fur collars. Eryk descended the stairs, light glancing off his sweaty hair, illuminating the blood smeared across one cheek. The crowd parted like water. The conversation quieted. Even the chandelier seemed to dim.
For a moment, Lukasz could see it. Fear. It was thick. And then he realized suddenly the soldier in front of him wasn’t afraid of them.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
The soldier smiled. It was slow, lazy, and too cold to warm his eyes.
“Seweryn,” he said.
“Lukasz,” said Eryk, approaching. “Let me help. Hey—why didn’t you order pierogi? I’m starved—”
Lukasz was quiet as they gathered their drinks and ordered their food. Eryk clearly was starving, because he asked for mushroom, rabbit, and onion, and three orders of Rusz-style pierogi, which were filled with potatoes and cheese and fried instead of boiled. They also ordered kielbasa and bigos, and barszcz for Eliasz.
And for the first time, Lukasz saw Eryk the way they must have seen him. Streaked with blood and sweat, smelling like mountain air and savagery.
They carried their food back upstairs and settled in.
“Who was that soldier you were talking to?” asked Eryk, diving into a plate of pierogi. He had some cream on the end of his nose that he still hadn’t noticed. Lukasz watched him without eating, and Eryk continued: “He looked like one of those peacocks from the botanical gardens.”
Micha? guffawed and then winced.
“No one,” muttered Lukasz, picking at the kielbasa.
“Don’t trutht him,” cautioned Eliasz.
“I don’t,” rejoined Lukasz.
For some reason, he found himself thinking of the Kwiat library. Raf playing with the dola and the librarians shooting them dirty looks. Now he suddenly wondered if it hadn’t been disdain at all.
Had it been fear?
“Listen,” said Micha?. “This is a lot. Being one of us. Being you. Killing that Faustian, being famous. Now you’ve killed the ?ywern, too. People are going to try to change you. Just don’t forget who you are, all right? Don’t forget you’re a Wolf-Lord.”
In Kwiat, they’d given them money, but they hadn’t invited them into their homes. The king had given them a commission, but he hadn’t offered them the famous black Wrony coats.
“They’re scared of us,” said Lukasz. “They think we’re animals.”
Eliasz took a sip of vodka and winced. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and returned to his barszcz.
“Who cares what they think?” asked Micha?, sounding incredulous. “Lukasz, it doesn’t matter.”
A bronze dragon skull hung on the far wall of the room. It had probably once belonged to a minor Faustian. The Wolf-Lords had collected bones, he suddenly remembered. Lashed them into monstrous decorations, hung the halls of Hala Smoków in the corpses of their kills.
How are we not savage?
“The Mountainth are our home,” said Eliasz. “Thooner or later, we have to go back.”
We’re exiles, Raf had said.
He’d seen it, in Rafa?’s eyes. He’d seen how much his brother had missed Hala Smoków. Missed the Mountains they all talked about. Missed the wolves. Missed the wooden lodges and solitude. Missed their home.
Lukasz put down his plate.
But it was not his home. He’d cut his teeth on broadswords and he’d tracked dragons by smoke alone. He had been raised by the road, by the hunt, and by that magic kind of desperation, unique to strangers stranded in hostile words.
Lukasz looked from face to face. The candlelight flickered between them. From scar to missing teeth. From half-shaved head to bloody beard. Lukasz memorized them in the half-light.
“Don’t do it,” he said. “Please, don’t do it. Don’t go back.”
The others were silent.
“It’s our duty,” said Micha? heavily. “We don’t belong here. We owe it to our people.”
“What about your brothers?” demanded Lukasz. “What about us? You can’t keep leaving. What happens when we’re all dead—?”
“Lukasz—” started Eryk.
“We won’t die,” interrupted Eliasz.
“We survived a ?ywern,” said Micha?.
“Only after it practically killed both of you!” protested Lukasz. “Come on, we could stay here. If you’d just try—”
Micha? looked sad. The purple cut undulated and twisted in the shadows.
“Don’t go,” whispered Lukasz. “Please.”
“They’re calling,” said Micha?. “I’m sorry.”
If you were sorry, you wouldn’t go.
“You’ve been hurt,” said Lukasz. “Anything could happen.”
“More of a reathon to go.” Eliasz shrugged. “Anything could happen.”
19
“DO YOU SMELL THAT?” ASKED Ren, wrapping her cloak tightly against the cold.
Felka passed her one of the tin mugs of coffee.
“Smell what?”
“Smoke,” she said. And dew, she thought. And that particular smell—a smell she knew too well—of damp leaves burning. High above them, green boughs blocked out the sky.
Felka shook her head.
“I don’t smell anything.”
Morning mist, thin and low to the ground,