You sit in a swaying cabin of oil-black wood, you have been for days now. A man puts a copper tray on the table in front of you, his white skin and milk-blond hair in stark contrast to the black of the room. On the platter are an envelope and a cup. The envelope is stamped with wax, bearing the calligraphic mark of the Castle on the Red Road. It also says:
To the eyes and hands of Lady Edmyr of the Black Stag Banner
You open the envelope and read the following:
I am sorry, my Dearest Beloved Daughter,
I could not let you go. Not yet. You had such a bright future ahead of you. I could not let death take that away from you, and you away from me. When the Black Stag’s Lord Wyrda asked for your hand in marriage, I could not refuse. You know that Stygian lords only offer a marriage proposal to the already dead.
Their deadworkers can do miracles. If you now read this, you have already experienced this first hand. I know, our people shun the Stygian practices but this was the only way I could see you again. Please understand, it broke my heart to think of you rotting and crumbling away in the ground. I did not mean to see you as white bones. Our country is still mourning.
I sincerely hope that spending your days on a ship-city atop the Stygian waters is not terribly bleak. In this moment, you might resent me for my decision but with time you, I hope, will come to accept and, perhaps, appreciate your present state. Better to be a dreadwife to a reputable Stygian lord. Your mother supported this decision.
I assume you do not remember the way in which you perished. It all happened so fast. It hurts, even now, to think of it. Seeing your fragile body thrown off that horse so violently. That mare was one of your favorites, probably because it was so full of vigor but we should have known that it was a violent beast. Do not worry, it has been taken care of.
Do you remember, you used to daydream about the princes you would marry once you are older? You were almost marrying age. Alas, you could not grow at least a little more. In the company of your mother, I will attend your wedding. A ship’s worth of gold and rugs will be your dowry. And a present will be prepared personally for you, which might lighten your moods.
Eager for your loving embrace,
Duke Vermay, Protector of the Red Road
Penned in the 11540th year under These Illuminated Skies, on the 32nd day of the Cat, at the Castle on the Red Road.
In the cup is a steaming liquid, dark and menacing. It is a brew called the dew of the dead. A potent poison and conserving agent. It should be horribly bitter but your sense of taste is fading by the day.