Kitabı oku: «Rhianon-5. Along the way of deception», sayfa 7

“Ron,” she whispered. “Where is he? You can tell me that, you little spinsters.”

She stressed the last word so that it sounded almost like an insult. Perhaps she had made a mistake. If these creatures are so small in stature, it doesn’t mean they can’t be omnipotent. The tiny heads didn’t even turn in her direction, and the thread continued to ooze.

“Your friend died, we told you,” one of the redheaded spinsters finally relented. “He’s gone, but he left you a legacy of all he had.”

Is it inheritance? Well, then it couldn’t have been who she thought it was. Ron had nothing but… his own blood. Rhianon stared at the sheets in her hands in horror.

“I don’t believe you,” she whispered, but the spinners, not even paying attention to her, kept working.

It was nothing to strive for. It was nothing to lose. Everything was already achieved and lost. Madael felt a surprising emptiness. It opened up inside him, like an abyss, ready to swallow everything. And his only universe was now a battlefield. He now rushed at the first call, at any rattle of a weapon, intervening not only in major wars, but also in petty internecine squabbles between principalities. Cold steel called to him even more strongly than the already powerless calls of a god. He was now the god of war himself, and he spared no one. Arnaud waved in amazement behind him as the angel’s sword plunged again and again into the defeated bodies, cutting through lats and ribs and soft flesh as well. The fountains of scarlet droplets gave no warmth, their splashes lost against the scarlet background of his cloak, the death convulsions of the bodies did not frighten him. He looked at everything with an indifference bordering on contempt.

“None of them will be in as much pain as I am, and so they die in agony at my feet,” he whispered to Arnaud, who now followed him everywhere. His whispering sounded more like the rustling of wind or the hissing of fire, but Arnaud had grown accustomed to discerning his master’s inhuman speech and even heeded his mental commands at times.

Perhaps he already regretted following his deity. Madael didn’t care. Arnaud had forced himself on him, had rushed to the Cathedral of Thunder to perform the ritual, even though he had not called him. This degenerate had decided he was like the fallen angels, so now let him take a closer look at his fellows.

“Do you like it with me?” He repeatedly tried to ask Arnaud, and each time all he heard in response was the anxious fluttering of his flute. Perhaps her tune meant that Arnaud thought his fate was inevitable.

“It’s like the runes,” he explained, sitting on a boulder by the rocky ridge where they came after battles. Madael needed no rest, just a little break between the endless battles. There was always fighting in the world, people defending their independence, rushing to seize others’ lands or defend their own, engaging in internecine disputes, and just plain languishing with greed. Somewhere daily steel rang out and Madael rushed there. War was his element. The rocks are almost his new home. And the cold wind blowing from the ocean is like a herald of the coming battle. The elements, too, are worthy to be fought. He felt the spray on his face and the violent wind that would knock a man down, almost like a battle. The sea creatures feared him and crawled away from the shore when he appeared here. Slimy and disgusting, only partially retaining the remains of their once beautiful heads, they disgusted him so much that he burned them on sight. Now they were even more afraid of him than before. And only Arnaud sometimes looked at him with inexpressible delight. He adored his master for allowing him to be his servant.

“Have you studied the runes? Have you learned much?” Madael was condescending and sneering, his own shield painted with runes represented something very special. Arnaud wouldn’t dare touch it.

“Yes, I know their names.”

“Are they Earth names.”

“They are Uruz, Berkana, Gebo, Otal, Kano,” he began to enumerate, curling his fingers while the strings of his flute mimicked him nervously. “I have been given Odin, the empty rune of fate. Nothing can be changed, and end and beginning are one and the same, so there is nothing. There is only inevitability.”

“With that I am familiar,” Madeel brushed tiny pearls of watery spray from his hair, as if they would turn into pure pearls at his touch. Arnaud held his breath. Everything that came into contact with him became golden and cursed. And so it was this time. Madael poured him a handful of pure pearls, white as innocence itself, but so sinister.

“Accept gifts from the devil.”

Arnaud shuddered. The angel before him was terrifyingly beautiful, and that beauty reeked of such deathly coldness that it sent shivers down his spine. If he had been a mere human, his heart would have stopped at the sight of something like that.

