Kwestor returned late to their room. The prince snored softly on his bed. A wine bottle and the two plates from dinner stood empty on the washstand near three burning candles. Muce sat on one of the other beds with some paper and a pen in his hands and a small bottle of ink close by. “I’m writing to my mom,” he said quietly.
The young man’s ability to write, and presumably read, surprised Kwestor. Muce did not strike him as the literate type, but he did not comment on it. Instead, he nodded at the sleeping form of the prince. “It seems as if his father is preparing for war.”