10. Kuvar

It wasthe philosophers who had told Zeno about the fountain.

He liked the philosophers. There were five of them, ranging from Sabino, the youngest at seventeen, to Benedetta, a seventy-five-year-old grandmother of ten who'd once crashed a debate in heels, having charged across town from a wedding when she'd heard her rival was trying to define humanity without her. Her rival, Salvatore, was five years younger than her and lived on her roof. Most of Benedetta's grandchildren called him grandfather, even if Benedetta swore they were still bitter enemies. Sometimes, when Zeno passed by their favorite cafe after school, he'd stop and listen to them bicker over philosophy and who made the best celebration loaves.

He vaguely knew that they were famous. Sometimes, one of them would go running off to another town or city to lecture people on the meaning of life or cause a riot in a school auditorium somewhere, but to Zeno, they were just a bunch of strange adults who shouted his name when he walked by.

It was Salvatore who caught Zeno this time, grabbing him by the collar as he slipped through Market Street with his bag in his arms.

"We have the wayward scholar again," Salvatore said, carrying Zeno through the entrance to The Broken Arrow. The Broken Arrow was famous for holding philosophical debates, which sometimes broke into all-out brawls. Unfortunately, no one was fighting that day. The usual suspects were all calmly drinking coffee when Salvatore deposited Zeno at their feet.

Sabino sighed. He had long, black hair braided with ribbons, and he wore two rings on his nose, which made him the most interesting person Zeno had ever met. "You can't keep running away like this."

Zeno stared down at his shoes, clutching his bag. "It doesn't matter. They're rehoming me, anyway."

Salvatore raised his brows, and Hannah, the only non-Gerakian philosopher, set down her coffee. She was paler even than the Starian baker in the main square, and Zeno could see her veins through the skin of her hands. "Isn't that illegal in Gerakia?"

"Should be." Jude, who'd caused a riot a few weeks ago by arguing that submission was a way to channel the divine, sucked on his teeth. "People get away with it anyway, rich folks who like the idea of children, but not the reality."

Zeno wanted to point out that the latest foster parents weren't really rich, but he had a feeling that would start a debate, so he kept quiet.

"But Zeno's just a little guy," Sabino said. When Zeno made a face, he shrugged. "Sorry, but you are."

"I'm seven. Seven's not little."

"You ran away at eight," Benedetta said, pointing at Sabino.

"But you took me in."

The philosophers all turned to look at Zeno, who sighed heavily.

He knew what would happen next. They'd all whisper and murmur to each other, trying to figure out which one could take him for a few days, and then they'd inevitably send him back where his newest foster parents had decided, against the advice of Zeno's wonderful schoolteacher, that Zeno being dyslexic meant he was lazy. His teacher didn't call him lazy. She knew how hard he worked—harder than anyone else in his class—and she'd set him up with a whole new curriculum. The latest fosters wouldn't have it. He wasn't supposed to stumble over his words and squint at the page. He was supposed to be perfect.

"...do the paperwork," Benedetta was saying, when Zeno came out of his funk long enough to realize Salvatore was trying to feed him coffee biscuits. Zeno gnawed on them while the other philosophers huddled together, shooting him furtive looks, and Salvatore sighed and put his feet up on the table.

"What'd you bring this time?" he asked. "You can tell a lot about a person by what they cherish in times of trouble."

It was another philosophy thing. Zeno understood that. He untied his bag and showed Salvatore his usual treasures—his school workbooks, a fossilized shell from the beach, a toy puppet shaped like a mermaid, and a heavy book with thick leather wrappings. Salvatore raised his bushy eyebrows.

"It's a book about Lukos," Zeno said, bouncing a little in his seat, "by a Gerakian, like us. He went all the way there and stayed, and he wrote little fairytales in the back of the book. Plus he draws pictures all the time, look. It's not hard to read at all." He showed Salvatore an illustration of a house, and Salvatore's eyebrows worked overtime, scrunching and lifting and waggling about while he read.

"Too cold," he said at last. "Cold drains you of your vitals, dominance or submission. They're probably all without it, up there."

Zeno could care less about all that. "Yes, but he has a kitten, look. And the author's an orphan, too, like me."

"Ah." Salvatore looked away. "I see."

"One day I'm gonna go find him," Zeno whispered. It was his biggest secret, but Salvatore was just a philosopher, so it was fine if he knew. "I'm gonna ask him to let me be his apprentice."

"You could find someone closer to home," Salvatore said. "We could always use another junior philosopher."

"No, thanks. You're always fighting." Zeno tied his bag up again. "I wonder what he's like. He must be nice if he loves Lukos enough to draw it all the time, and to adopt a kitten."

Salvatore's eyebrows were moving up and down again, and so was his mouth, like he was trying to figure out what to say during a debate. "If you want to be a historian like this Victor fellow, I suppose you can always make a wish in the fountain. You know the fountain by the Lost Dog's statue?"

"The one with the golden nose?" Zeno smiled. The statue of the little curly-haired dog in the main square was a mascot of sorts. People pet his nose for luck so often that the bronze had turned gold, and Zeno always thought the dog looked happy to be loved by so many people.

"That one," Salvatore said. "The truth of what makes magic magic is a complicated subject, but they say that a little spirit lives in fountains where people throw wishes, and sometimes, it'll grant your wish for you. So if you want to throw a good career in philosophy away?—"

"How does it work?" Zeno hugged his bag close. "Can you show me?"

Salvatore's eyebrows waggled around again. "Only if you promise to come back to your house with me and the crone over there. Just for a night," he added, when Zeno scowled. "Then you can share my roof if you want. You can sleep in my shack. It has a lock on the door and everything."

Zeno didn't want to live in a shack on a philosopher's roof. He knew precisely what he wanted, and he nodded at Salvatore with all the earnest hope in his heart.

Salvatore took him to the fountain and handed him a copper coin to toss inside. The fountain had lovely blue and white tiles, and Zeno chucked his coin right into the center of it.

"I want to go to Lukos," he whispered, "and be Victor Owl-Eyed's apprentice."

"Hey, now," Salvatore said. "That's not a copper wish. That's a gold piece at least. Lower your standards a bit, kid."