“What about her?” Arnaud ventured to ask. And at the same moment the blow of the sword nearly struck his neck. He barely dodged. The blade sliced into the chipped edge, cracking the smooth surface. Somewhere far away there was a rumbling sound, sparks flying off. Arnaud shrank back all around him. The sight of the infernal warrior’s rugged beauty was even more frightening than the mass of rock about to fall.

It would crush him beneath it, but it would not crush the angel Mastema. That was the name Arnaud was used to calling him. More complex and ancient, it conveyed his essence far more deeply than the gentle imitation of the names of others who remained in heaven. It was a pity that he was already used to being Madael. His greatness had to be expressed in something intimidating, not in that beautiful sound.

“Let’s go!” The former archangel carelessly held out his hand. He could not stay away from the battlefield for long, and now the echoing sounds of battle somewhere far away were calling him to fly again.

Arnaud glanced cautiously at the glowing, strong palm. It seemed sacrilegious to touch it.

“You don’t want to stay here, where everything is about to collapse?”

Arno didn’t want to.

Bloody gold

The sheets lay on her desk, useless and glowing scarlet. How much life juice had gone into scribbling them? Blood! Rhianon looked at her own wrist and shuddered in fear. It felt as if a knife had gone through it, and the sensation was something of a pinch. She tried to drive the bad thoughts away.

It was all just the intrigues of the house. The supernatural creatures were only hiding in the corners, but they weren’t going anywhere. They were the ones who managed to get Prince Rothbert out of the house. Despite all his magical abilities, he could not get along with the local inhabitants. Rhianon had grown accustomed to them as pieces of furniture, which also had a way of moving from one place to another, though she herself had never touched them. She simply would not have had the strength to move the heavy dressers or move the bed, and the brass sphinxes would not have been able to move an inch, just as the lead-framed mirrors, and the oak tables, and the many carved chairs. The inanimate objects seemed to live and move on their own. As soon as she closed her eyes, the familiar things were suddenly in a completely different place, as if they had grown legs to move. Or someone invisible had moved them.

Even the walls had an eerie, sinister quality to them, as if they were whispering and breathing, and could move at any moment to crush an unwelcome guest. Rhianon often heard sighs coming from the smooth surface of the walls, and she also occasionally heard the haunting singing of the spinners.

Since she was recognized as their queen, the creatures of the house could not simply force her out. But they could make her life here unbearable.

Rhianon opened the sashes of the window and looked out into the street. Yesterday’s encounter seemed today only a dream. The daylight chased away the memory of the angel of death, his gray cloak and ulcerated hands. She could only have dreamt it all. And yet one gold coin among her savings was missing.

The flower stall just to the left of her house still stood out in a riot of colors and blossoms. Lush bouquets loomed brightly in front of the dull facades of nearby buildings, except that no florist beside them was bustling.

“Flowers are not only given to lovers, they are also placed on their graves,” whispered in the ear of Rhianon a thin voice, which could easily be recognized as the voice of one of the spinsters, melodious and at the same time shrill, it was like a taut string. “Both celebrations and funerals are equally celebrated with flowers. And each flower has its own meaning: carnations — honor, daffodils — treason, jasmine — affection, hyacinth — fun, dahlias — victory, tulips — pride, lilies — innocence. The list is endless. And what flowers would you put on Ron’s grave?”

“It is forget-me-nots,” she said mechanically, and then bit her tongue. How do you bury someone who’s probably still alive? It’s like calling death on his head. The evil spirits are capable of driving any man to suicide just for fun, it’s enough to say a name to send them over the man, and then they go to work, begin to tease him, set up different pranks, to lure him to the lost places and all sorts of abuse of the victim. Invisible to others and laughing at you alone, they would drive anyone to madness. Rhianon immediately regretted her levity. She didn’t want to hurt Ron. On his own, he would have survived under any circumstances, unless he had been captured and hanged. A life-loving lad like him wouldn’t just die. Nor would he surrender without a fight. Rhianon didn’t believe he was dead. Most likely the spirits inhabiting the house just wanted to tease her. And it could also be a clever maneuver for her to leave their house to look for her friend. And how could they even know about Ron? He was too far away from here, and the spirits probably stayed chained to these walls. They couldn’t have flown to Loretta and followed him. More likely, they just plucked the first name that came to mind from Rhianon’s mind.

