Читать книгу: «Rhianon-8. War and Magic», страница 2

«Well, what are we waiting for?» She asked Noreus. It was his duty to get Rhianon to the window, preferably not the one the dragon was watching. Rianon could tell from a distance that he had recently returned from a hunt. His lair still smelled of blood and his claws of heat. He knew how to make candles light with magic, not fire. The wax in them never melted, but there was enough light to illuminate the library. Truth be told, the light was a luxury rather than a necessity, since a dragon could read in total darkness as well. For Rhianon herself, the distant moonlight was sufficient to discern all the lines of a book, and she could see just as well in the dark. She wondered what sort of power she had to be able to distinguish letters in the dark, unless they were fiery. To her ultra-sharp hearing came the quiet rustling of pages, the sound of dragon breaths, the scraping of claws. He did not pull books from the shelves, but brought them to him in time of need, brought by magic. He did not write himself, the quill itself drew strange symbols on the parchment. Only it wasn’t ink, it was blood. Blood was what he needed. So once a week he went out hunting. Rhianon sympathized with his victims. More often than not, he would mutilate them severely before he killed them, but the angelic knowledge inscribed in the scrolls demanded their blood.

Once in the tower, she felt insecure at first. Everything here was quite nicely furnished. Apparently, the dragon had not lost its love of luxury. Only occasionally she could see burnt marks on the soft carpets and claws imprinted on the black wood of the shelving units.

Could it take on human form? If so, she would be more comfortable negotiating with him. If he could briefly become a gallant cavalier, they would have something to talk about.

Rhianon caught him studying the scrolls. She watched the beautiful emerald scales gleam in the candlelight for a long time. It seemed to emanate a myriad of sparkling sparks all by itself.

«I want…» She only stepped out of the shadows when he noticed her. Her tongue was barely audible and yet she tried to explain out loud, not mentally, what she was doing here. He did not listen, however. The wise glowing eyes were so perceptive. He stared at her intently for only a second, and then his clawed paw rose and beckoned her forward. The claws moved so confidently and gracefully, as if they were thin angelic fingers, not ugly claws. And for a moment Rhianon thought she saw a beautiful blond creature, not a beast as sparkling as a jewel. It beckoned her into a world of forbidden knowledge, and Rhianon was ready to enter it.

When the spirit had finally completed its task, she was already sitting in her bedroom, intoxicated by the knowledge she had gained. The sage dragon did not hesitate to agree to help her because he knew beforehand the power was on her side. He could foresee the future or his mind helped him utter prophecies. It didn’t matter to her, as long as he was on her side. Sometimes Rhianon saw a beautiful young man in his place, leaning over books. The vision usually lasted only a moment. It would seem strange to people. A richly dressed and handsome young man could not have been so keen on ancient scrolls, much less write them in someone else’s blood. Naturally, sorcery was involved.

Already going through the witch potions she had stolen from Rothbert, she kept remembering her interactions with the dragon. She enjoyed her time in his tower. Perhaps she would visit him often, especially since he didn’t mind.

«Why are you very late?» she scolded the spirit. He grumbled resentfully.

«You could have done it yourself.»

«I was busy elsewhere, you know. Did you get it all?» She didn’t seem to have too many bottles and jars. Now we’ll have to destroy it all. She couldn’t figure out how to use it all for her own purposes. Unless she could use magic to determine what was in which vial.

«You can tell it by the scent,» the spirit advised.

«What is it about here?» Rhianon gazed excitedly at the flasks, something fluttering inside.

«You should destroy them now, unless you want them to spread all over the castle. I warn you, one day, they’ll be able to break the glass. Look, they’re gaining strength already.»

Rhianon stared at the flask that was first in her hands. It looks like the spirit was right. Something green and large, with bulging eyes, was clawing at the glass. Soon the flask would be cramped. Rhianon, unable to stand her disgust, tossed the glass into the fireplace. The throw was accurate. The green creature from the shattered flask went straight into the flames, and most surprisingly in the fire it began to grow.

«Quick, move the screen!» She demanded of the spirit. Grunting and complaining, he hurried to carry out the orders.

«You shouldn’t do that, madam, they’re all easy to free.»

«I’ve seen Rothbert release them into the sewage. Did he do that as a child?»

