Theoran read the first line twice, which was not encouraging.
I watched his eyes go down the page, stop, and start again, and I shifted Dream Haven higher behind my back. A royal seal on expensive paper, marked for immediate delivery. Nothing about the envelope suggested peace, which turned out to be ironic.
"Bad?"
"No."
"That took too long."
Theoran ignored me. He reached the bottom of the page and laid it on the desk.
"The peace treaty with the western beastkin territories is ready for formal signing."
I stopped moving. Not much, but Theoran saw it.
"When?"
"Three weeks."
For years people had talked about the treaty as something that might happen eventually. Negotiations, border talks, trade routes, prisoner exchanges, recognition of territory: the words adults used when they wanted several years of arguing to sound organized. Now, apparently, someone had finished arguing.
"Three weeks," I repeated.
"Yes."
"That's soon."