To unwind a little, she went outside. She was tired of the voices of the spirits and their tricks. She wanted a break from them all. Rhianon had been right in her calculations; no one followed her outside. Apparently, indeed, the local evil spirits were confined to this very house. They could watch her from the windows, but not follow her along the road.

And yet some negative influence still remained. Rhianon caught herself continuing to list the flowers and their strange meanings, and even curling her fingers at each name.

“Aster — cunning, heather — solitude, cornflower — modesty, marigold — mental suffering, daisy — reciprocity of feelings, poppy — peacefulness, dandelion — prophetic gift, rosehip flowers — lofty feelings, cherry flowers — good hopes, acacia — tenderness, and chestnut flowers — justice…”

How does she know all this? Rhianon had never thought about the meaning of flowers. Hildegard had more experience with herbs and various medicinal plants. Except that it was unlikely that she used their decoctions to restore someone’s health, rather the opposite. Rhianon was sure that there was no worthy substitute for her in making poisons and spells, and she was certainly an expert in flowers. Or maybe it was the meanings given to the colors by the fairies. The list really could be enumerated to infinity.

“Violet — modesty, water lily — recognition, hydrangea — thoughtlessness, forget-me-not — memory, marigold — remembrance of the dead…”

Rhianon stopped right in front of the flower counter. It seemed strange to her that there was no vendor standing next to baskets full of flowers. The goods were left unattended, one large wicker basket had even tipped over behind the counter and now the primroses and primroses were lying in the dirt.

Rhianon wanted to walk around the counter and peek into the tiny house behind it, but suddenly she noticed a mourning wreath intertwined with black ribbons, and also some kind of sign on the door. In Loretta, it would have warned of an epidemic or contagious disease; perhaps it was the same here.

“Don’t go in there,” someone touched her shoulder.

Rhianon turned around. The man who had spoken to her could be mistaken for an undertaker. He most likely was.

She had already guessed what had happened. But still she asked.

“Did someone die in there?”

A quick silent nod said as much about the situation as any word could.

“It’s infected. No one should go in there.”

Rianon shuddered. She remembered the tall gray-clad figure, the sores on his angelic face.

“How long has the infestation been in town?” She asked.

“Not in the city. One of the newcomers brought it in.”

“What makes you think so?”

The undertaker only shrugged his shoulders.

“Everyone saw the old man bend down to pick up the coin thrown by some stranger. It wasn’t our gold, not the kind you can buy something with in Vinor…”

“And where is that coin now?” Rhianon interrupted him. “He still has it.”

“They could not find it in the house,” he said sullenly.

Rhianon stepped aside to give him way.

She was walking home as if she were delirious. So she hadn’t been dreaming after all.

“And what’s wrong with that,” the strangers’ voices rang out from behind the trellises, invisible though they were in the wall, “people die every day, and then we follow the funeral procession. We love to go to funerals and memorial services. And the young dead women’s hair goes to us for yarn. You should see what it is, too.”

Rhianon tried not to listen to them, but it was difficult. The voices rang inside the wall, and when she lay down on the bed, they even began to come from the ceiling.

Come to think of it, the florist might not have died because of her, but simply because his time had come. He was no longer young. And illness is all the more capable of breaking anyone.

“It’s time to get out of here,” Rhianon thought. If there really is an epidemic in the city, there’s nothing left for her to do here. No one could possibly wander into a house that was invisible, except a traveling wizard, and that wouldn’t last long. The spirits would drive him out themselves. She’s unlikely to have any claim on her property. Better to lock the doors and set off.”

“It is a good idea,” someone whispered in her ear.

She turned her head on the pillow, expecting to see at least Orpheus beside her, but only one of the spinners was fussing over the bedside table. She pulled out a skein of fiery red yarn from somewhere. She seemed to be carrying the sun in her tiny hands, but in an instant she was long gone.

