Jakub Rybak’s beard had grown down to his chest, where it tangled with his long, matted hair. What remained of his face was oddly distorted, with the last shreds of an eyelid fluttering over an empty left socket. His mouth didn’t close properly over his teeth. Five gaping scars ran from his left temple to his right jaw.
It was as if an animal had spread out its claws and dealt him a single, raking blow.
“Finished?”
Only then did Lukasz realize he was staring.
Rybak turned and disappeared back into the house. Lukasz glanced back toward Koszmar. He wasn’t sure why he did it—maybe because he was so used to seeing Franciszek? Maybe the sight of Rybak’s face—the reminder of Henryk, of the basilisk—maybe for a moment, he’d forgotten. Maybe he’d forgotten his brothers couldn’t possibly be standing with him.
Maybe he’d forgotten they were dead.
“Go ahead,” said Koszmar. “I’ll be right behind you.”
When Lukasz didn’t move, Koszmar twitched open his coat to reveal two expensive revolvers holstered at either side.
“Have a little faith, Lieutenant.”
Lukasz unslung the rifle from his shoulder and followed Rybak inside.
Despite the rain and the mist, the interior was dry as bones. The floor buckled and crackled under his feet. It was baking hot, warmed by a fire roaring in the hearth. Beside the fire, oblivious to the heat, the white eagle was now settled on her perch. The air tasted rough. And when Lukasz steadied himself on an overhead beam, he was taken aback by how crisp it felt.
And the parchment.
There was parchment everywhere. Parchment piled on the three-legged table, spread across the windowsills, sitting in stacks in a washbasin caked in brown dust. Covered in spidery ink, sheets of it hung on rows of clotheslines strung across the kitchen. Lukasz was already too tall for the house; he had stoop to almost half his height because of the pages, illuminated and semitranslucent in the firelight.
Quite unnecessarily, in Lukasz’s opinion, Jakub Rybak stoked the hearth until the fire roared. He was barefoot, in nothing but trousers, and judging by the smell, he had not washed since Lukasz had last seen him six years ago.
“Welcome,” said Rybak, without turning around.
Lukasz did not feel especially welcome.
He glanced sideways at Koszmar, whose hand was on his hip, resting very close to the gun.
“It’s, um . . .” Lukasz searched for the right word. The house smelled overwhelmingly of soot and sweat. “It’s, um, very . . .”
“Flammable,” provided Koszmar.
The loose pages were densely packed with text, all in the same cramped writing. Poorly drawn pictures. Clumsy-looking maps. Should have asked Jarek, Lukasz thought. Then: Did Jarek come here?
A worse thought:
Did Franciszek come here?
Lukasz looked at Rybak sharply and realized that the single eye was fixed on his burned hand. For a moment, he wondered if there was something there. A bond that went beyond blood and betrayal. After all, ugliness was a lonely state.
Then Rybak asked, “Finally learned to read, have you?”
No. No bond.
“You can’t read?” Koszmar looked up from fiddling through some pages on the mantelpiece.
Lukasz ignored him. He told himself that he couldn’t care less what Koszmar thought. He’d slain dragons at fourteen years old, for God’s sake. Who gave a damn if he couldn’t read?
“How did you know that?” he asked as levelly as he could. “How did you know I can’t read?”
Rybak tugged a shirt and a coat off a chair. The coat was long and had once been ivory, with black embroidery. Lukasz recognized it.
“Your brother told me,” said Rybak.
Koszmar had gone very still and was watching them both intently.
“When was Franciszek here?” Lukasz asked at last.
“Six weeks ago,” said Jakub.
Lukasz sank down at the table.
Franciszek had probably sat at this very table mere weeks before. Lukasz ran a hand over his face. Franciszek’s spectacles would have been sparkling on the end of his nose and his hair would have been neatly pulled back, and he’d have shared a drink with this one-eyed monstrosity and calmly planned his road through the forest.
Lukasz rested his forehead in one hand and asked, “What did he say?”
“He asked for his notebook back,” said Rybak. “It had a map to the Mountains.”
Of course, Lukasz realized. Franciszek had been taking notes for as long as he’d been able to write. The bank vault in Miasto was filled with every volume he’d ever filled, going back ten years. Well, every volume except for one.
The one they’d given to Jakub Rybak.
“Notebook?” asked Koszmar, firelight flickering off his