«A villain from a young age is a villain,» said the spirit. «Humans, unlike us, it’s as if they were never innocent.»

«Neither were you. Only he was,» Rhianon remembered Madael. One of the chests the spirit had brought, bright gold, looked so much like a piece of his armor. She flung open the lid, but strangely enough the trapped creature was cute. Rhianon beckoned to it, and it jumped out onto the table, spreading its thin wings gracefully.

«It looked like a tiny dragon,» she remarked, peering at the pale gold skin and patterned tail. The expression on its face was a little treacherous, but it was cute all the same. «It looked like a toy made of gold. Cute,» she was already playing with him.»

«And this one is real,» the spirit commented. «But it’s still dangerous to keep him. He may soon grow noticeably in size.»

«I’ll keep this one, anyway,» Rhianon watched as her new pet sat down on an open book she had just borrowed from the dragon’s tower, examining the symbols painted on it. The scent of an unfading rose also attracted him, and he pulled it toward him with his paw.

«What is about these?«The spirit asked about the flasks.

«Throw them down into the chasm. Destroy them. You’ve got to think with your head for once.»

After muttering something incomprehensible, the spirit obeyed. The flasks were gone, so he must have taken them to the abyss or somewhere else. The main thing was not in some water channel, where they could grow in peace. Rhianon had not had time to warn him of that, and now she had only to rely on his ingenuity.

She was distracted by playing with her new pet. It was no bigger than a kitten, but it was beautiful. She had never imagined that a dragon could be so petite and so beautiful. It was as if it had been cast in pure gold and brought to life by magic. Its eyes sparkled like two aquamarines. The patterned wings twitched. The claws, too, were gold. And the hide reflected the moonlight. Not a monster, but a toy. She was glad she had stolen it and let it go.

«You are priceless, little one,» she whispered, handing him a ribbon of her hair to play with. Despite his size, however, he proved surprisingly clever. Instead of playing the silly, helpless kitten, he studied the book and gathered glittering objects from the table to form his own little treasure chest. He, too, is beckoned by gems. So let him keep what he finds for himself.

«Will you have somebody like him?» The spirit who had just returned asked nonchalantly. How could he have made it through the task so quickly? Rhianon shuddered in surprise.

«I hope you brought them far from the castle, didn’t you?» She teased him.

«They’re at the bottom of a chasm a long way from here, milady. And you have no intention of parting with the golden toy, have you?»

«Don’t touch it,» Rhianon said, shielding her pet.

«Tell that to sir Vivian,» snorted the spirit.»

«Don’t worry. He won’t come into my chambers.»

«But the little dragon might slip out.»

«I’ll keep an eye on him,» Rhianon promised.

«It’s difficult. He’s restless. What if someone sees him?»

Rhianon was about to say that if she was to have a lover, it would be an angel, not a man, but she remembered Ferdinand. Though he was the least of her worries, he would mistake her new pet, like the harpy, for a charming overseas beast recently imported by merchants from distant lands. In general, he would be able to find a reasonable explanation for everything.

«Would you like to give birth to one?» The spirit’s ominous whisper above her ear sent a chill down her spine.

«Leave me alone,» she commanded.

«But it can be so soon,» he kept repeating himself. «You will give birth to a dragon, beautiful and golden. Gold is his father’s color. The moment it comes into the world, Madael’s watch will chime, and he will know.»

«Don’t you dare to speak his name. You mustn’t.»

«I know.» He snapped back. «But I’ve already broken every possible rule for you. There’s nothing left to do now.»

«Is it for me?» She looked incredulous. «Who am I to tell you that you have to do anything for me? You didn’t even see me before I came to Vinor. You were sitting here all alone, waiting for someone to pick on, and I was the only one who showed up. That’s all.»

«You’re shortsighted.»

«And you’re a bad kiss-ass. You can’t convince me that you were in love with me long before you saw me.»

«Considering what you look like, none of us can help falling in love with you. You’re the kind of girl you can see from a distance. And it hurts to look at you, if you must know. It hurts to be far away from you, and you won’t let me be near you.»

«I think it’s because of the baby,» she tried to comfort him. «If he really is his father’s son, he is your future lord. You see him in me, and your instinct to serve is working. You see it as love for me, but when Edwin is born, it will be different.»

