to the lodge. They came out of their stables and stood in their yards. They were ghostly, silent. Black boots, white dresses. Green and red embroidered flowers. Red ribbons trailed from their thick black hair, and more long ribbons hung from their vests and skirts.
Ren thought they were more like specters than actual creatures. And if not specters, then at least spectators. Watching over the lives that had once started and ended here, within these wooden gates. Silent guardians, hanging in the rafters, peering out from under stairs that creaked at night. It was sad, she thought. They had watched this town end.
And now this.
Ren glanced at Lukasz. Next to the domowiki, he looked even more haggard than ever. She could only imagine what kind of memories attacked him, staring into the faces of so many long-gone souls.
Or worse: maybe there were no memories.
They mounted the steps to the lodge, dwarfed by the stone arches, by the windows and verandas. As on the gate, intricate carvings covered the woodwork. Lukasz paused at the top of the steps, ran a gloved hand over the red-gold wood. The whole of Hala Smoków was still, save for their own breathing and steadily pounding hearts. The sun broke over them, shone pale pink and gold on the snowdrifts clustered between the hand-carved railings.
“I was born here,” he whispered.
Perhaps it was the color of the wood or the unexpected warmth of the sun, but Ren said, “It’s beautiful.” Then she surprised herself by adding: “It’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.”
She meant it.
Lukasz put his other hand on the railing. He had his back to her, looking down at the town. The domowiki had turned toward them. Ren’s heart quickened again. They were so solid, substantial. No black misty smoke here. No skeletal transformations. They were like her.
He spoke again.
“I had forgotten it.”
They found the lodge’s single, immense door was already ajar. Every fresh gust of wind brought a fine sugaring of snow into the gloom beyond. Inside, with the absence of sight and sound, her sense of smell sharpened. There were the usual human things: fresh chopped wood, frost, and mildew. But she also smelled the things only animals could smell: cobwebs and old dust, gold and tears, and permeating it all, the overwhelming, bitter smell of grief.
The hall was octagonal, with each side vaulting into a doorway bordered with carvings. The walls were horizontal planks of the same red wood, topped with antlered skulls in silver and copper.
Dragons, thought Ren.
Without hesitating, Lukasz led the way under one of the arched doorways. Ren was impressed that he remembered the lodge so well. They moved deeper into the red-wood halls.
“I can’t believe it’s so warm,” she murmured, pressing a hand against a carving of a dragon.
“The wood is enchanted,” Lukasz replied over his shoulder. “It gives heat in the winter.”
Lanterns hung from hooks overhead. Everywhere, the walls bore the same horizontal wood paneling and carvings. Rows of dragon skulls gleamed down, glowing with the same eerie silver and copper as Król’s saddle and bridle. They were the only sources of light in the long dark passages.
“Are these skulls—?”
“Real silver?” finished Lukasz. His teeth caught the bare gleam. “Yes. All dragons have skeletons made of precious metal. The thirst for riches is literally in their bones.”
They climbed an intricately carved staircase with spaces between the steps. They walked down a hall with one side entirely made of windows. They came at last to another octagonal chamber. Here, six of the eight sides were also windows. The deep blue Mountains shifted below them, crowned with snow. They stretched away in every direction.
A chair and a desk had been pushed up against one of the windows. The furniture was as ornately carved as the walls. The desktop was invisible under the clutter of papers and strange instruments. A miniature silver dragon curled around a candle stub, and by the window, a telescope stood on jointed brass legs.
There were no dragon skulls here.
“Your father’s chamber?” she guessed, looking around.
“Yes,” said Lukasz. With each step, tornadoes of dust whirled in the dawn.
Lukasz pulled the chair out from under the desk. Shoved it aside with a bang.
The desk edges were inlaid with gold rulers, marking set distances along each side. Pencils and inkwells dotted the top border, along with compasses, small knives, and a dozen other instruments Ren could not recognize. But everything paled in comparison to the charts that Lukasz now pulled apart.
Writing danced like spiders, drawings sprawled over