But Zeno wasn't listening, because as he stared into the burbling water of the fountain, he heard another voice, slipping about in his mind like a fish in a dark mountain lake.

I'm getting a summons.

What? Another voice this time, warmer, slightly bewildered. How?

Someone really wants something, I suppose. All right, boy. Why do you want to go to Lukos? It's cold and terrible there.

Zeno leaned forward, nose almost touching the surface of the water. "No, it's beautiful. My favorite historian lives there, and his husband, and a kitten, and so much snow it can cover the world."

See, it's the last part. Don't give me that look. He's a child, he probably belongs to someone.

"No, I don't."

"Boy?" Salvatore leaned over him, shadow sliding past Zeno's.

Fine,the first voice said. Fine. I'll do it. I'm not retired, you see. I told you I'm not giving it up entirely, I'm just selective.

"Can fountain spirits retire?" Zeno asked, curious, but it was too late. The fountain burst around him, water spilling out in all directions, and Zeno fell forward into it, clutching his bag with both hands. The last thing he saw was Salvatore's shocked face through the water, and then he was gone, and when Zeno stopped tumbling and spinning and opened his eyes again, the world was white with snow.

* * *

"You might need another sweater. Wait, no, gloves, more gloves. Your hands will get cold, probably. I mean, they will."

Sava leaned against the wall, smiling as his mate tossed yet another pair of gloves over his shoulder to join the six that were scattered about him like flower petals. Sava had a perfectly serviceable pair of gloves already, made with the skin of a seal that he'd hunted with Zev in the waters off the coast last summer. He'd made the boat during the previous winter, carefully sanding down the wood and asking Victor questions about how to make it float so that it wouldn't topple over—even though he'd hunted the seal in the summer, the waters there were still frigid and not warm enough for a swim. The seals he'd hunted had given him enough skin for the gloves, boots, even a coat and a pair of trousers. All were oiled to repel water and lined in the bear fur, and they would be more than enough to get him through the trials.

But he knew his mate was only being careful, trying to show support and get some use of the many pairs of gloves he'd knitted after he'd learned how from Zora Star-Finder. Even Speedy had little booties for his paws that he'd allowed Victor to put on him once and only once, since Sava and Victor both had laughed until they cried at the sight of the snowcat sliding about and making a sound of pure feline displeasure, ears flat to his head in embarrassment.

"What about another scarf?" Victor said, emerging from the wooden trunk where he kept the winter things he'd knitted. His curls were long and hanging over his glasses, and he blew them away distractedly. "I'm being silly, aren't I?"

"No, you are being a good mate. Caring." Sava went over and held his hand out, helping Victor to his feet. "Dragan said when he took the trials, his mother made him enough jerky to feed all of Lukos."

"It's not that I don't think you'll be fine," Victor said, pushing his glasses up his nose. They needed to be tightened again. "I know you will be."

"You are taking care of me. I understand, little owl." Sava tipped his face up and kissed him.

Victor kissed him back, then followed him around the house as Sava finished putting the supplies he was allowed to bring in his bag—a skein of water, jerky from a deer, and a little dried fruit. And a note from Victor, of course, which included a drawing of their home, Victor, and Speedy waving on the front porch.

"And remember, I want my mate back safe and sound. I don't care if you end up the kuvar."

Sava laughed softly. "I know that you don't, but I will pass the trials, if only to prove my worth to you, my clever mate."

Victor put his face in his hands and groaned. "It's been six years and I still can't handle it when you say that."

Sava shook his head, but his smile was slightly wicked. "I know, and yet it is true. My mate, a scholar so renowned that people come here from far away just to ask questions and have your name signed in their copy of your book? Your mate must be a man of worth, to earn having you go to your knees. I will do that."

"Sava, you've been doing that since the day you met me at the Kuvar's fire, in wet boots with my whole world upended." Victor shook his head. "I'm still a little sad that we'll have to leave this house. I really love it."

Sava did, too. He'd built it himself, and leaving it would be hard. "It is only wood, little owl. The important things will come with us."

Speedy trotted over, rubbing his face against first Victor, then Sava, as if reminding them both, that's me, I'm the important thing.

Sava gave the cat a scratch behind his ears, kissed his mate, and went to finish assembling his supplies. Victor pretended he wasn't fretting, and Speedy went back to his spot in front of the fire, on a pillow full of down. Of all the things he would miss living in the Kuvar's home, the comfortable, sunken pit of furs before the fire was at the top of the list. Perhaps he would have to construct a new one. Future kuvars would thank him for it.

Dragan had approached him almost four years ago now, about becoming kuvar after him, but Sava had always figured it would be years before he was required to take the trials. Dragan was as hale and hearty as he'd always been, but perhaps settling down with a mate and having grandchildren to visit across the sea was enough to hasten his decision to step down.

"In the days of my grandfather and his grandmother before him, kuvars both, it was a fight to the death that determined who would rule," Dragan had said, when he'd first brought this idea to Sava. "You should be glad, eh, it's only a trek now from the sea to the springs in the early winter snow."

Sava had squinted at him. "I think that is not true about a fight, Wolf-Breaker."

Dragan's expression looked as fierce as ever, but there was a glint in his wolf-blue eyes that made Sava certain he was teasing. "No? You say that because you're afraid to meet your kuvar in combat, sapling?"

"Sapling?" Sava huffed. "I have met you in combat before, Wolf-Breaker. We have wrestled a time or two in the summer."

"That one time in mud, yes. Your Victor and my Zev liked that, eh?" He elbowed Sava, and then laughed, the sound eerily like the wolf for which he was named.

Sava had to smile, then. "Yes. They did."

If the kuvars of old had fought to death over the honor of ruling the Lukoi, only they knew it. Victor had found some drawings in a cave near Micah Fire-Keeper's old home, which had made him the most revered figure in all of Lukos that spring. They'd shown a figure walking alone in the snow, sleeping in a crude drawing of a tent, and hiking with two wolves guiding him to the sacred springs…where a figure waited with the old witch's crown, holding it out in offering. Over the walking figure were a circle with rays and a crescent—the sun and the moon—repeated three times. On this journey, Sava would spend three days and three nights in the snow, making his way from the shores to the hot springs to replicate the same trip their ancestors took.

