Ithacles took the journal from Skandra with a polite nod. He wanted to snatch the thing and leave the room, but losing his composure only moments before had him cautious. It was his brother's, supposedly, and that meant it was more important to him than nearly anything.
He read it twice, his throat gripped in a dry crush. Obviously Pathacles had never meant anyone to see this. And he never could have known that he'd be dead so early, so soon after contemplating that final rest. And his brother would be reading ti years later, under such circumstances. Ithacles felt like he was intruding.
"I see no treason here," he murmured with gravel behind his tongue. He turned the page. "Always was too much of a poet, though."