“What’s your name?” Val asked.
The boy ducked his head, a frightened sort of deference. “Nestor, your grace. Or, um, rather, Iskander.”
“Nestor-Iskander, then. And where are you from? Your accent is familiar.”
Flatly, he said, “I am a janissary of His Majesty’s–”
“No, dear. Where are youfrom?”
A whisper: “Russia, your grace.”
“Ah! I thought that was it,” Val said, in Russian. “I speak many languages, and that is one of them. Though I worry my accent isn’t very good. What do you think?”
Nestor lifted his head, expression broken open by surprise. “You speak Russian?” he asked in that language, and the words came much easier in his native tongue. “But you are…”
“What? You thought me Turkish? With this hair?” He tossed it over one shoulder with a chuckle. “I’m Romanian, originally. I always wanted to travel to Russia someday. I’ve heard it’s beautiful.”
Nestor snorted. “Right now it’s nothing but snow. Up to your neck in places.” He touched his own in indication. He brightened. “Romania? I was trained in artillery with a unit in Moldavia before I came here. That’s where I was…” And he dimmed. “Taken.”
Val frowned. “How does a Russian end up in Moldavia?” Inwardly, his heart pounded. Last he’d heard, Vlad was in Moldavia.
“I was in the employ of a group of monks. Studying with them, training to join their order someday. We encountered a checkpoint on the road, and.” He shrugged, and looked down at his dusty boots.
“So you are literate.”
“Quite.”
“Which languages can you read and write?”
“Russian, of course. Also Slavic, Romanian, French, and Turkish – though that isn’t very strong yet.”
An idea began to form in Val’s mind.
But first…
He lowered his voice, so soft that even the most enterprising of mortal eavesdroppers wouldn’t be able to hear them. “Nestor. Do you know what you are?”
Nestor stilled. Slowly, he lifted his head, and the fear was back, all the blood drained from his face. “Your grace?”
“It’s alright,” Val assured. “If you do, then surely you can tell what I am. Can’t you?”
His gaze darted, out to the yard, across the resting soldiers, finally back to Val. He wet his lips. “I…”
“You’re not frightened of me, are you?” The idea disappointed him. He’d missed the company of Familiars desperately. This boy wasn’t Fenrir, huge and boisterous and unbeatable, nor Cicero, stern and protective. But there was a comfort in being near a wolf, an instinctual quieting.
Nestor swallowed with obvious difficulty. “No. No, your grace, I’m not frightened. It’s only that – I’ve never met a…anyone like you.”
“But you have heard of us, yes?”
He nodded. “My parents told me stories, when I was very young. They were both…the same as me.”
“They were wolves?”
“Yes.”
“So you were born instead of turned?” His voice lifted on the end, and he reined it in. But this was exciting! “That is a rare thing, Nestor.”
“So they said.” He fidgeted, looking uncomfortable. “The village where we lived…the people there…when they found out…”