Rhianon wasn’t surprised at how quickly these creatures disappeared and reappeared. Her thoughts were much more preoccupied at the moment with Orpheus. Why had he not yet appeared? Had he really decided to leave her? Had he even made an attempt to wrest her from her master himself? Rhianon remembered his invasion of the tent and the consternation he had felt in front of Madael. He could not, of course, wrestle the lady from her lord. But now she was alone. So who is stopping him from coming?

But the space beside her remained empty, no spirit seeped through the walls to cheer her up and play cards with her. Well, that’s good. It’s even calmer without him. No one is throwing her off her chosen path with their ridiculous suggestions. Ah, yes, it seems she hasn’t chosen her own path yet. Where would she go?

If she had the pendant it would be easy. She’d just wish for the place she wanted to go, and in a moment she’d be standing there. Without the pendant, she would have to travel again, like a mere mortal. Too bad you can’t lure the jewelry back from the dwarf.

Rhianon had almost forgotten that something fiery and unpredictable was slumbering inside her. It was the child of a fallen angel. Sometimes it burns her from within more painfully than fire. How can she go on journeys carrying it inside her? What if another cramp twists her right in front of people? How will she explain her condition to anyone? Her belly remains flat, yet a devil’s seed matures within it. It was son of Dennitsa. What will he be like? Will he be handsome and strong like his father?

Rhianon fell asleep briefly, and when she opened her eyes, she noticed a hunched black silhouette sitting at the foot of the bed. Its claws scratched at the fluted posts that propped up the canopy, its eyes burning like two embers. Burnt wings were folded behind the curved back like a cat’s. Before she’d only seen him in the tower or in Madael’s tent; now he was beside her bed, watching her as she’d watched Yves before.

Strangely, she was no longer afraid of him. He was suddenly no longer scary. The black, burned-out body was more repulsive than terrifying. And also regret. For once he had not been like that. Now Rhianon even knew his name, Asmodeus. But it didn’t tell her anything. It was just one of the names of the demons. To her, all the fallen angels looked alike, burnt and bitter, losing all their beauty but still extremely strong-all of them nameless soldiers in her lover’s vast army. What matures within her now protects her securely from them all.

“Go away!” She whispered, and a moment later he was gone. And there was no ash residue on the bedposts. The crossbeam on which he sat was clean, too: no soot or ash. It was as if Asmodeus had never been here. It would be good if he himself were always only a character in her dreams.

The kingdom of dreams! The name came to her mind, as if that were where she was going. All she had to do was blindfold herself, take a lantern in her hand, disperse the spawn of the night, and wander at random to find it, someone else’s voice told her. Maybe it was in jest. Rhianon imagined herself blindfolded, lantern in hand, walking down the path of dreams. It wasn’t for her. Besides, in the dream realm, everything was subject to Madael. He would find her there faster than anywhere else. For now she wanted to be alone. Not for long at all. It was to gather her thoughts.

She wanted Loretta and at any cost, and instead she was wandering in foreign lands. Living with Madael, she had all but forgotten her main purpose in life. She needed to get hers back, and then she could die and unite with the fallen angel. The Cathedral of Thunder came to mind as if on purpose. If there really was such a place, would she be able to find her way there. And where was the guarantee that after she performed the ritual, she would end up with the one she wanted to join.

Everything was so complicated, and she clearly lacked knowledge. Too bad she didn’t have the ability to learn the forbidden arts, unlike Hildegard. On the other hand, maybe Rothbert was right and she should wait until her latent abilities would make themselves known. But then she would have to wait forever.

She sighed heavily, and a cloud of fire erupted from her chest with her breath. Fortunately it didn’t set anything on fire, but just hung like an orange-golden haze under the bed canopy.

Learn to do it yourself, Clive told her. She decided to give it a try. How do you control fire? How do you make it take the shape of a ball of fire and make a throw? How to create a vision out of fire? She mentally strained, trying to imagine something familiar and achievable, like the star in her hands that had shown her the way to the School of Witchcraft. That star could have been easily manipulated, twisted one way or the other, clenched in her fist, if fire had become as malleable. For a moment nothing happened. Rhianon was already desperate, but after a minute the orange substance suddenly began to take the shape of a pointed star, bright, yellow, with red lines around the edges. It was a star of flame.