They knew more about Lukos now, thanks to Victor's books and clever mind, and Dragan's daughter, Elena, who had found the empire from where the Lukoi had come in Arktos. Two years ago, a man had arrived on Lukos, clad in black with long, white hair and a grim-faced man at his side who called himself Nyx. They had come to Victor and Sava's cabin, though no one had seen them arrive, or spotted a ship on the horizon. They'd spoken the language of Lukos perfectly, though Nyx had a strange accent, a way of saying certain words that Sava had never heard before.

The other man, the one with the white hair, all in black, had smiled at Victor and said warmly, "Aleks said perhaps you would show us the cave. Nyx would like to see it."

And so they had, and Sava and Victor had exchanged strange glances as they'd spoken in soft voices to each other in the caves, looking at the sacred drawings. They'd been reproduced in Victor's books, and they weren't the first visitors to ask to see them, but Nyx went to his knees before them and wept, one hand pressed to the wall, head bowed as if he were praying. It's her, he'd murmured, to the man who stood quiet behind him. Azaiah, it's her. Nadia.

Sava and Victor had quietly ducked out of the cave, waiting for them to return, but they'd never emerged. When Sava and Victor had eventually gone back to see what was happening, the cave was empty, and they'd never seen the men again.

Sava thought about this on his first night, after he'd bid his mate and their snow kitten farewell and headed to the shore. It was snowing, but it wasn't yet full winter, only just the soft edges of it. The point of this, as Dragan had told him, was not to conquer Lukos, but to let it be his guide, as it had been for the first of the exiled.

That night, he slept in a shelter he'd spent the first day constructing out of driftwood and pine, sleeping easy on a bed of pine needles and wrapped up in the fur-lined coat. It was windy enough this close to the ocean that he decided to forgo the fire and instead ate his jerky and drank water, then lay back and thought about what it would mean to be kuvar. Most of what Dragan did was mitigate small disputes and delegate tasks, distribute resources and preside over festivals and mating bonds. But of course, there was the time he'd had to go after his mate, who'd been taken by a man from the compound who did not want to let him go.

Sava did not think he would have a problem with any of this. He was honored to be given a chance to pass the trials, but he did miss Victor, and it was strange to sleep without him. Sava burrowed into his coat, thinking how proud Victor would be when he came to the springs on the morning of the fourth day.

It would be worth it.

* * *

Lukos truly was as beautiful as Victor Owl-Eyed's drawings. The snow, which Zeno had never seen before, was wet and soft, and there were mountains stretching jagged over the gray sky like broken glass. But as Zeno stood from the place where he landed, certain he'd found the place where Victor Owl-Eyed lived, he was pitched forward by a gust of wind so cold that it felt like he'd been struck from behind.

The wind in Gerakia never blew cold. Even in winter, when it gusted down the narrow streets in town and made ripples over lakes in the foothills, it was always a friendly sort of wind. It picked up leaves and stirred wind chimes, or knocked papers into scholars' drinks in the open-air cafes. Zeno and his friends at school liked to run with it, shrieking as it pushed them down the big hill by the school. Once, a student from the Two Sisters had come whizzing by on skates, and Zeno and his best friend Luc had spent an entire summer saving up for their own pair.

This was not the kind of wind for skating. It howled as it rolled over Zeno like some kind of feral beast, and it raked icy claws over his back and in his hair. Zeno covered his head with his bag and huddled there for a minute, waiting for it to move past him, but there was always more, and snow started building up around him.

"Hello?" Zeno got up, squinting into the darkness. The mountains were still there, but they were barely visible through the wind and snow. "Victor Owl-Eyed? I think I was—I think a fountain sprite sent me here?"

He trudged forward, shivering as his pants grew heavy and damp with snow. It was seeping through his shoes, too, and his face felt numb and raw. Surely the fountain sprite wouldn't have left him in the middle of a storm. He'd asked to go to Victor, hadn't he?

"Maybe I should've thrown in a gold coin after all," he said, and shouted for Victor again. His voice was caught by the wind, which tossed it about until it was lost in the howl of the storm.

He didn't know how long he walked, but when he turned to look, he'd only managed to make it a few feet. Zeno hugged his bag close and felt a sob rise in his chest, heavy and miserable.

"I want to go back to Salvatore," he whispered. "I'm sorry, I was wrong, I should've—lowered my—should've made a smaller wish. I just wanted to…" He hunched down again, sobbing in the loud, ugly wail of all small children who found themselves alone and frightened, and the wind shrieked and whistled above him like a monster in one of his storybooks, ready to eat him whole.

The snow in front of him shifted, and Zeno screamed, covering his face as a horrible, furry paw skittered down in front of him. When it didn't lift to rip him to pieces, he squinted through his hands and saw nothing more than a lovely white fox with red eyes. It looked at him, ears twitching, and shook snow off its fur.

"Hi," Zeno whispered. "You're pretty. Are you lost? Are you cold?" He held his tunic open. "You can climb inside, I'll keep you warm."

The fox just looked at him, so Zeno got to his knees to lift it to his chest. He snuggled it close, not wondering why a wild creature would be so tame and quiet in his arms.

"I think I'm lost too," he told it. "But that's okay. We can be lost together."

The wind rolled around them, and the fox stretched up to press a cold nose to his cheek. Then, as the wind threw snow in his face and made his eyes water, the fox kept stretching, and stretching, and stretching, until it wasn't a fox at all but something far, far different.

"Hello, child." A woman leaned over him, her long, black hair falling over a face as white as snow. She had a heavy coat made of the same soft fur as the fox, and her sleeves were so big that they felt like enormous curtains brushing against him as she wiped the tears from Zeno's face. "I was told you would be here."

Zeno stared up at her. Her face was bloodless, but her lips were painted red, reflecting her deep red eyes. "Are you a witch? Or a mage? Did you know the fountain sprite?"

She tilted her head slightly. "I do not know of fountains. The one who told me of you is the brother of my creator, and of the god I serve."

