Page 17 of The Wolf and the Woodsman

“Nándor’s not the prince,” I say. “You are.”

Gáspár’s mouth goes thin. For a moment, we’re both silent enough to hear the gentle lap of lake water, a frothing collar along the shoreline.

“It’s not nearly as simple as that,” Gáspár says with a note of finality. “The line of succession matters little when there are thousands of peasants rallying for you, and a sect of Woodsmen whispering your name, and the king’s council weighing the pros and cons of sedition—not to mention the Érsek praying every day for you to take the throne.”

His voice sharpens as he speaks; by the end, it’s as whetted as the blade of his ax. Gáspár’s fingers tighten around the handle of it, and though I knew he held the fate of my village, of my mother’s people, now I realize with a stutter of alarm that he might hold the fate of my father’s too. I think of Peti’s lip curling back, and the lambent whites of his eyes gleaming as he arched over me in the dark. I feel the sting of the wound on my throat. It stills me with terror to imagine how vicious the man he worshipped must be.

Yet an old hesitation quivers up. Perhaps I have no right to worry over the fate of the Yehuli when the only slender threads yoking me to them are a coin I can’t read and a father I can scarcely remember.

“But you’re the prince,” I say again, this time with a mortified uncertainty. “And your father, the king . . .”

“Does not wish to name a bastard to succeed him, but the pressure mounts with each moment, with each Régyar soldier slain on the front line,” Gáspár finishes. His gloved fingers are slick with blood—his own. “In less than a month Király Szek will celebrate Saint István’s Day, which Nándor has taken to claiming as his name day as well. If there’s any moment for him to make his challenge, it will be then.”

My head clouds. Suddenly all my forgotten weariness surges back, and I take a breath to steel myself against the blurring at the edges of my vision. “You think that Nándor will—what? Try to kill the king on this holiday?”

“There’s a contingent of Woodsmen who support his claim, and from what I can tell, several members of the king’s council, and of course the Érsek. He has the support. He needs the opportunity.”

I let out a breath. “And is the king sipping wine and practicing his needlework while the whole city rises up against him?”

“The king has his own fetters.” Gáspár’s voice is flat. “But he’s the best hope for Régország’s survival, and for your own people—pagan and Yehuli both. I’m sure you would prefer to hand over one wolf-girl a year than see your whole village slaughtered and burned, or the Yehuli expelled from the city.”

His words knot in me, a particular coil of bewilderment and fear. All my life I’ve hated nothing more than the Woodsmen, except the king, like one of the shadows that moved along the tree line outside Keszi, too dark and distant to see. To hear he might be my savior, to imagine that I might even play a small part in keeping him on the throne, makes my stomach lurch with a dizzying revulsion.

“The turul,” I say slowly, trying not to think of Virág as I do. “You think it will give your father the power to subdue Nándor? To end the war, even?”

Gáspár nods. His jaw is set, and he’s staring at me with a flint-eyed intensity that seems to startle us both when I finally meet his gaze.

“Fine.” My fingers clench around the coin in my pocket. “I’ll go with you. I’ll help you find the turul. But you have to do something for me too.”

“If you help me find the turul, you’re free to return to Keszi, unharmed.”

I shake my head. It’s not enough. “And no one will be punished for my deception.”

“Fine,” Gáspár echoes.

“One more thing,” I say, even as my pulse quickens. “I want to know what the king does, with the girls and women that he takes.”

Gáspár blinks at me, nose flaring with the beginnings of a protest. His lips part, then close again. It’s several moments before he moves at all, but when he does, it’s to hold out his hand.

“All right, wolf-girl,” he says. “You have a deal. No harm will come to you or to your village. And when we find the turul, I’ll tell you what happens to the pagan women who are brought to the capital.”

I have to let go of the coin to take his hand. His grip is firm, and his gloves are soft to the touch. Someone must have slaughtered a newborn calf to make gloves so soft. When I pull my hand away, there’s blood crusted into the creases of my palm.

“You’re going to follow Peti to his grave if you don’t cover your wound,” I say, my voice odd-sounding. I don’t want him to mistake my practical scrutiny for genuine concern.

Gáspár looks down at the trio of gashed lines on his side, then back up at me. “Are you a healer after all?”

“No,” I tell him, trying not to flush at another reminder of my inadequacy. “But my—Virág taught me how to dress a wound.”

He raises his shoulders with a sudden inhale, fast and sharp. “You could have helped us dress Peti’s, then. You could have saved him.”

What little camaraderie I might have felt puddles out of me. “Why would I have helped to save the life of a man who tried to kill me? And if you didn’t want him to die, you shouldn’t have cut off his arm!”

“The punishment had to be levied for treason,” Gáspár says, voice low.

“All your grave proclamations make you sound like Virág,” I snap. “Do you enjoy being as dramatic as a hundred-year-old pagan hag? You could have cut off his head, instead. At least then he wouldn’t have suffered, and I wouldn’t have had to watch it.”

A beat of silence passes between us. Gáspár takes a step forward, and I wonder for a moment if I have given him enough reason to forget our bargain and put a blade through my back anyway.