Edwin! This is the first time she has uttered his name. Rhianon had already promised the spirits that she would call him that. What is so magical about that name? And why did she think she would not give birth to a monster? After all, the invisible interlocutor had already informed her that she would give birth to a dragon. Why, then, does she need a special name to make it unavailable to his father. All dragons are subjects to Madael anyway. And yet it seemed to Rhianon that now, by naming him out loud, she had stirred up something unforeseen. It was as if she had deliberately made a comment to inform his immortal father that Edwin existed. Madael has a right to know that he is about to have a son. Yet he does not know this. Perhaps he has no idea. The name, like a spell, must hide the truth from him. But it’s not like he flew here in anger to demand his child back, so the spirits haven’t lied. He could still be, though. He can assert his rights to the child, and then really be war. Or rather, war will not change anything; the duel must be between her and him. Rhianon prepared herself for that. Madael’s son would be prince of Vinor, no one would ever know the truth. You can’t pass off a monster as Ferdinand’s child anymore. And a boy, even handsome as an angel, could pass for a brother of Florian and Claude. They need a younger brother, don’t they? Perhaps in the future some disease will take the lives of the older princes and Edwin will be king. Rhianon stared at her own fingernails with exaggerated attention. It wasn’t fair, but Setius was in the castle, after all. He could have brought the vibe of the very creepy contagion that roamed beneath Madeel’s tower here. And if he didn’t bring it in now, he might bring it in later, she might ask him to, if he didn’t figure it out himself. All of them cursed and beautiful are themselves interested in their lord’s son being first in everything.

Rhianon watched the miniature dragon on her desk. He was perched on the pages of an open book, and a fragrant rose now lay beside him, along with several other precious ornaments, which he scrutinized. He must have been cramped and uncomfortable in the box where he had been locked up, for now, free, he was wrinkling painfully and kneading his stiff claws.

He was very handsome. Rhianon admired him as if he were a rare jewel. It was a gift she had never dreamed of receiving. It would be good if, contrary to the spirit’s warning, it did not grow, but remained as diminutive as an expensive toy. Then it would be possible to spoil it, to give it jewelry, and to put it to sleep on a velvet pillow. She wanted a pet like that, and he, despite all his dexterity and laudable agility, was in no hurry to get away from her.

Rhianon took the brooch out of the box and held it out to him, to which the little dragon reacted with great joy. He was real, or he wouldn’t be so fond of jewelry. Rhianon had noticed that he wasn’t interested in just any object, only the purest stones and trinkets of gold.

«So you are still in the power of your former master,» she gently caressed his golden-tipped head, combed and feathered with sharp ears. The little dragon obviously did not understand her, but his claws slid enchantingly over the gold, so reminiscent of Dennitsa, almost forgotten but still unconsciously and warmly loved. To Rhianon herself, too, he reached out as if he had known her for a long time. She even laughed at the warnings of her invisible companion.

«Well, my little one, if you believe him you will soon have a brother like you in every way,» she stroked the golden head, which was nice and warm, and laughed merrily. «Then you will not only share the contents of my boxes. You will also have to fight over Ferdinand’s crown.»

She figured the little dragon wouldn’t mind snatching the glittering crown from her head even now. She would lend the crown to him for a while. She was even curious to see how, for its tiny size, it would manage to try it on. The suddenly and long silent spirit apparently disapproved of her jokes. Rhianon didn’t care. Let him keep his mouth shut; if he was dissatisfied or jealous of something, that was his problem. She watched as the little dragon greedily gathered jewels from the table and laughed. In the same way she was going to take treasure from her enemies.

More than revenge

It was heavenly strife. It was the deafening noise of wings beating against each other. It was the scratching of claws against thin angel skin. Shouts and accusations like a bird’s cackle. It was the dazzling gleam of swords. He was already nearly blinded once when he looked at Dennitsa. He dared to swing his sword at him, and now his hand was withering and worms were crawling in it. But the ruthless and beautiful angel still continued to beckon him through sleep.

Bertrand awoke in a cold sweat. He was still alive, and that was his greatest misfortune. It had been better to have died long ago. Then, on the battlefield, he had not yet understood that his happiness was to put his chest to the blow, not to repel it.