Rhianon jumped out of bed and stepped aside. Just a moment and the loss of control told, the fire rushed down and burned the edges of the canopy, as well as the pillow on which Rhianon’s head had been resting before. Some spirits she had accidentally scorched screamed in pain. She could see that they were already nestled behind the curtain and in the bed, and then fire came out of nowhere.

If they were burned, they should be. She did not invite them to her bed. Rhianon was glad she had stepped back in time. Playing with fire was dangerous. You could get burned. She should take the first bad experience into account for the future and not make any more mistakes. The main thing is to control your creation, once you lose it and the flame begins to live on its own. Then it will easily burn you.

You have to practice. You’d do well to choose a place in the wilderness where the flames have nothing to devour. The Duchy of Rothbert would be ideal. Rhianon grinned.

She still hoped that the dwarf would crawl out of his hiding place and return the pendant to her himself. But those hopes were in vain. Of course, Fate was not going to give it back to her. Rhianon had heard that dwarves can be very greedy, and every carat of gold in their storerooms counts. Once a year, at Christmas time she thinks, there are days when they are forced to give gifts to mortals who happen to be near their homes. Except that the gifts to the evil one are never meant for good.

Rhianon tried not to remember Dominic. And who was to remember now? Dominic retained none of his former features, but his gold did not fade with time. On the contrary, the coins shone only brighter. Each one was like a miniature sun itself. Rhianon gazed at them at length and with pleasure. The embossing on them was so exquisite, the designs so intricate. No other coat of arms, banners, or emblems contained such strange symbols. Unless they were signs peculiar to the host of Dennitsa. He, too, is a king, after all, and may well have his own coats of arms. Each gold disc was unique. Crossed swords, severed heads, snakes wriggling for hair, winged silhouettes — all were cast in gold. You had to be very skillful to depict something like that in miniature.

Rhianon waited as long as she could for Fate to appear. But it was as if the dwarf had vanished into thin air. But as soon as she gathered her things and left the house one night, she heard his quiet footsteps behind her. Wow! It turns out that unlike the others he is not tied to the house and can follow her. But why would he do that? He’d wanted her to get away, and now he wouldn’t let her out of his sight. He was hiding in the shadows of the houses as soon as she turned around, but as soon as she quickened her pace, she could hear him trailing behind her. His evil eyes gleamed in the darkness. Even at twenty paces, Rhianon could see them clearly.

“Well, what do you want me to do now, cut off my hair on the pretext that the lights are gold and therefore the rightful property of dwarves?” She muttered quietly, no doubt he would hear her, however far away he was.

He followed her all the way to the town gate, and even then on the country road she noticed his plump, low figure, able to hide quickly behind a rock or a stump. If he wanted to impose himself as a traveling companion, she would not allow it. Rhianon quickened her pace.

She wished some bird of prey would peck this gnome. Rhianon remembered the griffins in Dead Valley, and she wished there were more of them here so they could attack the tiny creature that followed her along the empty road. Deliberately, to throw him off her path, she turned into the woods. What if he didn’t make it to the right place in time to turn off the road in the same place she did?

It would have been wiser to wait and catch him. Since he was following her, he was bound to get caught sooner or later. And then it would be possible to take the pendant from him.

The woods smelled of spring. Rhianon noticed the swelling willow buds, even picked one leaf from a tree. If it was March, it was still cold in Loretta, and only in April would snowdrops begin to peep out in some places, but closer to Vinor the climate was getting warmer. Rhianon would not have been surprised to learn that winters here, too, were surprisingly mild rather than long and harsh. Her homeland was much farther north, and many of the areas there had little in the way of life and prosperity, but it was her homeland nonetheless.

After walking a long distance Rhianon turned around. Well now the dwarf certainly couldn’t catch up with her. She almost shrieked in amazement when she spotted his plump figure darting behind a stump only ten paces away from her.

The nerve of that man! Rhianon wanted to curse, but she shouldn’t shout curses into the void. As long as the dwarf didn’t come any closer, she could do him no real harm. As with all things evil, he would only be delighted to have driven her to the brink of death. So Rhianon didn’t swear. She decided to just ignore him. And then she would see.

