Kitabı oku: «Rhianon-4. Secrets of the Celestials», sayfa 3

“Dark Spit. Is that the name of those mountains?” Rhianon squinted, staring at the massifs drowning in darkness. She couldn’t see much in the dense darkness until gold sparkles flickered before her pupils.

“They curved in the shape of a braid, you see?”

Now she could really see. A slight glow began to illuminate the darkness in front of her. In spite of the sparks, everything around her remained gloomy, but at the same time it was clearly visible. Was this really how Madael saw the night, dark but full of clear outlines and stars?

It is very much like the scythe of death,” he grinned. “If you like, I can take you above them and let you see for yourself.”

“Better not,” she thought of the altitude they’d have to fly to get around the mountain tops and felt sick with fear. Or rather, it was not the murderous fear of heights that she had felt before, but only a slight tremor. Even that, however, was rather unpleasant.

“I’d rather walk on the ground.”

Even if it’s contaminated, she added to herself. As Madael had put it, death was dancing in every nook and cranny, but Rhianon didn’t see it, and she wasn’t afraid of it. She peered through the windows, noticed the sick, and then moved on to the next house. Everywhere the same thing, only once she dared to go inside. The door was ajar, and the candle’s light attracted her. It smoldered faintly, like a life already departing.

Madael followed her in, wings almost touching the doorjamb. It looked as if it should have left a fiery imprint, but there was none. Rhianon saw another angel-like creature sitting by the dying girl’s bedside. She suddenly wanted to hold a mirror up to it, as she had done the first time, and see how it was reflected in it, but there was no need. The tattered wings and bruised face were still beautiful. The bright white wasn’t black even on the feathers, but it wasn’t ghostly either. More like the color of chalk or paper than a ghostly sheen. Rhianon stopped. The bruises under her eyelids gave the impression that the angel was crying blood. Or maybe he really was crying. The sores-covered girl in the narrow bunk did not wake up. She could not see that a strange guest was sitting by the barely lit candle, as if to catch her last breath.

“Sethius!” Madael froze on the threshold and looked sternly at the man sitting by the candle.

Rhianon was about to ask him why this angel still kept an attractive appearance, but then the head with ruffled curls lifted and the bruises on his face suddenly became sharper, along with them came the burns and bruises. A moment more and he lost much of his attractiveness. The light arcs of his eyebrows turned black, something disgusting that resembled bugs crawled across his skin. Sethius could have been mistaken for a work of marble, so white he was, were it not for these glaring imperfections.

“I don’t…” He could barely move his split tongue, a trickle of blood coming out of his mouth. “I don’t do anything you can’t do.”

“Then keep doing it,” Madael gestured to Rhianon toward the door. He was going to leave and leave the creature here. At the threshold, Rhianon turned around. She saw Sethius lean over the dying woman. He was not frightened by the sores or the supernatural contagion. He almost pressed his lips to her throat, as if he were really going to catch her last breath and the life that was flying away.

“He thinks he’ll regain his former appearance, at the expense of the others’ beauty,” Madael whispered as they left.

The candle, meanwhile, was almost out. There was only a tiny spark in the wick, but it too was about to go out. Rhianon could hear the faint whisper of an angel behind her, and she heard the rustle of wings. This time it seemed ominous to her. The black wings of death must have rustled just the same: wild and dreary. Not even the sound of a requiem would have upset her so.

Walking out of the house, she still felt like she was at a funeral.

“Sethius dreams of having his own crypt, and so do his friends,” Madael grinned for some reason. “It would be hard enough for them to have one, with all their pretensions.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You can’t. People survive on their own terms, and the damned have their own ways. Six of my best warlords have chosen to live on their own. Let them. I don’t need them anymore. Let them survive as they please. Now they have a burden on their shoulders.”

“What do you mean?”

“They were followed by the seventh angel, the one who didn’t fight on my side, but against me. It is wretched little soul. He couldn’t even hold his sword in his hands during the battle. The sight of his friends’ spilled blood made him sick. Lovers… what could you take them for? They are incapable of fighting against each other. And now he was freezing, starving, and losing his former attractiveness along with them in this contaminated land. He followed them himself. I used to laugh at him. Now I understand him.”