Until now, in the darkness of his bedroom, he had seen the battlefield illuminated by an unnaturally bright light. It was neither sunrise nor sunset. The light was not coming from the sun at all, though at that moment it seemed that the fiery ball of sun had become unnaturally close to the ground. In fact, the sun had disappeared behind the clouds; it was not in the sky. But the helmet fell from the unknown warrior’s head for a moment, and the glow became unbearable, so much so that it hurt his eyes. Even the tears that seeped from his eye sockets could have turned fiery in that moment. Bertrand could still feel the burning in his eyeballs. His vision was much worse than before, but that wasn’t what was most frightening. He seemed to be losing his mind, slowly and painfully. The longer he lived, the clearer the picture of a brutal overhead massacre overlapped with reality. And each time it became more terrifying.

He told the servants to leave a bowl of cold water and a wet towel beside his bed, but even ice would not bring down his fever. His shriveled hand burned as if it had been placed in an oven and roasted over hot coals. The healer, who tried in vain to conceal his own fright, bandaged it tightly, but the ugly growths were showing through even the bandages. They seemed to be diseased and living on their own, and there were worms in them, so disgusting they were not even in the grave earth. Maybe they weren’t worms at all. Bertrand almost screamed when he suddenly noticed that some disgusting creature that looked like a big rat had come up to the bandaged stump and was trying to gnaw at the growths.

He had been wary of rousing the servants who guarded the closed doors with their shouts. He did not want the vassals or the peasants to know what had happened to their feudal lord. Rumors were already rife in the surrounding villages. When the nobles talk of the devil it is even worth fearing an attack on the castle. In addition, the healer, no matter how well paid, must have told someone about the horror he saw. And they, in turn, told others. Another day or two and there would be a riot. But much scarier were the dreams. The creature that glowed beneath his armor by itself and beckoned him to the precipice, across the field where the massacre was taking place, became something secret, hidden and unspeakably cruel. No one was allowed to speak of it, his tongue would not obey, it was scary to see it in his dreams, but it was scary not to see it either.

The withered hand, with its living thorny growths, reacted to the thought of Dennitsa with unceasing flashes of pain. Bertrand could no longer move the arm, as if it didn’t exist at all, but the withered ashy creature it had become seemed to live on its own. It parasitized the weakened body, threatening to devour it like a fungus.

Bertrand was too weak to light a candle or reach for his dagger. He couldn’t even see in the darkness what the nasty creature was getting at his arm. Nor did he have the strength to drive it away. He tried to see the strange big rat and could not, but the candle at the head of his bed suddenly flashed on its own, revealing from the darkness the fine binding of the window, the brown bearskin on the floor, the carved chair and the creepy horned demon chewing on his bandages.

The scream stuck in his throat. He had only dreamt of creatures like that, but he had never seen anything like it in his life before, and he had no idea that such an abomination existed. In his dreams such creatures had eaten corpses on the battlefield. Was this not a dream, too? No, his needle-sharp teeth had jabbed into the outgrowth on his arm, and the pain, a red-hot arrow that pierced his whole body, was very real. Not a dream, then. The bloodthirsty creature grinned, the crooked horns on its head twitching, the black ashy skin on its shapeless body with its tail and claws gleaming greenish in the candlelight.

«It is leprechaun!» Said a beautiful and resonant voice came out of nowhere. It sounded like the echo of celestial spheres and heavenly melodies, only there was something cruel in it as well as indifference. The next moment Bertrand saw the glint of a sharp, mirrored blade reflecting the room. He braced himself for the worst. Now the sword would slash across his neck, and the dainty hand clutching the golden hilt of the sword would next be clutching his severed head. He covered his eyes in anticipation of retribution, but no blow came. The blade slid gently downward, and a sudden, shrill, nasty squeak reverberated through his ears.

When Bertrand opened his eyes, the foul creature, which had been nibbling at his arm, was writhing in deathlike convulsions at the tip of its great sword. The green face was writhing painfully, but the leprechaun was not dying. How long would his agony last? Bertrand involuntarily shuddered in horror and disgust, and the creature hooked by the sword still continued to squirm and wriggle, but he could not get off the sword.

«They’re immortal, these creatures, as you see,» the same beautiful voice explained indifferently. For all its melody, it was surprisingly cruel. Such sangfroid was to be envied. The hand that gripped the sword with the creature writhing on it didn’t even waver.

