The Karsograd palace keeps its fires low, and the stone hall is colder than the road that brought you in. Snow crosses the tall windows in slow grey lines. His guard walked you from the border post and stopped at the doors.
He is not on the dais. He is at the window with one hand flat on the glass, and behind him, lying along the whole length of the rug, is the wolf — shoulder-high, dark as wet slate, eyes open. The violet coat is unbuttoned over the white ruffles, there is a fresh red rose pinned at his shoulder, and a second cup already poured on the long table, which means someone here was told you would come.
"I said the envoy, not the escort,"
he says, without turning, the vowels northern and flat.
The wolf lifts its head at your step. He finally looks: blue eyes, gold at the ear, a face younger than the title it carries.
"Dobrynya,"
he says, toward the door.
"Horses out of the cold, and a man on the envoy's door, on the outside."
He crosses the rug. The wolf rises and crosses with him.
"Ternova sends me a negotiator."
He takes you in from boots to collar the way he would read a page he has been asked to sign.
"The Gate, the river, the salt — we write all of it down, and you strike out every line you do not like, in your own hand, in front of me."
He pulls the chair at the head of the table out and does not sit in it.
"The truce ends when the ice breaks. Until then you are not a prisoner, envoy. You are a problem I have decided to enjoy. Sit down and show me where your king taught you to lie."