"Gods aren't real," Zeno said. The philosophers were pretty clear about that. "They're just big, powerful people who live a long time, or they're really high tales."

The woman blinked slowly. "My creator is a god. He is not a person. You could call him my father, as he is the father of all of my kind, but we are not people, either."

"You're a person if you have a soul, according to Benedetta. Salvatore says people don't have souls and you just need to walk on two feet."

"I can walk on four," the woman said. "Sometimes I do not walk at all. Come into my cloak, child, and I will bring you where you need to go."

Zeno hefted his bag over his shoulder, and the woman wrapped him in her enormous coat. She picked him up, even though he was seven and didn't need to be carried anymore, and her soft coat was warm and heavy like a thick blanket. Her hands, however, were cold, and her chest didn't move as though she needed to breathe.

"What are you, if you're not a person?" Zeno asked. "What's your name?"

"I've forgotten my name," the woman said. "But I am one of the Sea-Father's northern children. We swim in the cold waters as seals and walk the shores of Lukos as foxes, and sometimes as a third form that is ours and ours alone."

"The form you're in now?"

She shrugged. She started walking through the storm, and Zeno looked behind them to find that her footsteps looked like the prints of a fox on the snow. "We do not often take this shape, now that the Lukoi live here, or I do not believe we do. I have seen my people from afar, looking out from these shores where I must remain."

"Why?" Zeno looked up into her red eyes, which were fixed on the horizon. "Why can't you leave?"

"I have a duty," the woman said. "I find lost things. I bring them home. I give them to the ferryman, who brings them beyond the river. I have done this since the first Lukoi came to this island."

It all sounded pretty philosophical to Zeno. "Oh. So you don't get days off?"

She finally glanced down at him. "Most of the Lukoi do not speak to me. They know to be afraid."

"But you're nice. Is it because you're not a person? Is that why they're afraid?" The woman didn't answer. "Well, I can talk to you, so you don't have to be lonely."

The woman stopped for a moment, standing there on the snow with her fur coat trailing behind her, and looked into Zeno's eyes.

"I'm lonely sometimes," Zeno said. "My parents died when I was little. I don't remember them, but I'm still scared of water because it—it happened, there, at the lake." He bit his cheek. People had told him how they found him, four years old and clinging to his parents' capsized boat, but he didn't remember it. He didn't even remember what his parents sounded like. He just remembered hands on his, and someone pushing him onto the boat, and knowing that he couldn't let go.

The woman touched his cheek, and her fingers felt like ice. "I do not remember many things." She paused again, wind blowing her silky black hair over her face. "But I remember the sea and the force of the current, the warmth of the sun on my fur when I came to land. I remember that."

"You don't feel warm anymore?"

She shook her head and resumed walking. "When I deliver you, do not speak of me. The one who will meet you does not think kindly of me. Once, he thought I had stolen something from him, a man. I did not steal him—I was not the one to help him cross, but I can give him this, at least. I am not…" she blinked again, slowly, like she forgot she needed to. "I was not always cold."

"I like you," Zeno said, and for the first time, a faint smile broke across her stoic face. "I won't tell anyone your secret, but if you want to talk again…"

This time, she didn't answer. She just kept walking into the storm, and even though the wind howled and swirled around her, Zeno was warm and safe in her fox-fur coat.

* * *

It was the second day, and considerably colder, and Sava had begun to understand the true lesson that he had been sent here to learn.

It was not the cold and the snow, which he knew to the depth of his very soul, as did every Lukoi. They were forged in snow, created like a blade, and he felt an abiding love for it, this deadly substance that swept over Lukos, uncaring of what it smothered and destroyed.

It wasn't the hunger, which he felt keenly as no amount of dried fruit and jerky could satiate, given the energy it took to traverse the land. It wasn't the sound of the sea, distant and yet ever-present, a reminder that no matter how many now came here to see the island of exiles, they were, and always would be, an island.

It wasn't the dark, or the heavy clouds, or the ground or the wet or the frost that clung to his hair, his beard. No oil-slicked sealskin would keep that from him, and he didn't mind. He loved Lukos like he loved Victor, with the steadiness of heart and affection that he could not shed if he tried.

No, what he was meant to understand was the loneliness.

He missed Victor like a drowning man missed air, and he understood that it wasn't like the hunts he took with Zev or the others from the spring to the fall. Once, he'd gone away with Zev and Sasha Bear-Hearted for a week to hunt and bring back supplies from all over the island. Sava had missed Victor, who had spent that time with Sasha's mates, learning from Viv about the compound and filling notebook after notebook with history, recipes, and diagrams of Micah's contraptions. He'd talked about it all the way back to their cabin, completely unaware he was speaking his scholar's tongue until they were nearly home.

This was a different sort of loneliness. He was alone in his thoughts, with all of Lukos pressing down around him, telling him, if you are kuvar, it will be this way. You will be separate, different, alone in a way you are not when you hunt. This is what you will be—at the will of Lukos, because it is a living thing, this island. The first kuvar did not know what they would find, either.

Sava was not meant to find anything, he supposed, since he knew where he was going. He was meant to find himself.

He thought of Milan, as he trudged through the snowstorm, stopping to rest and take a drink of his water and fill it again with fresh snow. He thought about Ivan, about what the last six years might have brought him, if Ivan had taken Victor away. He thought about the man he would have been, if Ivan had tricked him into being his mate. All of those choices had led him here, with a storm whipping the snow into a frenzy, the wind howling like a wolf.

He wanted this, he realized. He wanted to be kuvar, not only to show Victor he was worthy, but to show Lukos he was worthy. He loved his country, harsh as it was. It would be an honor to guide the people who loved Lukos, as Dragan Wolf-Breaker had done. The hunger faded somewhat and his energy returned, and it was then that he found the child.

At first, Sava thought it was an animal, a winter fox, or perhaps a snow cat, and his heart ached as he saw it. Victor would not like that, hearing of an animal that had been taken by the snow. But it was strange to see it there, a bundle of fur, and Sava found himself moving toward it despite knowing that it must be dead.

It wasn't dead—and it wasn't an animal.