«You should be used to them getting so close. It’s people’s good fortune that they all don’t see it. But you look at it once, and then you see things like that everywhere. It’s maddening, isn’t it?»

The question might have seemed sympathetic, but the tone of voice was unsympathetic. A cold, calculating voice, knowingly and indifferently explaining the essence of all human suffering, could only belong to an angel.

Bertrand did not immediately dare to look at the nocturnal visitor. At first he watched only the starry spheres outside the opened window, not daring to shift his gaze to the figure in front of his bed. The dainty hand clutching the gilt hilt might well have been a woman’s, but aren’t all angels marked by maiden beauty.

For a moment Bertrand caught the subtle scent of lilies that followed the figure. In a strange way it mingled with the smells of burning and fire, but it was still as divine and intoxicating as her voice. It sounded so cruel, but it seemed so all-knowing and beautiful. That’s the thing about angels, for all their coldness, they are beautiful. They pity no one, but you want to beg for mercy. They can only be compared to the stars, distant, not warming and still beckoning.

«The changes that happen to you will increasingly attract leprechauns and creatures like them, though your hour has not yet come. But it is coming. You are first on my list, for you did not side with me when the palace wrangling broke out, when you could have.»

Only now did he look at the speaker. The hand that held the sword was now thrown slightly to the side, and his face, unbelievably beautiful in a halo of tangled golden curls, could be seen. Her translucent skin shimmered with the moonlight. Golden lashes touched her cheeks, her half-covered eyelids didn’t flutter, and her lips curved contemptuously. How he would have liked to kiss those lips, even on his deathbed. He would have given anything for it. They would have smiled at him amiably, but the cruel expression that played over their faces was scalding cold. No one’s contempt could humiliate and scorch a man more than that of an angel. The higher being merely looks, but it’s as if he’s looking inside you, seeing all the baser instincts hidden inside, and you feel crushed.

Bertrand groaned in agony. The shriveled hand suddenly began to ache unbearably, as if it had been cut and tortured like a separate living being.

«Do you remember me?» The calm voice, asking something, was beyond his comprehension. Yes, of course he remembered. A battlefield, a bloody massacre, people fighting and dismembering each other right in his way, he risked being hit with a chain or an axe, losing an arm or a leg or a head or being killed altogether, and he didn’t care. Shattered bones, severed limbs, and swords swinging dangerously close to him no longer matter. He wades through the jumble of fighting and corpses without fear of being killed, because at the end of the field at the precipice a helmetless knight awaits him. The warrior with wings stretches forward with his arm partially clad in armor, and even hell is not afraid to follow him. The skin on his face is so transparent it could be mistaken for the smoothness of a cloud, only the arcs of his eyelashes and eyebrows stand out in bright gold against the pale luminous background. His curls, too, are golden. From beneath his pale lips the blood he had drunk, but which his internal organs had never accepted, was about to ooze out. Bertrand had seen in his dreams how this creature drank the blood of the warriors he had defeated, whether still alive or already slain, and then vomited, because unlike his subjects, he did not need food. In spite of this, the angel has become as bloodthirsty as his servants. His servants! Bertrand shifted his gaze in horror to the leprechaun twitching convulsively at the tip of the sword. He was struggling to free himself from the blade, but he could neither break free nor let out his last breath.

«Evil is as eternal as the god who created it,» the calm, angelic voice said. «You wonder that a divine being can be served by infernal creatures. But isn’t this world a mishmash of the sublime and the perverse. If anything were to be different, it would have been so from the creation of the earth, not only below, but also in heaven. All things are not as we would like them to be; all living things must suffer, and the chosen of the higher powers have suffered far more than lowly traitors like you. But in its time everything falls into its place, because one truth remains immutable. Do you realize what it is?»

He found the strength to shake his head in the negative. Dennitsa’s beautiful face compelled him to do so. Why did it seem so feminine to him, like his girlish voice and posture? Is it Dennitsa? Or is it someone who looks like him?

Her golden hair didn’t fan across her shoulders but slid gently down her back, her shoulders seemed too narrow even under the cloak, the gaudy fabric below her chest glowed like brocade. All this told him something. But of what is it? Or rather who is it? Someone he had forgotten, though he should have remembered, and now the angel reminded him.