“What will happen to them?”

“I told you before, they want their own palace or crypt, a place where they can exist apart, feed off the energy of those mortals who fall under their spell. They want to be separate from my world, from earth and from heaven, but sometimes they need living souls. Who doesn’t want to have mortals as playthings and restore their beauty by taking other people’s lives?”

“Do they believe they can do it?”

“So far, only they believe. They don’t have much success. Perhaps they haven’t found a soul vicious enough to surrender its domain to them. In time, however, someone may seem so greedy for the cursed gold that they will worship the fallen angels and build for them their coveted crypt. It is a crypt for the seven angels. Here will be their fun, someone’s tears and lots of blood.”

“I saw him crying blood.”

“He drinks too much of it,” Madael whistled softly, the whistle like the echo of a string through the sleeping village, awakening a long echo. – And there’s plenty left, but it’s infected. Who knows what leprosy he will bear with it?

“He’s gone right before his eyes,” she still couldn’t imagine how such a beautiful creature could change so drastically.

“It happens,” Madael grimaced. “And more than once. It is sometimes in front of mortals. Some are beautiful, or at least pleasant-looking, for a long time, and then they go bad. People see and are frightened. I make it look like they’re crazy. You never know what a madman will see. I have to put the madman on a chain so that the demons won’t bother him anymore. And those same demons will laugh later. We must not reveal our existence to anyone. That’s the law.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

The question sounded like a punch. Madael looked away sharply.

“And the helmet that you can’t take off doesn’t bother you, does it? Even a sword you can’t draw whenever you want?”

“Even if you read my soul as an open book, stop, Rhianon. Someday things will be different.”

“Is it soon?” She picked up her skirts and staggered away, not knowing where she was going. Above her head something flew noisily, almost clawing at her gold crown. It seemed to be an ifrit, flying down from a distant mountain range, or maybe from the roof of one of the houses behind her. She didn’t get a good look.

Madael stared tensely into the darkness.

His hand gripped the hilt of his sword tightly. “I’ll deal with him later.”

“Later?” She frowned. “Is there anything else you want to show me? Or was this village the only thing you wanted to show me?”

“I didn’t want to bring you here in the first place. You asked for it,” he said, furious. “And there’s a sickness here.”

“So what if I’m with you?”

“Don’t be silly, even I can’t protect you from absolutely everything.”

“I don’t believe it,” she thought he couldn’t believe what he was saying either, but he looked worriedly up at the sky once more. No one else had flown across the gloomy sky, but there was an unpleasant, dark residue, like a comet’s mark, in the darkness. Evil has been here… Rhianon tucked the edges of her cloak tightly around her. She felt cold, though she felt hot inside.

“What were you going to show me?” She thought that an innocent question would lighten the mood, but the darkness echoed ominously.

“There’s a town…”

“Is there a plague that’s killing people there, too?”

“Not at all,” he smiled mischievously, a boyish grin. “There aren’t any people there. From afar, the city can be mistaken for a sprawling island of moss, but come closer and you can see the outlines of the ruins.”

“Do spirits live there?” Rhiannon wondered.

“Spirits like Orpheus,” he confirmed.

“But then it is interesting.”

“Just stay close to me when we go there. I don’t want you to get lost in the labyrinths of the city. There are a lot of precipices and cracks in the walls and dried-up wells. It’s easy to get lost there and never find your way out.”

“I am not afraid,” she followed him eagerly.

A net for the stars

Manfred would have done anything to gain the support of this invincible warrior. He would set snares for him if only to catch him and force him to fight on his side. The war halted, but the king’s passion for the unknown knight only grew stronger. Manfred was almost mad. He was certain that had the faceless fighter been with them now, Loretta would have been celebrating victory. It was useless to remind him that it was not the lack of a warrior that was preventing them from fighting further, but the cold, the hunger, and the epidemic. The winter had been mild in Loretta, but near Menuel they were so cold that weapons froze in the hands of the fighting men, and all manner of provisions were crusted over before they could be cooked. There was no way to build a fire in this cold. Any flame was extinguished by the immediate wind. On top of that an epidemic broke out. The first to fall ill and die was a regimental healer. The cities locked their doors, not wanting to let the lepers in. Moren tried his best, but he could barely keep order, even in his garrison. The people were afraid.

