Hearing him say it while wearing the feather of the White Falcon Tribe on his chest, while claiming his fortress and his land through the lineage of a blood chieftain, makes my veins run hot.
“We’re hardly thriving,” I snap. “We endure the same winters as you, only worse because the forest grows too thick and too close for us to plant many crops, not to mention worrying about monsters and Woodsmen. And in case you think that your nation is otherwise pure, I must tell you that the old magic is still alive in every forest of Farkasvár, every hill and valley in Szarvasvár, and every field of Akosvár too. We met nameless wraiths and witches on our journey here, and your own party of Woodsmen were eaten by monsters not two steps onto the Little Plain.”
“And why should we believe a word of your pagan fairy tales?” Count Reményi challenges.
To my surprise, Count Németh’s tepid voice rises from the other end of the table. “The wolf-girl isn’t wrong, Reményi. In Szarvasvár I have peasants run out of their winter villages by women made of stone and swamp grass, and hunters and woodcutters found with their hearts carved out of their chests. What else could be the cause, if not monsters and old magic?”
“If anything, it is only more proof that God is punishing Régország for continuing to harbor heathens.”
“The monsters are killing us too,” I point out in a tremulous voice, scarcely able to keep from shouting. “And perhaps if the Woodsmen did a proper job of hunting them, rather than skulking around the city so they can lick your bastard-prince’s boots, there would be fewer hunters with missing hearts.”
Count Reményi’s hand curls around the edge of the table; I hear the sound of his chair scraping across the stone floor, as though he is readying himself to stand. “It is a disgrace to God that you were allowed living into this city, much less into our council chamber. Unrepentant pagans like you will be the downfall of Régország.”
I see him pushing up from his seat, but before he can get very far, a band of metal stretches over both of his wrists, locking him to the table. The king has risen, one hand on his crown of fingernails. All the color has gone out of his cheeks, and his very mustache looks limp.
“Sit,” he rasps, and Count Reményi does.
Despite his gruesome coronet, the forging has taken something from him. In another moment, the metal flakes and rusts, withering into nothing. I tense my muscles, ready to spring between the king and Count Reményi, my four fingers closed into a fist. Even the animal instinct shames me. Have I become little more than a dog on a leash?
“I have made up my mind about the pagans and the wolf-girl,” the king says, returning to his seat. “She sits beside me docilely, wearing proper Patritian dress; you would hardly know she is a wolf-girl at all. And you have seen what kind of power she has—what kind of power this crown grants me. The érsek will punish the Sons and Daughters who wrote this message in defiance of their king.”
Count Reményi’s gaze cuts to me as he lifts a hand to rub at his wrist. For such a large man he has small, beady eyes that remind me of the weasels I would hunt for sport, not enough meat on their bones to justify the work of skinning and eating them.
“There is still the matter of the Yehuli,” the chastened count says. “They overrun this city like vermin. They are equally an affront to the Prinkepatrios, with their black rituals and their false god.”
I know right away that these are not his words—they are the words that Nándor has snuck into his mouth, just to rile me. I keep still, my belly churning, careful not to reveal myself. The truth of my blood will only be another strike against me, and it will only damn Zsigmond and the Yehuli further.
“The Yehuli provide important services, do they not?” Count Korhonen tilts his head. “They can handle coin so we don’t have to sully our hands with it, and they can work on the Lord’s Day, saving the Patritians from breaking our vows to God.”
“The Yehuli god may be a false one, but at least they do worship one,” Count Németh says begrudgingly.
I draw a breath and try to keep my voice level. “The pagans and the Yehuli are both living peacefully. They’re no threat to you.”
Count Reményi barks a laugh. “I trust that you haven’t received much tutelage in Volken, wolf-girl, but our banquet guests were quite clear in their demands. Régország is a shield between them and the Merzani. If they conquer us, it won’t be long before the whole continent is overrun by Merzan, and the Patrifaith is crushed beneath their soldiers’ feet. We are not much good as a shield if we cannot even keep our own country united and pure—that is the threat of the Yehuli. And what is it that keeps the Yehuli here? Only their desire to leverage our own misfortune against us, as the business of moneylending is most profitable in times of greatest despera tion. Rodinya has set aside a large swath of its territory where the Yehuli can live in peace, away from Patritians. They can have villages and towns all their own. Already the Volkstadt and the other countries to the west have begun sending their Yehuli to this region. Why should we not do the same with ours?”