Ren snorted. The return of his sarcasm was a good sign. He helped her buckle the sword around her shoulders.
“And then after that?” She glanced around at the clearing. “What then?”
Lukasz grinned, his teeth not quite coming together.
“I suppose I go back to the Mountains.” He shrugged, then added casually, “And you marry one of these rich nobles.”
“I’m not marrying a rich noble,” said Ren, crossing her arms. “I’m marrying you.”
He laughed and rubbed his eyes.
“You know I’m the one who’s supposed to propose, right?” he asked.
She considered the idea and then dismissed it. After all, it was her queendom.
“No.” She shook her head. “I think I will.”
Lukasz took the last step toward her and put an arm around her waist.
“I love you,” he said, and grinned.
He pushed the cap back on his head and pulled her close. She wrapped her arms around his neck. High in the sky above them, she was faintly aware of the Dragon circling among the white clouds.
“I love you, too,” she whispered.
“Who the hell are you?” interrupted the king.
Lukasz leaned away. He turned toward the king. In the background, the Wolf-Lords watched with interest.
“Lukasz Smoków,” he said. “Brygada Smoka. And I’m going to marry your daughter.”
Epilogue
THEY BURIED FRANCISZEK AT DAWN, under the watchful gaze of the Moving Mountains, just beyond the great wooden gate, a stone’s throw from the lodge where he had been born, the lodge he had not seen again before his death.
Out from under the wooden beams of the church they came, hefting the casket on uniformed shoulders. Down through the winding streets, snow scattering like faint dust under their feet, while from the windows the mountain folk watched. And then they came, too. In black flats and white jackets and skirts with green embroidery, they came; from under eaves, from taking down washing, from feeding horses and stringing herbs from kitchen rafters. And beyond the houses, with footfalls pattering like rain, came the wolves.
Before long they were all standing in the cool air, with the gate behind them and the Mountains ahead. Lukasz stood with his brothers, all of them now clad in Wrony uniforms. Nine brothers in the black of the Brygada Smoka. Nine black figures against the white jackets and blouses, against the embroidery and flowers, nine shadows in an otherwise perfect morning. Nine black horses stood in the hills beyond. No photographers attended this gathering of Wolf-Lords. No interviews were given.
Prayers were said. As one, the mountain folk and the soldiers made the sign of the cross.
“We shall be buried in the shadow of the Mountains,” finished Lord Tadeusz the Elder, with his gray-and-black beard and his Faustian fur and chain mail. “Beneath the blessings of wolves.”
A cry swelled around them all, encircled them, sank through their skin and echoed in their veins.
“When a wolf cries in the day,” whispered Felka, in Ren’s ear, “it is for a Wolf-Lord.”
Ren didn’t respond. She and Felka stood near the back of the crowd, with Jakub and his daughter. They had been the only outsiders invited, and a very small, very selfish part of her wished the Wolf-Lords hadn’t been so generous. The streets reminded her of the fact that Lukasz had almost died, and the brothers reminded her of Franciszek’s bloodied body, and the fresh cool air reminded her of glass and starlight and the songs of domowiki.
Someone squeezed her hand, and Ren realized it was Felka. Then she realized she was crying.
She watched, from their distance, as Franciszek was laid down in the Mountains that had called him back. They watched, from their distance, as each of the brothers stepped to the graveside to bid their brother farewell.
Lukasz leaned down from his great height and placed something in the grave. Gold glittered in his hand, and she squeezed her eyes shut, hoping to push back the tears. Lukasz stood back up, gaunt but dry-eyed.
Lukasz had thought of the gift. The Leszy had cast the glass. A melted dragon scale had served as the frame. A pair of spectacles, for the scholar who had died at war.
Afterward, Felka and Jakub took Anja to explore the Mountains with Czarn. The brothers followed their parents up to the great lodge, and although Lukasz had invited Ren, she had refused.
“They wouldn’t mind,” he’d said, almost pleadingly. He’d looked so different in this bright sunlight: freshly shaven, hair trimmed and pushed back neatly under his army cap. “You’re family, Ren.”