They heard screams at night, saw creepy creatures flying in from the mountains and devouring carrion. Of course, all these visions could only be attributed to hallucinations caused by illness, but those who were not yet sick also saw these things. Riots were brewing, and people were going mad. Moren tried his best, but sometimes he felt himself losing his sanity. Someone kept killing the blond girls. Their corpses were thrown off the walls of the fortresses for fear of contagion. Sometimes as he drove in front of the gates of another closed city he would see bodies in the snow, covered with a hideous plaque of festering wounds and covered with some hideous insects. More often than not these scavenger bugs seemed to him to have human faces and thin black wings, eating flesh from the wounds directly with the pus and buzzing disgustingly. Hunger must have driven him to such visions. He ordered his subordinates to burn such corpses if they saw them, but he could not destroy the contagion. The scarlet pestilence was spreading all the same and the signs of the epidemic were becoming more and more ominous. Moren moved out of camp more and more often to avoid hearing the screams. A few more of these losses and they would no longer be able to fight. If the ice crust on the battlefields melted and the enemy attacked them right now, they would not be able to fight back worthily. Moren did not dare storm one of Loretta’s own fortress cities. First, he did not have the authority to do so. Second, it was unlikely that several regiments could be quartered there at once. The rebellious soldiers could start rioting. There would not be enough room for everyone inside the fortress. Besides, they might have brought a contagion with them. It would have sufficed if the men of the fortress had let some of them in to warm themselves and share provisions, but he could not begin negotiations. No one would open the door for him, and no one would answer his summons. It seemed as if everything around him was dead. The ground before him was as desolate as the battlefield, and the carrion on it was being torn apart not by crows but by ghastly beings like devils. No crust of ice would hinder their fangs from devouring the dead. They would have attacked the living, too, if they had not had the strength to defend themselves with their weapons. Once Morin had driven into an empty battlefield and had to defend himself against a swarm of black creepers that swooped down. He had no idea what to call them. Do the faces of hell have names? They weren’t wounded by the sword or frightened by fire. And the harder the cold became, the more ferocious they became. If this continued, one night they would attack the camp. Moren was lost and did not know what to do.

Early on he rejoiced at the appearance of the irresistible knight. He flashed into the midst of battle, brought a moment’s victory, and disappeared, leaving behind a trail of misery and death. That’s how the devil comes, beckoning gold but causing only pain. But that knight was to Moren almost a god. He prayed for his new appearance. He dreamed of talking to him, of simply removing his helmet and looking into his eyes, of shaking his gauntlet-shrouded hand in a friendly way, without even fearing that one. Incredibly strong and hard, it would just crush his bones. Somehow he was sure that in the eyes of this ghost or demigod, whom he did not even know, he would be able to find all the wisdom of the world and understanding. The nameless warrior would give him answers to all his questions and become an associate. They will fight shoulder to shoulder. And God knows, it is not Manfred but this knight that Moren would have wished to see as his king.

Yes, what’s the matter with him. He is almost in love. How silly and frightening at the same time. Moren felt as if he had touched something forbidden, removed his helmet and armor from a body that must not be exposed. And there beneath the armor instead of flesh was a red-hot piece of steel, an imitation of the sun, scorching hot and ready to envelop you in a deadly embrace.

Moren awoke from his visions. All around him was the winter cold, the wind, the frost, the snow-covered forest, and the uncultivated virgin snow. No cottage nearby, no hut, no village, the nearest town many miles away, the country road long since marked by snowdrifts. He could freeze to death here. And he thinks of the sun, the glowing rays and the hot iron. In his tired, depressed mind the hammers of the Zwergs forge the armor of the deity and it glitters like the dawn. In his dreams this same deity, shining like the sun, comes to his bed, holds out his hand in his gauntlet, and bids Moren become his associate.

