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“Fortunately for you, I’m not wrong.” Ludya almost smiled. “Unfortunately for you, I have seen many threads, and I can neither predict which one you will take nor advise you which one is right. I can only remind you that the future has not yet been decided.Youhave the power to decide, but you will almost certainly have to face this alone.” She gestured toward the doors. “Perhaps a visit to the kyschun will give you needed perspective.”
“The archivists?” Ana asked, falling into step beside her. “Why them?”
Ludya leaned closer and whispered, “They might possess the perspective you seek with those letters you stole.”
It took four guards to open the doors, an arduous effort producing a deep, yawning groan. Ludya nodded for her to go ahead, observing the deference they both ignored in private.
“What if they’re under her spell too?” Ana asked before ascending the steps.
“Wouldn’t you rather know for sure than wonder?”
Ana hesitated. “Ludya, do you truly not know where they sent Niko?”
“Nien, I do not,” Ludya said. “But I feel him. Here.” She folded both of her hands toward her heart. “Wherever he is, he is safe. For now. I do not have to tell you it will not always be so. Shewilluse him. Not as she uses you. She will turn him into a weapon, theonlyweapon effective on a heart as true as yours. But Nikolaj is not her prize. Arkhady is not her prize.”
“It surely cannot be me,” Ana said with an incredulous laugh.
“Go on,” Ludya said when she noticed a guard watching them too closely. “I’ve left several of your favorite teas in your apartments, just the way you like them.”
Tyr ransacked his cabin, turning over every piece of furniture and lifting every loose floorboard. He looked under rugs, shook out his blankets, and climbed a chair to check the rafters. The stove he saved for last, worrying the culprit had burned them. Most of the translations he worked on were copies, to account for mishaps, but that was not so with the letters.I didn’t dare create more,Sesto had said, just before Tyr had watched them ride away.
Tyr found no evidence in the ashes of the hearth either, but he shuffled quickly from relief into a deeper fear than he’d felt in years. Not since the Westerlands.
He didn’twantto share Asterin and Sesto’s paranoia, but what else explained the false translations? The stolen letters? Hundreds of years they’d survived just fine, and as soon as they were brought to Witchwood Cross, home of the Vjestik, they disappeared?
Maybe I left them in the tavern,he rationalized, though he hadn’t been taking them to work for weeks. But he wasn’t ready to cry surrender or admit they were gone. He should have found a better hiding spot the moment the first false translation had shown up on his table.
Rikard the Mouser watched him with his narrow yellow eyes, for once silent.
“Please, please, please,” he whispered as he stormed off in the direction of the tavern. The party would have ended, making it easier to search, but another terrible thought struck him. What if the culprit had beenatthe party? What if it was someone he knew, someone he trusted?
But the list of people who spoke Vjestikaan and who also knew he had the letters in his possession was nonexistent. The last translations might have been forgeries, but the first wasn’t.
“Tyreste?” Fransiska looked up from stacking barrels behind the tavern. She dusted her apron off and frowned. “You left early tonight.”
“I had something to do.” He grimaced and reached for the door, but she put a hand over his and stopped him. A familiar look snared him from the side. “It was hard, is all. Saying good-bye.”
Fransiska tilted her head sideways. “Of course. Oh, of course, Tyreste. I was so consumed with planning that I didn’t stop to think...” She sighed and shook her shoulders. “Can I make you some tea? With a blot of honey, the way you like it?”
Nothing sounded better than his mother’s perfectly made tea, but if he didn’t find the letters, he would lose his mind. “Later, Mama.” He smiled to show her he was fine. “You didn’t happen... you or Father... to find some of my work lying around, did you?”
“Your translations?” Fransiska cast her eyes sideways in thought. “No, darling. You’re usually quite fastidious about your little side business. I never see you leave any behind.”
Your little side businesswas how his mother described anything that wasn’t taverning. Agnes’s knitwork, lucrative enough to help fund an entire renovation the year before, washer little side business.Evert’s efforts redesigning local shops to withstand the winds of Icebolt, the work that had earned him his coveted apprenticeship, washis little side business.
Tyr nodded and smiled, waiting to see the distress leave his mother’s face.
“Don’t forget your cat!” she called—wholly unnecessary, for his mouser had already strolled past him, headed for the tavern proper.
Rikard and Agnes were hustling around the back room like angry bees.
“I hope you’ve come to help,” Rikard barked, carrying a precarious stack of dishes to the basin. “Pern and Evert already left. Father is I don’t know where, and Addy disappeared about an hour ago.”
Tyreste drew a deep breath and looked around. He never did translations in the back because of all the grease and heat, but he had to rule it out. “I’ll help, but first I need to find something.”
“Your new girlfriend? She’s not here,” Agnes called from the cold room. She peeked her head out. “Isshe your girlfriend? She’s rather boring, no? Pretty, but...”
“Boring,” Rikard said in agreement as he dumped piles of bowls and mugs into the soapy water. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say it’s why you’re suddenly into her.” He grunted and wiped his face. “Nothing like the women you usually martyr yourself for.”
