him like a gale.
“Yeah, well, I came to the Cross to get away from trouble, didn’t I, Rik? And you can’t help someone who doesn’t want it. Someone who doesn’t wantme.”
Tyr carefully rolled the letters and tucked them away in what he’dthoughtwas a pretty savvy hiding spot. There wasn’t a better option in his modest cabin, unless he built yet another cubby. But he didn’t have time to solve the problem.
Rikard meowed from the door.
“All right, all right, I’m coming.”
Ana handed Varradyn the warm mug. He accepted it with a pitiful smile and sipped with his eyes closed. She leaned in, turning her head to the side, for a careful re-fastening of his cloak, the only thing covering his nudity below the waist. Until Magda removed the shackles around his feet, it was the best Ana could do for him.
Varradyn held the mug aloft in reluctant thanks. His dark eyes glazed over, aimed toward some distant spot beyond where Ana was crouched before him.
Two weeks Ana had been visiting him, and he’d said next to nothing. She came when she knew Magda was sleeping—or pretending to sleep, as she didn’t believe for a moment the koldyna had the same needs as men and women—to ensure he had food and drink. She feared Magda was slowly starving the raven to death, a concern Varradyn himself had expressed on an earlier visit. He didn’t know why he was still there at all, he’d said, perhaps not realizing the odds of him ever flying away from the observatory were grim.
Magda must still have had some use for him. Whatever it was, the koldyna hadn’t shared it—or anything—with Ana. There’d been no further talk of Ana bedding the raven, nor requests for her to “endeavor” back to the Rookery for another raven.
She should feel relieved, but she feared Magda’s silence more.
Ana rose to her feet. She crossed her arms and stared at the tea kettle, still hanging in the hearth. Tyreste would be awake by then and had likely come across the translated letter, puzzling over its existence. Did he suspect his new friend, “Nessa”? Next time she slipped in to help him, would he be awake, waiting to catch her in the act?
Now that she’d read Zofia Wynter’s desperate appeal to her cousin, her heart pounding so hard she’d thought for sure it would have roused Tyreste, there was nothing in the world that could keep her away from reading the rest.
How had Tyreste even come across such a hoard? And what had it to do with the horrors Magda was inflicting upon the Ravenwoods?