“Forever!” utters a beautiful harsh voice, the sound of which chills the blood and sends shivers down the spine. “Forever, my earthly brother, for my term of service to the god is eternal. There will be only battles, blood, and chopping, and no lost heaven. Are you ready to fight alongside me until the end of time?”

Oh, yes, he was ready.

“You are an angel, aren’t you? Or are you God himself? And are there really wings hidden under your cloak?” Moren asked in his dreams, and he awoke in a cold sweat, his fingers still reaching for the golden vision, though the tent before his bed was empty. No golden light, not even a candle burns in the cold, but he was sure that if he stretched his hand forward, he would surely get burned. He dreamed of touching the fire. In his dreams his hands reached out to remove the helmet from the head of the radiant warrior and even if he burned his fingers, even if his hands burned or shattered, he longed to see the face of his new commander and lord. He is sure that this face will be the answer to all his questions. It is in the warrior’s face, not in himself, that secrets lie hidden. This is why he never shows himself close to anyone except those he will pierce with his sword and never reveals his name to anyone. For with a name he must show his face.

Moren could almost see him in his dreams, even through his helmet. The face was more like a maiden’s, so stern and so luminous that it was almost impossible to make out the features. But somehow he was sure it resembled Rianon’s features in some way. Absurd, of course, but a dream is not reality. It could be full of absurdities. Dreams are by nature messy, but you have to be able to interpret them, and then everything comes together into a clear picture. But Moren was no expert at interpreting dreams, and he certainly couldn’t find a witch doctor here to interpret them for him. He could only surmise that the dream, which burned inside him, was momentous and fateful.

Now he dreamed of a banner adorned with the head of a golden dragon and of a warlord in shining armor.

“My earthly counterpart. Earthly, not heavenly,” the voice from the dream was still in his head, calm, commanding, and mesmerizing. He offered nothing and demanded nothing, but Moren was willing to follow him anywhere. He would even gladly give the unknown warrior his place at the head of the remaining troops. He was sure that the warrior-god would not lead him to certain death. The first time he disappeared and they began to lose, but if he returned, things could still be sorted out.

Of course, such thoughts might have come to him under the pressure of numerous messengers. Manfred sent them every week, later every day, he asked and even demanded that Moren think of a way to not only throw his remaining forces into battle, but to find the unknown warrior. Where to look Manfred did not say, but he promised that he would execute his commander-in-chief for not carrying out his orders.. Rumors have reached Moren that Manfred is already considered mad at court. He scurried about the throne room like a black raven, claiming that he could tame the deity and make it serve him. In the same way, one might claim to reach for a star in the sky and catch flames with one’s bare hands. The courtiers nodded smartly in the king’s face and chuckled behind his back. Many even regretted the fleeing princess Rhianon. Even if she had gone mad, she would have attracted people with her charms and wouldn’t have prevented her advisors from ruling for her. This would have been a place where court intrigues and parties of minions would have been free to snatch a piece of power by befriending the charming young queen. Conrad, on the other hand, was looked upon with either condescension or contempt. Even the prince’s friends ran off to play cards and wander the pubs, leaving him alone. They were tired of hearing him harp on about his runaway lover and his penchant for black magic. Many were also frightened by his complete unwillingness to think about the affairs of the country. No one thought of Princess Hildegard as a potential queen.

Because of her unattractiveness, she was forgotten. But she had her chances. This cunning black lady was capable of much. Moren remembered her scheming and her greedy look when she lured him once into the dark tower.

“You might fall down this steep staircase if you don’t accept my offer,” she hinted to him. He had forgotten her words then, but they came sharply to mind now. She had promised him her advisor’s place if he would help her take her father’s place. At the time he thought it was a game. One of Hildegard’s ladies-in-waiting might just be lurking behind the draperies and laughing at a successful joke. However, the game was repeated over and over again. Again and again the unassuming lady dressed in black lured the knights into the corner tower, offering them seats near the throne if they would help her occupy it. If not, they would wring their necks. In the beginning the threats were empty, but then some accidents did happen. Like a true gentleman, Moren kept quiet about the antics of the strange lady, and who would believe him. Who knows how many she had already lured or intimidated to her side? As he walked through the throne room, he caught the icy glances of her ladies-in-waiting. Even in their bright dresses and wreaths they looked like harpies, daring to leap. They chuckled nastily and joked behind the knights’ backs. And Hildegard, perpetually dressed in black, already looked like the queen-widow in their circle, or the black lady of death. Moren disliked her, but he had no intention of engaging in intrigue.

