It was the profile of a lynx.
Her father.
Ren approached them. The circled knights and soldiers parted as she passed. She felt their gaze on her. She imagined they were wondering who she was, dressed in glass armor.
Her parents—the parents she had never known—stood at the end of the gauntlet.
“Irena—” said the queen.
“Darling—” said her father.
They made as if to pull her in, but Ren took a stiff step backward. Her eyes shifted from human to lynx and back again.
The king drew back.
“My name is Ren,” she said. “I am the queen of the forest.”
The king and queen stared, and Ren realized, with a strange sort of detachment, that she did not even know her own father’s name.
“Queen of the forest?” he repeated. He glanced at his wife. “My forest? Surely, she doesn’t mean—”
The Dragon moved toward them. The knights shrank back. Even the king fell silent. The Dragon stopped just behind Queen Dagmara and her husband, and while the king turned a very pale green, it spoke:
She has been raised in the dens of lynxes, said the Dragon. She has run wild with wolves. She is human, animal, and monster.
Ren wondered if they, too, could hear the Dragon, because at that moment, the valley went quiet. The Glass Mountain had disappeared, and the lake was green with lichens and fish. Every resurrected knight, soldier, and peasant waited.
She is your queen.
There was a chorus of squeaking, of old leather and unoiled metal, and ten thousand knights took a knee. Ren glanced back at her human parents. Queen Dagmara was beaming. The king looked like he might be sick on his closer subjects.
Then the Dragon cautiously approached Ren. As it stepped over the king and queen, the king’s face turned an unusual greenish color. I will help you save this queendom.
“Kingdom,” Ren corrected automatically.
No, said the Dragon. Not anymore.
Ren held out her hand and stroked the golden nose, and the Dragon added: I am sorry I could not save your brother.
Ren’s throat burned. She had hated the humans for thinking the worst of her, and she’d been no better. She’d been so blind to every one of those fires. She’d been so ignorant. She leaned forward and kissed the golden snout.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry for everything.”
I am not, said the Dragon. I am glad you came for me.
Then the dragon stretched its wings, pushed off, and disappeared over the Mountains.
The enormity of everything that was happening had begun to sink in. There were seventeen years of knights and soldiers gathered at the foot of the Mountain; they were kings and aristocrats, mercenaries and tradespeople. They were from every corner of the country, from every city and province. The best and bravest. The reckless, the expert, the ambitious.
And now, thanks to the Dragon, they were hers.
Ren looked at Queen Dagmara, who was shielding her eyes to watch the ascent of the Dragon. So she had been afraid, thought Ren. Overly cautious. Maybe she had spent too long thinking and planning, not enough time fighting. But in a way, Ren understood. Queen Dagmara did not come from the same world as Ren; she hadn’t grown up fighting for her life, constantly proving herself to her subjects.
And all the same, she had made this possible. Queen Dagmara had built this army.
The queen glanced back and met Ren’s eyes. Feline and beautiful, the queen gave her the smallest of smiles. Ren smiled back. The king looked between his daughter and his wife, brow furrowed.
At that moment, there was a tremendous commotion in the middle of the valley. The knights began hopping, as if they were jumping out of the way. There was a general chorus of ouches and oomphs, and then the crowd parted.
“Oh God,” said one of the Wolf-Lords. Ren couldn’t tell them apart. “Not him again—?”
A very knobbly and very familiar creature appeared. He strode between the parted knights, jovially swinging his club, arm in arm with the lovely Leszachka. Eighty-six tiny Leshonki filed after them, leaving many of the knights rubbing their shins.
The Leszy and Leszachka strode straight to the feet of Queen Dagmara. Ren watched, hypnotized, as the queen leaned down and pressed her shining red lips first to the Leszy’s cheek, and then to that of his wife.
The Leszy giggled. Then he turned to Ren.
“You . . . ,” she said.
The Leszy heaved a huge sigh. He rolled his eyes. He crossed his arms. He sighed again. And then, looking supremely put out, he got down on one knee.
