Still, I don’t want to leave Yehuli Street. When Zsigmond opens the door for me, I reach out and take his hand impetu ously, swallowing hard and waiting to see if he will squeeze mine back. His thumb brushes across the nub where my pinky once was, and then his other hand closes over our twined fingers, a perfect weight.
The king has gathered all his counts for a council meeting, and of course I am compelled to be in the chamber beside him. We all sit around an oaken table, the king at its head with his crown of fingernails, parchment scrolls unfurling before him like shed snakeskin. Now I can recognize the letters on them, but my vision goes fuzzy when I try to noose them into words. I fear how long it will take before I’m able to read Régyar, to decipher the silent threats coiled on the table in front of me.
Although I saw them at the king’s feast, the counts are scarcely recognizable. They wear their silk dolmans now, each as neat and bright as a lizard sunning itself on a rock. I can only tell them apart by the small ornaments they wear on their chest, symbols of their region: a shard of antler for the count of Szarvasvár, a white feather for the count of Akosvár, a tuft of wolf fur for the count of Farkasvár, and a bear’s long claw pinned to the breast of the Kalevan count. Count Furedi, who administers Farkasvár from a great walled fortress on the western side of Ezer Szem, gives me the chilliest of stares. We wolf-girls are his region’s greatest embarrassment.
I stare back, eyes narrowing. I wonder if he was the one who left the note at my door, but his face betrays nothing. If there is anyone in this city, aside from Nándor, who would want me dead, it is Count Furedi. Nándor and Gáspár are both barred from the king’s council meetings, but their names run quietly beneath every thread of conversation, like the simmer of distant thunder. It quickly becomes clear enough what side each count has chosen.
“We intercepted a missive from the Merzani bey to his soldiers,” says Count Furedi, tearing his gaze from mine. “Once they manage to cross the border into Akosvár, they were instructed to burn the crops, to starve us into submission. They know very well that winter is near.”
“Of course.” Count Reményi, who administers Akosvár, curls his large fingers into a larger fist. “Forgive me, my lord, but I have warned you of precisely such a thing. Already the inhabitants of Akosvár have begun to abandon their villages and flee north, seeking refuge behind the walls of my own keep. We cannot accommodate any more of these refugees, and we certainly won’t be able to feed them once winter is upon us.”
I remember Gáspár’s words—that with each Régyar soldier dead at the hands of the Merzani army, Nándor’s appeal grows. I think further of the peasants I saw at the festival, with their dirty hands and missing teeth. They seemed hardly less desperate than the people of Kajetán’s village, and easy prey for a very pretty man who makes empty promises.
“We are expecting a hard winter in Kaleva,” says Count Korhonen, in his lilting Northern accent. “But we trust that the guidance and the goodwill of Godfather Life will carry us through these difficult months.”
“Indeed we do,” comes the voice of Count Németh of Szarvasvár, who is preoccupied stroking his antler ornament. “We must thank Godfather Life for his blessings, and perhaps appease Godfather Death with a greater sacrifice. What say you, my lord?”
Although it is his council meeting, and I am his personal guard, it’s easy to forget that the king is even seated beside me. He blinks, dazed, as if someone has just prodded him from slumber.
“Well, we must fight, of course,” he says. “We have an influx of soldiers from the Volkstadt to furnish our armies for the time being, and—”
“Forgive me, my lord, but no soldiers will help us if God Himself is not on our side,” Count Reményi cuts in. “The Prinkepatrios will leave our country to Thanatos and the Merzani heathens if we continue to foster pagans—in our very own palace, no less. And I cannot pretend I haven’t seen this.”
He tosses a scroll of parchment onto the table. Count Furedi snatches it up quickly, too quickly for me to decipher any of the letters, much less knit them into words.
“It’s posted on nearly every stall in the marketplace,” says Count Reményi. “It is a message from some of the Patrifaith’s Sons and Daughters in the capital, and many of the peasants and merchants have signed it too. They are unhappy that you’ve continued to allow the pagans to thrive in Keszi, and even invited one to sit at our council table.”