Of course, he himself, like many, would have preferred to see Rhianon, the rightful heiress and beautiful girl, as queen. But where is she? Does she know what is happening in her country? What if she is too far away from Loreth and has no idea that a rift is brewing at court? Now would be a good time for her to return. Manfred is mad, he can easily be overthrown and imprisoned, the courtiers will support her, Conrad cannot oppose her, and probably will not want to. He is naturally passive and easily sidelined. And the golden-haired princess is said to have a strong character and an unwavering will. Some have even predicted that she could fight with a sword in her hand, not just lead a weak-willed husband. But Moren was certain that if she took the throne, and if she rejected a foreign prince, she would choose the best of the knights of her land, the one who could truly defend herself and her power with his sword.

“Like you,” a mischievously mocking voice rang out, and then someone nearby laughed, lightly, mockingly, and at ease, as if it had become a pleasure to drive one to madness with jokes.

He turned around abruptly. There was no one around, only silver snowflakes trembling and flying from the branches of a lone fir tree. If someone unseen was talking to him, he would have to fit on this branch, right on the spruce needles or the snowflakes falling from them.

Moren shook his head wearily. He hadn’t rested or eaten properly in a long time, and no wonder his imagination was playing tricks on him.

It was better not to give in to black fantasies, but to think of something pleasant. What if Rhianon came back and really chose him as her husband? For that he need only find a nameless knight to help him. It turns out that he will win, and Moren will only be his right hand, but after all, the deity will not even marry a beautiful princess. He will give his reward to Moren, as his mortal companion.

“And then we’ll have to fight forever,” the voice from his dream repeated, but it was really just a playful imagination.

Moren knew that he’d painted a far-reaching plan for himself, and that he had no hope of fulfilling it. He ruffled his curly blond hair with his hand. He’d lost his hat a long time ago, and he was afraid to put his helmet on because of the cold. The hard iron would just freeze to his skin, leave scars on his cheeks. He’d seen knights this had happened to before. They became disfigured. And he would have liked to present himself to Rhianon in a better light. He was said to be rather handsome, but there were so many handsome and noble young men at court. And there were always so many knights fighting at tournaments, even over the princess’s shawl or scarf. He wanted to win at least such a tournament to touch her hand holding out the scarf for once, but he failed. Once he was badly wounded and lay in oblivion for a couple of days. It seemed to be during that period that he began to have visions. He had strange dreams. He saw dark creatures pressing against his chest to drink blood from his wound and ripping off the bandage.

“You could be like us, but you won’t,” they hummed, driving him almost insane.

When he recovered from his wound it was springtime, the May fair had begun, and he walked to the fortuneteller’s tent to ask her if his feelings could become mutual, but he did not have to go in to the fortuneteller. A dry hand caught him still at the entrance to the tent. The fearful fortuneteller merely glanced at the lines of his palm and whispered in a squeaky voice that he would never get what he wanted unless he died. It was more like a mockery. Now every time he looked at the colorful ribbons and tents of the fairgrounds he remembered that occasion. The fortuneteller’s voice reminded him of the vile squeaking of his dreams. Now he thought that her words might not have been true. The wretched old woman might have laughed at him. The knight had just recovered from his wounds and was looking for someone in the crowd, a perfect target for impertinent jokes. You could tell he was in love.

That day, after all, he had seen Rhianon. She rode by on a raven stallion, escorted by her retinue, and didn’t even look in his direction. But her mere sight was already like a sunrise. Perhaps now in these thickets and snowy heaths he would meet her and she would let him bring victory to her feet. They will return to Loretta together and she will let him take his place beside her.

Moren shook his head stubbornly. He felt it could not be, and he hoped anyway. Sometimes the most impossible things happen, after all.

