The villagers murmur in troubled assent, and Gáspár’s concerned expression shifts to something more severe, with harder lines and sharper edges. I’m poorly informed about the Patrifaith, but I know that Thanatos is something to be feared above all else, something that tempts the good followers of the Prinkepatrios to evil and sin.
And after listening to all this, I want to laugh at their Patritian fairy tales. Humans don’t need some shadow-demon to tempt them; we are imprudent enough on our own. Even Isten and the gods are driven by greed and lust, prone to snatching stars from the sky and ravishing maidens by the riverside.
Yet Gáspár says, “I will speak to the head of your village. I will search for the monster that’s hunting you, and I will kill it. But it’s already dark outside. We’ll need lodging for the night.”
His seamless switch from singular to plural surprises no one more than me. The woman’s eyes narrow as she stares me up and down. The villagers whisper and whisper, the men nervously stroking their beards. I open my mouth to protest, but the smiling glint of their scythes stops me. I don’t know if I can risk even a word in front of these Patritians.
“Fine,” the woman relents. “But you must understand, Sir Woodsman, that we are rightfully suspicious of sleeping beside a wolf-girl.”
“Of course,” he says. “She will be under my careful supervision for the duration of our stay. I am bringing her to work as a scullery maid in the fortress of Count Korhonen. She is exceptionally docile for her kind.”
It takes all of my restraint not to tackle him off his horse, especially when he gives me a furtive nod, as if warning me not to imperil his lie. There’s the faintest quiver in his lips, just the sister of a smirk. The woman beams.
“It’s so wonderful when heathens find a way to atone for their sins,” she says. “Godfather Life is merciful, and he may accept her as a servant after all.”
I stare at Gáspár with near-murderous intent. We both leap from our horses and make our way through the crowd of villagers. They part easily for us, either out of respect for the Woodsman or terror at their imaginings of my pagan magic. Of course they have nothing to fear except the small dagger and my clumsy wielding of it, but I smile at the villagers, showing all of my teeth.
The head of the village is Kajetán, a young man with a fox-red beard and a ruddy face to match. I’m taken aback by his age, by his unlined brow. I expected every village head to be as wizened as Virág. But if Kajetán is not near Virág’s age, he is at least half as ornery.
His tent is the largest in the village, swooping and sun-blanched on its eastern-facing side, but he doesn’t even offer us a cowhide rug to sit on. Instead, he sulks on his own cowhide, hackles raised beneath his white suba.
“Tell them, Kajetán,” the woman, Dorottya, urges. “Tell them about the evil that has been stalking our village.”
“There is nothing more to tell,” Kajetán says, dipping into a bucket of well water with a rusted tin cup. He lifts the cup to his lips, drains it, and goes on. “There have been disappearances. An old woman, a young man, and a little girl. But I doubt the Woodsmen will be of any help—there are no tracks to follow, no bodies to bury. Besides, we can scarcely afford to spare any food for two such visitors. Winter is coming. I don’t need more hungry, wanting mouths.”
I glance sideways at Gáspár, waiting for him to respond. Waiting for him to introduce himself as Bárány Gáspár, and to enjoy the look of humiliation on Kajetán’s face when he learns that he has refused lodging to none other than Régország’s true-born prince. Gáspár lifts his chin.
“I understand your apprehension,” he says. “But I will not leave good, pious people to suffer. Give us lodging for one night. We will hunt for our own food, and tomorrow, I will find and kill your monster.”
Kajetán makes a noise in the back of his throat. “What makes you so sure you will be able to find it?”
“Godfather Life sent me to this village for a reason,” Gáspár says. “It is His will that I am fulfilling, and therefore I cannot fail.”
“Are you saying that you are holier than us?” Kajetán’s eyes are burning, but for all his brazenness, there’s dirt clotted in the wool of his suba. “That you will succeed where we have failed because Godfather Life has given you a greater blessing? We are not Woodsmen, sir, but I’ll not have you question our devotion to the Prinkepatrios.”