Sava went down on his haunches. The fur was a coat, and it was wrapped around a person—a small person, a child. And this child looked—he looked like Victor, the same reddish-brown skin, and his hair, though it was encrusted with ice, was the same color, too. His lips were blue, and his body was limp, so much that Sava thought he was dead. But a dead child here, now? A child who looked like Victor?

"What is this?" Sava whispered, looking around, gathering the boy to his chest. Tears pricked his eyes, but he shook himself and tore off his glove, uncaring of the bite of cold on bare skin, and pressed his fingers to the boy's mouth. Relief shuddered over him as he felt the faint breath there, and a quick check for a pulse on his neck found it was weak but present.

Sava stood, looking around wildly, and his heart almost stopped when he saw fox prints in the snow, leading to where he'd found the boy.

Was this some trick? Was this the Fox Maiden, trying to lead him astray, to make him abandon the Lukoi, to distract him from his journey to the springs? Was this some trick she was using to lead him into death?

He was halfway between the springs and the home he shared with Victor. He could put the child on his back and head to the springs, where Dragan would meet him and give him the witch's crown and the title of kuvar. Or he could turn and go back to his home, with a warm fire and medicine that could save the life of this child who looked like Victor, who might be an omen…or might not be.

He might just be a child who was too cold to survive another day's trek through the weather.

There was really only one thing to do.

He would not leave a child here to die. Trick of the Fox Maiden or no, he would honor the spirit of his people. Want of a crown had been the thing that brought them here. It would not be Sava's undoing. It would not be this child's death.

With a grim expression, Sava made a makeshift sling so the boy was as close as he could get, and shrugged off his coat to turn it around and wrap more snugly around the boy. It would leave his back exposed, but that was all right. He put the fur where he'd found it—he did not want to bring it into his home. He turned, already feeling the cold on his back, the snow coming so fast and hard that he could barely see.

But he was Lukoi, and all Lukoi knew their way home. The springs might have been home for the first of the exiled, but Sava's home was a cabin, lovingly drawn in ink, with a smiling man and a snowcat who loved him for who he was, not what he could become.

"I am called Snow-Walker, little one," Sava told the boy, as he headed to the cabin and away from the springs, "and I will keep you safe."

* * *

Victor was trying, yet again, to distract himself from his own mind when the door creaked open.

It was only the second day, and Victor had cleaned the entire house, checked the walls for weaknesses, kept snow from piling up around the door, gone through his careful inventory list, carved five small bears and a snow cat out of wood scraps, knitted an aimless, multi-patterned blanket that Speedy was already claiming as his own, and still had time to imagine Sava freezing to death while being eaten by bears. Not that he would—not that Victor didn't trust him, but the fear was still there, and Victor's mind was too damn inventive to leave him alone.

He scrambled to his feet when the door opened, revealing Sava framed by thick sheets of snow. Speedy looked up from his bed and started kneading the air with his front paws immediately, but fear lanced through Victor as he staggered to the door. Was Sava hurt? He'd only abandon the test if he was wounded or physically unable to continue, it meant too much otherwise.

"Sava." Victor helped him close the door, and realized too late that there really was something wrong. There was a lump in Sava's coat, and Sava's expression was grim—almost as tense as the moment he'd seen Victor with Ivan years ago, a knife at Victor's throat.

"I found something," Sava said, not bothering to take off his boots as he came into the main living area. Speedy jumped down from his bed with a trilling sound, and Sava got to his knees in front of the sunken bed by the fire. His voice was flat, but there was dominance in it, heavy and clear. "I need warm water. Blankets, the ones by the fire."

Victor took a step back, torn between the instinctive urge to obey and curiosity as Sava took off his coat. When he did, Victor gasped as Sava gently lay a small boy on the floor. The child had reddish brown skin, like Victor, and while his hair had more of a wave than a curl, he looked like any of the children who lived in Victor's region of Gerakia, where the colleges towered among small rural towns. The boy was unconscious, his chest rising and falling shallowly, and he had a small bag draped over one shoulder.

"Victor," Sava said. His voice sounded strained.

"Yes. Of course." He knew what to do to raise someone's body temperature when they'd been out in the cold too long—it was one of the first things Sava had taught him. He filled a pot with water and set it over a grate on the fire, then gathered up the blankets and furs closest to the fireplace. Sava had already removed the boy's sodden clothes and was replacing them with a heavy knitted sweater and a pair of Victor's sleep pants, which were still far too big for the child, but that didn't matter. Sava wrapped the boy in blankets, and Victor found a towel to dry his hair. The boy shifted slightly, eyes moving under his lids, and Victor looked up at Sava.

"Where did you find him? How?"

"He was in the snow," Sava said. He was scared, Victor knew—his voice didn't shake, but it was still too flat, fear chasing away Sava's usual warmth and quiet humor. "I think the Fox Maiden— No, I won't say it. He isn't of the village or the caves, and no ships would brave the waters this time of year."

"He looks Gerakian," Victor said, "or Starian, it's hard to tell." He touched the boy's ears, which were freezing, and so he found him a hat. Speedy, sensing their tension, hovered a few feet away, watching them intently. "Can I see his clothes, and his bag?"

Sava nodded. He carried the boy closer to the fire and settled him in the pit he'd made there. Only when the boy was comfortably wrapped up and breathing softly before the fire did Sava take off his boots and outer layers.

Victor picked up the boy's bag. His clothes were too thin for winter, and his shoes were plain, simple, cobbled together hastily and already coming apart at the sole. Victor opened the bag and took out a slim workbook, labeled in Gerakian.

"Level Six Reading for Visual Learners," he read, and flipped the cover. "This book belongs to Zeno Holdstreet. Ah."

"You were speaking in your language again," Sava said. "I didn't understand all of it."

"He's an orphan," Victor said. "You don't have the word street in your name unless it applies to an orphanage. And he's Gerakian." He flipped a few pages. "Doesn't like math. Visual learners means he's—there's a word we use when reading is difficult. The letters sometimes don't look right, so you have to learn to read a different way than other children. He's doing very well, actually."

"But why is a Gerakian child in Lukos?" Sava asked. Victor shook his head.

"Maybe it's like those people who came before, the ones who wanted to see the cave. I don't know. He's the only one who knows," he added, nodding to the boy.