Just now, someone was chuckling over the empty snow-covered field and calling to him from the far blackening forest. Moren thought he was going crazy, but what if that wasn’t it at all. In his dreams Rhianon was still returning to the throne, laying a crown on his head, and the treacherous Hildegard retreated into the background for the sake of decency and pretended to share in everyone’s merriment. If he had been Rhianon’s protector, he would have banished the black ogre, for she had squinted too enviously at the princess. She was jealous of Rhianon’s beauty and charm.

Moren didn’t even notice how something in the surrounding atmosphere changed dramatically. It seemed to get a little warmer. He put his hand to his forehead and found droplets of sweat streaming down his skin. Was he hot? The sweat kept streaming and burning his eyes, as if the moisture were red-hot.

“What are you looking for here?” A creeping voice asked from somewhere inside his mind.

“Him,” Moren realized he had opened his mouth and said it out loud. How simple-minded. He was not supposed to tell anyone, or even the emptiness itself, about his plans. It’s a precautionary measure. But on the other hand, how will he find that knight if no one tells him where to look. Even though Manfred’s order to look for him made no sense, Moren did not ride through the wastelands and valleys because he was following orders. He was looking for someone he wanted to find himself.

His horse could hardly walk, and there was something rustling and hissing in the melting snow beneath his hooves. Melting? Moren looked down in astonishment, right under his horse’s feet. Could it really be the end of winter already? But it was only the beginning of February. It had been the worst month of his life. Perhaps he would not live to see March and the first snowdrops. All his troops would not live to see them.

Moren suddenly felt the nearness of fire, as if someone had made a fire right in the snow. After so many weeks of cold, the warmth should have felt pleasant to him, but instead it felt like it burned. It wasn’t even heat, it was intense heat.

Moren struggled to get off the stubborn horse. The animal would not go any farther. Moren had to walk on his own through the melting snow. Sometimes his feet got stuck in hollows and drifts. In some places the snow did not melt after all. The young man noticed a hard crust of ice over a frozen stream, and to his left, clumps of bluish snowdrops nestled right in the melted snow. He took his glove off his hand and wiped the sweat from his forehead once more. The liquid really burned. Maybe his own sweat or tears could scorch his skin. The unbearably bright glow ahead blinded and burned his eyes. He felt his eyeballs tingle and tears as hot as sweat collect inside his eyelids. What is this obsession?

“You have stepped into his territory,” the obliging voice explained. “You wanted to see the deity’s domain, didn’t you? Now look.”

From the blinding light and the hot tears Moren could no longer look. He could really make out a fire somewhere in the distance, the flames crackling and fluttering in the snow, but the heat wasn’t coming from it. Black creatures, remotely resembling fabulous leprechauns, danced around the fire. Catch one, and it will grant your every wish, lead you to great treasures, or tell you a magical secret. All you have to do is to hold it tightly in your hands and not let it out. Leprechaun will start beating and trying to trick you to escape, in any case, you don’t let him go, then the gold magic baby count in your pocket. Well, there, it turns out he still remembered the tales of his nannies and maids from his father’s old castle. He could catch one of the leprechauns, he could hold on to it despite all the tricks and even the bites of the tiny needle-tooth, only it wasn’t the gold he wanted. More precisely, his ultimate desire was somehow connected to the gold, but he didn’t understand how. He needed to find the nameless knight, the god who had appeared to him in his dreams in armor wrapped in the sun. Moren was even willing to catch the Leprechaun if only he could find the knight or say the magic words to summon him. How hard could he dodge now? Moren had already stretched his arm forward, but then someone grabbed him sharply by the shoulder.

“Don’t,” a sly voice said over his ear. “Don’t make a wish for something that is already written in your destiny.”

Moren wanted to turn around, or at least look at his hand, but the man would not let him. It seemed to him that his hand was held not by fingers but by claws, black claws like the ones that ate corpses on the battlefield, but he couldn’t see them clearly. He couldn’t even see them from the corner of his eye, only feel them.

Something scalding smelled on his shoulder. He winced and tried to break free, but then the intruding voice came again.

“I will take you to him,” he promised, “to your knight. You are destined to be together, I know it.”

“Who are you?” Moren found it hard to speak.

The soft laughter that echoed in his ears was more like a rustling noise.