In truth, Rhianon felt out of place, wandering through the night forest in the dark. She hadn’t even known where she was. She doesn’t even know where to find the Phylliss’s tree or how to summon the other fairies. If she met up with them again, she’d have no trouble getting an overnight stay.

Rhianon picked up a dry twig from the ground and blew on its tip. It immediately went up in flames, like a lighter. Suddenly someone shrieked in the darkness and sped away.

Rhianon looked up in surprise at the trampled moss beneath her feet. Someone had clearly been here. Dozens of tiny feet could have treaded on a rotted mushroom ring by the moss or the top of an old stump.

The fire could have devoured the branch too quickly, so she tried to control it. Let the flames burn at the very tip, but don’t go down. At first it worked. The flame burned with a crackle at the tip of the branch while the twig itself clutched in her hand remained untouched. It seemed as if the fire could go no farther than a certain level. It simply had no right to, because she was the one leading it. The flame she created must obey only her.

Well, there, so she doesn’t even need a candle. Walking through the forest with a lighted branch, Rhianon felt no worse than if she were walking down the castle corridor with a small candlestick.

“Share it with us!” A squeak came from someone in the mossy thicket below.

Rhianon looked beneath her feet. She saw nothing but a rotten mushroom ring and moss. And the footprints of tiny feet might only have appeared to her. If only a few small silhouettes hadn’t flashed behind the stump, she would have passed by without regret. But when she noticed them, Rhianon stopped and even bent down to look at them. Pixies, of course, how she hadn’t guessed before. There must be pixies in the forests of Vinor, too. They weren’t large insects in size, but their brightly colored clothing gave them away. The small group gathered at Rhianon’s feet was dominated by reds and oranges. They resembled fire themselves, she wouldn’t have been able to even look at them before, but now she was curious. The red-haired, clad in light orange tunics seemed to have been made for dancing around the fire. Their cavaliers were in red, too. A miniature world! Rhianon imagined how creatures of that size had to live. They could easily be crushed without even noticing that they destroyed such beauty, after all, they are quite tiny and inconspicuous. But they must also be immortal.

“Light a fire for us,” someone from the little gathering suggested. “And we’ll show you the way to your lodgings.”

“It is all right!” Rhianon hesitated to ask them for directions to the magic kingdom. After all, where could they ask her to sleep if not there? Perhaps there she would meet some fairies she knew. It was nothing for her to make one mental effort to ignite the handful of twig fragments they had stacked on the moss. In a moment the pixies were dancing excitedly around the brightly lit fire. It was the size of a palm itself, but just right for them. Rhianon watched as they twirled, jumped, or flew around the burning flames. It was amazing how her own eyesight sharpened if she could see their faces clearly. The faeries were all rather cute, with pointed ears, heart-shaped faces, and glowing pale skin.

When a few orange lights separated from the dancing group and flew forward, Rhianon realized that they were showing her the way, just as they had promised. She quickly followed them.

For a while she had to scramble through the thicket. A branch she put out and threw away. The glow exuded by the tiny flying creatures was enough to guide her. From a distance the pixies looked like fireflies, flying swiftly into the depths of the forest. Except that instead of thickets they led her to a small meadow. Rhianon nearly tripped over the cleared stumps. It looked as if someone had cleared the place on purpose. The trees had been cut down to make a small area. Rhianon did not immediately notice the walls of the hunting lodge in the distance. She was disappointed. It was just a human dwelling. She had at least hoped to find her way to the tree of Phylliss, or the abode of her tribeswomen. She longed to dance among the fairies again, but their presence was not to be felt.

“And that was all?” She stared at the hunting lodge in astonishment. But the pixies had already disappeared. They had kept their promise, brought her to a place where she could sleep for the night, but nothing more.

Rhianon had expected the house to be at least empty, but here too she was wrong. Dim lights burned in the second story windows, brassware clinked, and voices were heard. The hunters must have been celebrating their good fortune. They had probably shot a good game all day and brought their wine with them. Should they be disturbed?