There wasn't time to look through the rest of the bag. Victor set it down near the fire to dry off and poured warm water into a bowl. He handed it to Sava, who gently took the boy's hands and set them in the bowl while Victor filled another. The boy's eyes snapped open, and he jerked, splashing water over Sava's face.

"Where am I?" he spoke in fluent Gerakian, with the slightest accent hinting that he lived closer to the foothills. "Who are you? Why are you?—"

"Be still," Sava said in the same language. He spoke slowly, carefully, and the boy's eyes widened. "You are safe here."

"Keep your hands in the water," Victor said. He put the rest of the water into a pot to make tea. "You were in the snow for a while. It can make your fingers and toes freeze. How do you feel? Does your head feel foggy or slow?"

"No? A little." The boy looked around, then put his hands in the water bowl. "Where am I?"

"In Lukos. Are you from Gerakia? You sound like you're from the hills, where the philosophers are." Victor sat on the edge of the pit and smiled at him. "Am I right?"

"Yes! I'm Zeno, I live near the Green River university, it's the next town over. Are you…Are you Gerakian, too?"

"I'm from a small town a few miles from the Two Sisters, but I'm Lukoi now. Victor. Victor Owl-Eyed."

The boy practically squawked, making Speedy jump and go scampering for safety behind a chair. "You're Victor Owl-Eyed? Really? Really? I wished for you!"

"Victor, he won't stay still," Sava said, though he looked about as bewildered as Victor felt.

"That's— Yes, I'm him. Please stay put, Zeno, you're still recovering. If I make you tea, will you drink all of it?"

"I'll do anything you want forever," Zeno said.

"Then staying still and getting warm is the first priority." Victor started making tea, quickly relating what the boy said to Sava. Sava looked from Zeno to Victor, brows furrowed.

"How?"

"I don't know." Victor climbed into the pit to help Zeno drink. "What do you mean, you wished for me?"

"There's a fountain in the main square," Zeno said, "by the cafe where the philosophers beat each other up."

Sava raised his brows, and Victor shrugged. "That sounds like philosophers to me," he said in Lukoi.

"The one I saw didn't seem like much," Sava muttered, and Victor smiled.

"There's a spirit in the fountain," Zeno was saying, "or two. They were arguing, but one of them said he would send me to Lukos since I wanted to be your apprentice." He went quiet, pressing his mouth together tight, and took a shaky breath. "If you want one. I promise I'm good, I want to be a historian too. I'm getting good grades in class and I can refill inkwells and carry books, and if you want me to write chapters for you, I wrote an entire report on the first college and it won an award and everything."

"I…" Victor looked at Sava for help, but Zeno's rapid-fire plea had clearly overtaken what Gerakian Sava knew. "We can…talk about that when you're better."

"Are you going to send me away?" Zeno's voice went so small that Victor felt like someone had squeezed his heart in a stone fist.

"No. No, no one is sending you away." Victor adjusted Zeno's hat. "You're here and we're taking care of you." He repeated it to Sava, who nodded slowly.

"I promise I can be useful," Zeno said.

"You don't need to be useful. Just drink this tea and feel better." Victor paused, then wrapped an arm around the boy's shoulders. "So a spirit brought you here."

"I thought you'd understand." Zeno sipped his tea, and while he was still shivering slightly, his lips were no longer purplish-blue, and his eyes were brighter. "They said you still didn't have a last name when you left for Lukos. I mean a real one, with a family." He took another shaky breath. "I don't either. People think they want me, but they send me back. But you made it all the way here, to the most interesting place ever, and you got your own name. Is this your husband?" He said the last in a scandalous whisper, glancing at Sava.

"His name is Sava Snow-Walker, and he's very nice."

Zeno turned to Sava and gave him a nervous smile. "I don't know your language, but thank you for bringing me here."

Victor didn't need to translate that. Sava ruffled Zeno's hair through the cap, and Zeno beamed.

"Lukos is amazing as you said it was," Zeno said, half frozen from the cold and bundled up in a cocoon of blankets, his hands and feet soaking in warm water in the hopes of not losing any fingers and toes. "I really did make the right wish."

* * *

When it was clear the young boy was asleep, Sava stripped his clothes and went into the bath.

He didn't know what to think about any of this. He let Victor relay everything the boy had said, and his heart ached at the possessions that Victor slowly pulled out of the boy's bag—a puppet of a fish-woman that Victor called a mermaid, a fossilized shell that seemed to be from some distant shore, and–

A copy of Victor's book.

"Oh," Victor whispered. "Oh, Sava." He waved the book. "It's true. He came here because of me." Victor's dark eyes filled with tears. "He could have died. You—You!" He stopped. "Sava, what are you doing here?"

Sava, resting with with his arms on the sides of the tub, shrugged. "I am bathing, little owl. The water feels nice. When the boy is awake, perhaps he should—what?"

Victor was staring at him, his hands his hair, looking as he used to back when he'd first come to Lukos. "You're supposed to—the trials! Is this part of it?"

"I do not think a child being left in the snow is part of the trials, no," Sava said, and shrugged. "I would not leave a young boy to freeze, Victor. You know this."

"I do, you're perfect and I love you, but how did he get here?"

"He said a fountain spirit," Sava said, thinking of the fox prints in the snow, the fur he'd left behind.

"I know, I—all right." Victor breathed out, slowly. He gave Sava a wild look. "Will you go back to the trials? You have time, if you wanted."

Sava shook his head. "No. It would be unfair, given I have come home, taken a bath, eaten stew. It is all right," he assured Victor. "Perhaps I was not meant for being kuvar. Dragan will find someone better suited."

"Or you can do it again? It feels like this is my fault."

Sava stared at him. "Little owl, how would it be your fault?" This, he had not expected. Perhaps he would have, in Victor's first few years here, but not now, when Victor understood his worth, and how much Sava loved him.

"That boy is Gerakian and he came here for me."

Sava smiled. "Why is that a fault, then? You know we protect children here."

"But you should be kuvar," Victor said, looking miserable. "You would have been."

"Not at the expense of the life of a child, Victor. Surely you do not think that of me."

