Ry? was gone. Because Koszmar had been brave enough to die and let them run, and because Lukasz didn’t know if he could do the same. But whatever the reason, all Lukasz wanted was to pull her in. To pry her hands away. To finish what they both knew had started on a rotten riverbank in a different lifetime, before he had known how much he cared.
But he didn’t pull her in. He didn’t finish it. He couldn’t. Not now. Not like this.
“I can’t,” he said. “I don’t know if it’s going to be okay.”
“I know.” Her voice caught. “I know.”
She cried quietly, settling her cold wet hair under his chin. And he didn’t get used to having her in his arms, and he didn’t say anything else, and he didn’t make promises he couldn’t keep.
Years ago, he had stood in the shadow of dead brothers and sworn not to die, not like this, not out here, not in the service of guilt and ghosts and a Golden Dragon. But tonight his mind was burned, his veins were black, his arms were full with the creature he loved, and tonight at least, he was still human.
For the first time in twenty-one years, Lukasz prayed for death.
30
THE SKY TURNED GRAY WITH dawn. The horses stood in the rain, grazing on moss. Lukasz’s saddle glimmered in the damp dark green. Koszmar’s saddle was plain black leather, with a W inside a crown embossed on the skirt. Czarn, maybe seeking the company of animals, lay at their feet.
Felka felt terrible for him. Her eyes burned. She felt terrible for all of them.
They had all lost someone. All of them, from Ren to Lukasz to Jakub.
Why are you here? Koszmar had asked, smirking.
I was born, she’d said sarcastically. Unfortunately.
She had never appreciated it before, but there were advantages to being alone. Felka was eighteen years old, and she had never lost anyone in her life. Not that she had ever had anyone in her life, either. But there were worse things than being alone.
Please, he’d said. Just take it.
Felka wiped at her cheeks. This was worse than being alone. She wrapped Koszmar’s Wrony greatcoat around her shivering shoulders. She wished she’d kept his gun. Somehow, a weapon seemed more representative of who he’d been.
“Where is the queen?” asked Jakub.
He rose from across the glowing coals and brought her a mug of coffee.
“With Lukasz,” said Felka, adding: “You’re bleeding.”
Jakub had a cut above his remaining eye, and there was blood crusted down his cheek. He rubbed ineffectively at it for a moment, before Felka raised her arm and—feeling mechanical—used the damp sleeve to wipe it away.
“Thank you,” he said.
Felka smiled, then looked down at her coffee.
For a moment, neither of them knew what to say.
A twig snapped. Jakub’s hand closed on the hatchet. Felka twisted around. But it was only Ren, materializing from the trees. She was soaking wet, her hair plastered to her neck and shoulders. Between the wet hair and the shadows under her cheekbones, she looked less like a terrible queen and more like the drowned heroine of some tragic fairy tale.
Czarn did not stir.
“Here.” Felka removed her coat and wrapped it around Ren. Then she put the coffee in Ren’s hands, and behind her, Jakub began making a second pot. “Sit down.”
She did not ask if Ren was okay. She knew she wasn’t. None of them were.
Ren’s eyes were rimmed in red. Her lashes were stuck together. She looked different, thought Felka. She wasn’t sure how, but she looked different.
At last, Czarn rose. He padded across the campsite and laid his head across her knees. Ren gave this sad, twisted sort of smile that threatened to break into tears, and put a hand on his head. He sighed, and Felka missed being alone.
Jakub brought more coffee and handed one mug to Felka. Moving a little stiffly, he sat down next to Ren. The dawn paled to a lighter shade of gray. Over Ren’s shoulder, Felka noticed Lukasz returning. He, too, was soaking wet. His easy, slightly uneven stride took him to Król’s side, and he unhitched the rifle from the saddle. He looked better than she did.
Then again, he’d been on hunts before. He’d lost brothers before.
“What was her name?” asked Ren at last.
No one spoke.
“Your daughter,” Ren repeated. “What was her name?”
Lukasz was still standing near Król, one arm crooked over his saddle. He weighed his rifle in his other hand, tossing and catching it slightly. He looked restless.