“Irena, queen of the forest. To you I pledge my undying loyalty. Your forest shall always be safe for animals. Your roads shall always carry honorable humans. Your children shall always be blessed, as you have been blessed, and above all other mortals, your family shall always be treated with respect and reverence.” He rolled his eyes again. “As guardian of the forest, I promise that I shall also guard its queen”—here, his speech was somewhat ruined by the dirty look he shot in the direction of the Wolf-Lords—“and your friends.”
Ren couldn’t help it. He looked so pitiful, so grudging.
“Leszy.” She spread her arms. “I was going to thank you.”
He looked at her like she’d grown an extra head.
“You saved my life,” she added, sinking to her knees, and hugged the furry little creature. His knobbly hands danced over their heads and his cap fell off.
“Hey, stop that!”
“You were trying to save our forest,” whispered Ren. “I understand.”
She kissed his cheek. The Leszy blushed a stunning shade of scarlet.
Ren released him, and he scampered back to his family, where his children were flexing tiny muscles and swinging tiny clubs. With expressions of complete terror, the knights backed out of the way of the fierce little Leshonki, and Ren wondered how many of them had dined at his table.
“Didn’t think we’d see him again.”
Ren turned. Lukasz was walking toward her. He was smiling, even if it was a little weak. His hair was drying, sticking up all over the place, but as he drew closer, he tugged his battered army cap back down over it. His eyes were dry.
Ren wanted to throw her arms around him. Tell him it would be all right. They were going to win. They were going to avenge their brothers. The war wasn’t over.
Lukasz held out the glass sword. It must have fallen among the knights, at the bottom of the Mountain.
“You should keep this,” he said. “You found it.”
“Thank you,” said Ren, awkwardly aware that they were being watched by most of the kingdom. Then she added: “I suppose we’ll need it. I’m sure there are strzygi left in the forest.”
“Oh good,” he said. “I was so worried we were done with them.”
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.”
Ren had shaken her head. She tugged his collar straight, even though he didn’t need it. She wondered if his uniform had ever been as spotless as it was now.
“You need to be together,” she whispered.
Around them, the mourners parted like the sea. They kept a slight distance, but their blue-eyed glances were furtive, interested. The youngest Wolf-Lord had been a child the last time they’d seen him. And Ren . . . Ren had not even existed to them.
“My brothers—I—” He couldn’t finish, and then started again. “It’s my . . . it’s my parents. I was four years old, Ren. I don’t know them. They don’t know me.”
Lukasz glanced back up to the lodge. The collar of his jacket was buttoned tightly over the mavka’s scars, and the fur-lined dress jacket was slung over the wounded shoulder. The Faustian fur caught slivers of sun, glittering and glowing against the black.
“I know,” she said, thinking of her own parents. “I know. But the longer you stay away, the harder it will get. You have a second chance, Lukasz. If we had that chance with Ryś or Franciszek, I know we’d both take it. Don’t waste this one.”
“I don’t know if I can do this.”
Ren smiled. She couldn’t know it, but it was the small twisty smile that he loved. The one that had been under all the dirt, framed with matted hair. The one that always seemed to appear right before her fangs.
“You killed a Faustian when you were fourteen,” she whispered, taking his face in long, elegant hands. “You survived rusalki and mavka and you made deals with Leszys and Baba Jagas. You’ve cheated death itself. And you made me love you,” she added, more softly. “You made me love you, when I was determined to hate everything about you. You can do this.”
And he took her hands from his face and kissed them, and Ren couldn’t know it, but a part of him missed the dirt under her nails.
Later, Ren walked the streets of Hala Smoków, feeling, for the first time, lost.
It would take time, she knew, to mend things with her mother. To know her father—Emil, as she had learned his name was. It would take time to stop flinching at the sight of the Dragon, winging up over the trees, speaking into her mind.
She was not sure what it would take to get over Ryś. More than time, she knew. Maybe she would never get over it. Animals were better at grieving than humans; animals were tougher, more accepting, more used to the cruelty of the world. Less obsessed with covering it up. But Ren wasn’t sure which part of her would win out in this private little war. Worse yet, she didn’t know which side she wanted to win.