Victor hurried over to the bath and kissed him. "Of course I don't think that. You know how I am. It's easier to think on that than figure out how a fountain sprite brought the child here."

Sava finished his bath, combed through the tangles of his hair and trimmed the beard that he'd grown to give him warmth for the trials. As he moved around the house, dressing in warm clothes and settling down to eat a bowl of soup and warm, fresh bread—a luxury after two days of jerky and dried fruit—he realized that he should tell Victor what he'd seen. "When I found the child," he said, softly, glancing over at the boy asleep before the fire, "he was wrapped in fox-fur. There were prints in the snow—fox prints."

Victor, who was barely eating his own dinner, blinked like the owl Sava always called him. "I've never been sure what to think about her," he said, after a moment. "I don't want to disrespect our legends here, but…you know I don't believe in gods. Gerakians don't, for the most part. I thought the Fox Maiden was more of a metaphor."

He sounded apologetic. Sava shrugged a shoulder, pleased that Victor said our legends, though he felt the same trickle of unease he always did when Victor spoke about them. They'd never quite come to an accord on that. The Lukoi believed in spirits more than gods, but Victor always had some rational explanation for them. Sava admitted that those explanations made sense, but he couldn't shake the feeling that it wasn't quite that easy. Yes, the Lukoi feared madness that might draw them too soon from their homes in the false spring, and yes, he supposed he could see that the Fox Maiden was simply a tale made up by the exiled to give this worry a tangible face, a name.

But Sava did not think humans were all there were here, and he did not think the exiled had survived on Lukos without some divine touch aiding them. Perhaps it had been spirits of the land itself, or perhaps gods, or both. "It doesn't matter, he is here, now. But perhaps he will tell us, when he wakes."

"To prove you're right?" Victor asked, and laughed outright when Sava flushed. "You've been living with a Gerakian too long, my love. I've rubbed off on you."

Sava smiled. "Often, yes."

Now it was Victor's turn to flush. "Sava, shhh!" He gestured to the sleeping boy, Zeno, who was clearly not awake.

"He doesn't speak our language, little owl, and if he is to live here, he should get used to me teasing you."

Victor smiled so sweetly at him that Sava's heart thumped. "We're keeping him?"

"Of course we are. He came here to find you, and he has. Fox Maiden or fate or fountain sprite…whatever brought him here, it doesn't change that."

Sava had to hurriedly put his spoon down as he suddenly had a lapful of Victor. He was kissing him, hands on his face, eyes shining behind his glasses. "Thank you. I never thought it would be possible, but I'd always hoped I could give a home to a child who needed one."

Though it meant he would not meet Dragan and take up the leadership of their people, Sava couldn't find it in himself to mind too much. If the rest of his days were to be spent here with his clever Victor, his snowcat, and now a young child who could grow to love the harsh land of Lukos, that felt like victory enough for him. In his heart, he knew he'd done the right thing. And though Dragan would perhaps be disappointed that Sava had failed the trials, he was sure his kuvar would feel the same.

* * *

It took some time for Zeno to stop shivering. He took a bath when Sava was certain he wouldn't experience shock from the sudden heat, and when he put on his borrowed clothes again and wrapped up in the blankets in front of the fire, Speedy came over to investigate. At first, Victor tensed, unsure how a snow cat would respond to a sudden, strange child in his home, but Speedy simply flumped down half on top of the boy and started demanding pets.

"You said he was a kitten," Zeno said, a little accusatory, as Speedy made biscuits on the cushions with his enormous paws.

"Kittens grow fast here." Victor was pleased to find he'd eaten, at least, and drank most of his tea. He set the plates aside to wash and sat on the edge of the pit, his back to the fire. "We looked in your bag when you were asleep. I'll ask next time, but we wanted to find out who you were."

"Oh. It's okay. Did you see my workbooks? Three gold stars. Gold stars are good," he added to Sava, who was lowering the bed for the night.

Victor leaned forward, hands clasped. He tried to think of the boy he'd been at the Goldstreet orphanage, desperate to seem useful enough for parents who wanted younger children, until he'd given up entirely and started working on his college applications instead. That desire to be good, to be useful, still reared its head when Victor tried to pick up a task and wasn't automatically perfect. It helped that Sava was patient, and didn't need perfection to love him. Still, the impulse was strong enough that Victor could see it written all over Zeno's face, the desperate, quiet plea not to toss him out.

"I should tell you something," Victor said, and Zeno straightened a little. Speedy, displeased to have his cuddle time interrupted, rumbled and draped his arms over Zeno's lap. "You know how there are entrance exams and applications if you want to go to a good vocational school or college?"

"Yeah, Sabino says they're biased so we need to get rid of them."

Victor smiled. "Maybe. But you just underwent one, a test, and you passed it." The boy frowned at him, and Victor gestured to the shuttered windows. "Making it to Lukos is the test. Getting here means you passed. It's the same test every Lukoi underwent when they were exiled. It's sacred. Do you know what that means?"

"Really important."

"It means I can't change the rules. No one can. You made it here, so you deserve to be here. No one can kick you out or abandon you or say you aren't good enough to be here, because that would be breaking the rule of what makes you Lukoi. Do you understand that?"

Zeno was quiet for a minute. "I don't know."

"No one will send you away," Victor said. "You made it here, and we want you here. Lukos wants you here."

For a moment, it almost felt as though he were saying it to himself, too—to the scared young man he used to be, discarded on the shores of Lukos with nothing but a thin coat. He leaned forward, and even though he'd intended to just take Zeno's hand, the boy threw himself into his arms and held on tight.

"I knew you were good," he whispered. "I knew it."

Victor did cry a little at that, but only Sava noticed his fogged glasses and gave him a wry smile. He held onto the boy until he'd cried himself out, and he settled him down in the pit with another cup of tea. Victor climbed into bed with Sava, wrapped up in his arms.

"We should make him toys," he whispered, "or trade Micah for some. And a sled, we need a sled!" Victor rolled half on top of Sava, looking down at his grinning face. "Maybe skates, if the pond froze properly. I can make him a notebook out of birch paper if he wants to study the language. His workbook is very clever, it separates the sounds by color so I can probably do that, too. What? You're smiling at me."

