To my dear brother Damod,
It is with grave urgency that I write this letter to you.
I hope you are well and remember me fondly, despite my detachment in recent times. As you know, my marriage to the ambitious Merkon was one of convenience and although he is not a man of poor looks, it was not love or admiration that brought us together, but the politics of two scheming families. Alas, I wish it were not so, for I am trapped in his tower now, imprisoned in my own home and I dare not speak out against my husband.
Lest you think I could act to save myself, allow me to explain the dire circumstance I find myself in. For the past three full moons, my husband has howled at the moon wearing a frightening shape and torn into livestock on the surrounding lands. He thinks I have not seen him, yet we live in the High Tower and I am stuck at the top most room which affords me a terrific view of the surrounding woods. Even his servants, the misshapen deformed and stinking green-skinned rejects (that I strongly suspect no one in their right mind would ever take on as staff) fear him. There is no assistance to be found here, not from one of them, for they are loyal, these disfigured slaves. Not even cousin Carmon can help me – for a month ago he tried to pay me visit, but my husband had has his weird servants bar his way with drawn weapons, and he was forced to turn aside. I am locked in this small room until I “learn obedience” and call this mad man of a husband “Master.”
I implore you to get me out of here, but do not come alone. Bring with you bodyguards in case his servants get nasty. Do not underestimate this possibility. I fear my husband greatly and you should too, but with help I hope you can rescue me.
I pray my pigeon finds his old home again and this message reaches you before the full moon, or… I dare not say what might happen to me.
Your sister,
Racel
Peter Steven King