Those damn strzygi. Easy to forget them, up here among these pretty houses and this clear air. Easy to forget them when you weren’t constantly looking over your shoulder, peering at the shadows between the trees. Easy to forget them when there was nowhere for the darkness to hide and your world was defended by swords and wolves.
Ren turned off the main road, around the side of a barn. Against the wall huddled an old man, an empty tin saucer on the ground by his feet. He shivered in the chill, his hood pulled up and narrow shoulders quaking. Ren’s heart gave a familiar little squeeze—the one she used to get for broken-winged sparrows and orphaned squirrels.
She knelt, fine skirt swishing over the dust, and unclasped the gold necklace from her neck and the bracelets from her wrists. They clattered into the saucer.
“Tell me,” she said to the old man, “how did this happen to you?”
The old man turned toward her and took off his hood.
“I see the humans have yet to corrupt you, Ren,” said the Baba Jaga.
Ren’s hand flew to her heart. She watched, shocked, while the Baba Jaga gleefully gathered up the jewels.
“What are you doing?” asked Ren. Her heart hammered under her palm. “Why are you hiding like this?”
The Baba Jaga smiled her broken-toothed smile. Her black-and-red-striped dress was just visible beneath the beggar’s cloak.
“You were so enamored with these humans,” said the old woman. “You love their habits so. I wanted to make sure you hadn’t picked up the bad ones, too.”
The Baba Jaga cast an appraising eye over Ren’s clothes, and Ren was suddenly self-conscious. She wore a somber skirt and jacket in deep blue velvet, with tight sleeves and a tighter waist. Ren had insisted on the subdued blue; her mother had insisted on the jewelry and the fashionably styled hair.
“I’m smarter than that,” said Ren, although she touched her hair, a little anxiously.
“I know,” replied the Baba Jaga. “I wouldn’t bother with a moron.” Then she continued: “Do you regret
your wish?”
For a moment, Ren thought of Ryś, with a squeezing kind of nausea that seemed to accompany thoughts of him lately. But then she thought of Jakub and Anja, and of how oddly enough, the two of them and Felka were almost a family.
“I would never regret making someone happy,” she said. “My brother knew what he was doing. Jakub’s daughter didn’t have any choice in the matter. I can go on without Ryś. Jakub couldn’t.”
The Baba Jaga nodded. Her ugly face softened.
“I am sorry about your friend.”
The squeezing feeling tightened. Ren had been doing her best to separate the man from the monster, but every time she tried, she could only see Franciszek, dead on the edge of the moat.
“My friend died with my brother,” she said, in a hard voice. “The thing on the Mountain wasn’t him.”
“But it was him, Ren,” said the Baba Jaga. “Second soul or not, it takes a wicked creature to let that evil in. It takes a choice. Whoever he was, whoever he could have been—Koszmar chose his fate.”
“No one chooses a thing like that.”
Ren looked down. In her hands, she saw a black body, facedown in the mud. She saw her brother, falling straight down to hell. She saw the thing that had once been Koszmar.
“Couldn’t you bring them back?” she whispered. “If not Ryś and Koszmar, what about Franciszek? Lukasz needs him—”
“Death is not sleep,” cautioned the Baba Jaga. “One does not wake without consequences.”
“But Anja—” began Ren. “And the apple tree—the cider—”
“No, Ren,” said the Baba Jaga in a firm voice. “Let the dead rest. Their souls deserve peace.”
“Gross,” said Lukasz, wiping strzygi guts off his chipped broadsword. “Very gross.”
It had been two months since the battle for the Glass Mountain. He was on the outermost border of Kamieńa, so close to the edge of the forest that he could see the trees thinning up ahead.
Czarn pattered toward him over the corpses.
“That’s the last of them,” said the wolf, and howled.
Waiting for the signal to regroup, Czarn’s wolves filtered through the trees. His new Brygada Smoka troops—comprising Wolf-Lords, villagers, and a few nobles—followed suit. The Golden Dragon had taken care of every other dragon in the queendom, so apart from him and his brothers, no one else had antlers on their bridles.
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