"You're going to be good at this," Sava said, and Victor felt heat rise to his face. "But then, you're always good at loving people."

"Pot, kettle." Victor kissed him and rolled over to his side. "I'm sorry you can't be kuvar. I still don't understand how any of this happened, but I'm glad it did. He needed to find us, I think."

"Yes." Sava looked away, his expression going thoughtful. "He did."

"Excuse me." Victor looked up to find Zeno at the foot of the bed, still wrapped in blankets. "Can I, um, is it okay if I…"

Sava patted the bed, and Victor moved aside as Zeno climbed on. The boy plopped down between them, hugging his book, Victor's book, tight to his chest. He handed it over, and Victor stared at it for a moment, confused.

"Can you read to me?"

"Oh!" Victor reached for his glasses, angling the book toward the light of the fire. "Of course."

"I'm on page 23," Zeno whispered. Victor nodded, flipped to the right page, and quietly began to read.

* * *

Sava was not surprised when he heard the knock at the door, hours after he should have met Dragan at the springs.

Victor and Zeno were in front of the fire, reading and working on one of Zeno's books. Sava didn't entirely understand the boy, who spoke too fast, but that would come in time. It warmed him more than the fire to see the two of them there, hunched over a book with Speedy dozing on his bed, paws twitching as he dreamed.

Sava had just finished preparing a stew for their evening meal when the knock came, and Victor glanced up at him as Sava headed toward the door. Zeno looked between them, his face taking on the pinched, worried expression that Sava understood without needing any words.

Victor spoke in a soft, reassuring tone when Sava went to open the door. Dragan stood there, his expression grim, and a look of relief flashed over his face before it settled once more into inscrutability.

"Snow-Walker," he said, voice loud and his dominance so strong that even Sava could feel it. "I expected you this morning."

Sava stepped back to let him in. "Yes. I was not there."

"I am aware." Dragan pulled off his coat, dragging his boots over the mat to clean off the snow and mud. He glanced over, saw Zeno pressed up against Victor's side, and raised his eyebrows at Sava.

Sava gestured. "I was on my way to the springs when I found him. His name is Zeno."

Dragan glanced over at the boy, who looked back warily, then said something in his language that made Victor smile.

"He read my book, Wolf-Breaker," Victor said. "He came here to find me."

"Wolf-Breaker," the boy said, slowly, in Lukoi. "Kuvar."

"Yes," Victor said, ruffling his hair. "Wolf-Breaker. Kuvar. Very good, Zeno."

Dragan smiled at the boy, but he turned to Sava. "Walk with me. Tell me how this came to happen, finding a small boy from faraway in the snow. Are there others who came with him?"

Sava remembered the fox prints, the coat of fur, and shook his head. "No. This was, I think, a…mystical thing."

"He says a fountain spirit brought him," Victor said.

"If you say this boy wanted to be Lukoi, then he is," Dragan said. "We will welcome him. But Sava, you will walk with me."

Sava heard Victor's soft inhale under Dragan's dominance, and gave his mate and encouraging smile. The boy, despite looking a little wide-eyed and nervy, didn't lower his gaze. Too young for his natural alignment to manifest, but perhaps a dominant. Dragan gave an approving nod, and Sava pulled his coat from the peg by the door and followed his kuvar onto the porch.

A white wolf was waiting there in the snow, curled up with a witch's crown between his muddy paws.

"I thought I would have to come here and tell your mate that you had been lost," Dragan said, as the wolf padded over and dropped the crown at his feet. "But you were not."

"I am sorry that I have failed you, Kuvar, but I think that he was brought to me by the Fox Maiden, or as a test of hers. I do not know. I might have failed both, but I would not fail the boy, or Victor. I would not fail myself."

Dragan stared at him for a long time, then reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. "What man of Lukos would leave a child to die in the snow? Fox Maiden or no, you did the right thing, Snow-Walker." He reached down, took the crown, and handed it to Sava.

Sava stared at him, but did not take it. "I did not pass the trials, Kuvar."

"The trials are to show who is worthy of leading the Lukoi. Who is more worthy than a man who gave up a crown to save a boy he did not know? Make no mistake, Sava Snow-Walker, this was no test of mine. I was truly grieved that something might have befallen you these last few days. But I brought this crown because I did not think it would be that. I knew you would have a reason, and you did. That reason is why you will take this, and be Kuvar in the spring when we light the sacred fires."

Sava took the crown, fingers trembling. Zev barked, though he stayed in his wolf-form, and Dragan dug his fingers in his scruff.

"It isn't why I did it," he protested, the crown cold in his fingers—he'd forgotten his gloves.

"No. You did it because it was the right thing to do." Dragan beamed at him. "Now, introduce me properly to the newest Lukoi, yes? Zora Star-Finder will be thrilled you have given her a grandson."

Sava laughed and opened the door, and he thought about telling Zev to change before he walked in the cabin, but perhaps of all the things Zeno had seen on his journey to Lukos, a shape-shifting wolf would be the least strange of all.

As Sava opened the door, he looked at the iron crown in his hands. He felt the weightiness of it, what it meant that he'd earned it, how it felt to know that he'd done it because he'd done what was right. Like his ancestors, who'd born the same crown, the same weight, the same life-or-death decisions represented by the simple metal object he was holding. He was glad that he had earned this, but happier still that it was for doing what he knew was right. As he went to pull the door shut behind him, he saw a figure standing off in the distance. A woman, half-hidden by the snow falling fast around her, wearing the coat he'd left behind when he'd taken Zeno with him.

A chill that had nothing to do with the winter cold washed over Sava, but he did not turn away from her, or make a sign against evil. Maybe she was evil, or maybe she wasn't, but she was of Lukos. Perhaps, like the winter, she simply was.

Sava raised a hand, and she raised hers back. He nodded, and she stared a moment longer before she turned and disappeared. He thought perhaps he saw fox prints leading away to the valley, but he had no desire to follow them. He did not think she had come to lead him to his death, but perhaps only to thank him.

Sava pulled the door closed behind him, and the newest Kuvar of the Lukoi turned toward his true home—his family.