There was still the princess he had sworn an oath to. He had never kept his promise to serve her. Bertrand raised his hands helplessly to his face. How could he have forgotten? Rhianon! He had never had a chance to examine her up close, but he knew she looked like that divine warrior. It was as if they were one.

Meanwhile the merciless voice continued melodiously:

«Touch an angel just once, you rulers of this world, and you will be ashes even before the one you have offended takes your throne.»

Now he recognized her. The maiden’s voice was so cold and vengeful. Rhianon was bent over him, oblivious of the leprechaun writhing on her sword, and she had never looked more dazzlingly beautiful to him. Her beauty was in itself the worst revenge. She killed just looking at her. A living person could not be so beautiful. Did that mean she was already dead? Or is she immortal? In her guise, a relentless, emotionless being, which is commonly called an angel, speaks to him.

«The Creator cruelly tests his favorites, but if you at his instigation, offend one of them, and your suffering will not end. You must be feeling it already,» she held out her hand, and the candlestick was already in her fingers as if she’d told it to go flying over the bed. Rhianon tilted it so that the hot wax flowed onto the bandaged stump.

Bertrand screamed in pain enough to startle not only the castle but the villages beneath it. But no one came.

«They have other things to worry about,» Rhianon glanced quickly out the window. «I must be going now, but they must see my seal on you.»

She pulled out a signet ring, the same one he had already seen on her father’s finger once when he was sworn in. Seeing such a seal on him, everyone would know that he supported Rhianon, not Manfred. He didn’t care anymore. He couldn’t even hear the screams and noise outside the windows. And there, in the darkness, there seemed to be dozens of torches blazing.

«The villagers aren’t happy,» Rhianon said, frowning. «They should have been, long ago and not now. Personally, I think it’s too much for Sky to bear with the terrible punishments it’s inflicted.

She straightened up, putting the candle back the way she had taken it, that is, in a completely untraceable way. In her presence, things seemed to move on their own, windows opened, water jugs disappeared and spilled, the flames in the fireplace flared.

Bertrand reacted too keenly to the heat to start a fire, and now the fire in his bedroom was even too much. How could that huge cloud of flame fit in a single fireplace yawn? There seemed to be a whole elemental raging there.

«I must go now!» Now Rhianon was looking only at the sword-wielding leprechaun, as if Bertrand were gone or would soon be. «There will be others after you. Anyone who has wronged me in any way will pay more than your feeble human imagination can ever imagine.»

She smiled, indifferently, contemptuously, wickedly… so that he could tell by that smile alone that she was not lying and in no way exaggerating, even downplaying. Her triumph was yet to come, and it would take place on blood and bones.

No words of farewell were uttered; instead, Rhianon merely tilted her sword gently, allowing the leprechaun to slide down onto the bed. After she left, he stared briefly at the lingering, bloodless hole in his belly. The bewilderment at the idea of the wound on his toothy green face was almost immediately replaced by a hungry grin. The wounded man became even more bloodthirsty than before. Bertrand realized only now how naïve he’d been to think the angelic creature wanted to play down his torment. On the contrary, after waiting only a moment, it had increased it. The freed leprechaun pounced on its prey even more furiously than it would have. The helpless stump was at the mercy of a greedy mouth full not of teeth but of needles. After Rhianon’s departure, Bertrand felt too crushed to think at all, rather than move. Now he was even easier prey than before, which the creature did not fail to take advantage of. Perhaps the castle, with its servants and knights trembling before the devil’s affliction of their lord, would be even easier prey for the rebellious peasants. They will need no knives, no pitchforks, not even wood cut down and sheared for a battering ram. The servants here are in such turmoil that they will open the gates themselves. And when they burst into the master’s bedroom, they will realize that they were not wrong in their speculation.

Rhianon considered the naked sword in her hands. Her eyes must have glittered even more ominously than the deadly blade, because Ferdinand, who wanted to cross the threshold, never dared to do so.

She didn’t need him to come in. She knew all the news he wanted to tell her as it was. Not only could she read his mind easily, the sounds from the closed council chamber came to her ears as if the voices speaking there were communicating directly to her. She knew that there was to be war. Everything had been decided. Everything would not be enough for her now.