Kitabı oku: «Youngest Son of the Water King. A bride for the water prince»

Yazı tipi:

Translator Natalia Lilienthal

ISBN 978-5-0060-4043-4

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

Bottomless pond

Desdemona’s mood was gloomy in keeping with the overcast day. The clouds had gathered too quickly. An hour ago the sun had been shining, and now a storm was approaching. The waves would not slip into the garden behind the stone fortress, no matter how high they rose. But rumors that the sea creatures, when raging, could flood even the mightiest fortress, had long frightened the people of Aquilania.

That’s probably why her stepmother is so eager to give her to the sea god. They say the more girls they give him, the more merciful he’ll be. Or maybe the stepmother is just in a hurry to get rid of her. Candida hated the young stepdaughter at first sight and her dislike only grew stronger with time. It was impossible to placate her neither politeness, nor gifts, which Desdemona embroidered, or even playing the harp.

However, the father Candida also did not like and did not want to see. Barely married her, he was forced to become a merchant. Although for him, an aristocrat, it was shameful. But love requires sacrifice, especially when an older man in love with a young and seductive woman, which was Candida. She was almost the same age as her husband’s daughter and a rare beauty.

Desdemona sometimes felt that her stepmother was a bit of a witch. Ever since she had settled on the estate, everything here had fallen into disrepair. Most of the servants had to be dismissed, her mother’s jewelry sold off. Her father had tried like hell, even made a strange pact with some creatures. They were in charge of navigation. Desdemona never realized what these creatures were, but her father regretted that he had tangled with them. The stepmother, on the other hand, did not. She was not discouraged by the neglected estate or the deplorable state of the garden. Why should she? If her father died, she’d find a new wealthy fool to take her as a wife, or at least as a mistress. With her looks, it wouldn’t be hard. In confidence, the housekeeper tells her that Candida dreams of being the new king’s favorite. The news that the rightful heir, who had reached the age of majority, was coming to Aquilania had everyone in a tizzy.

Candida dressed up in her best dresses, while Desdemona watched in despair as moss grew between the stones of the bastion walls and weeds sprouted in the garden. Mother’s roses were almost withered. Without a gardener, there was no one to tend them or pull the weeds. But the lilies in the pond were blooming and fragrant. They did not care about anything: the fact that the pond had not been cleaned for a long time, and even the poisonous fumes that came from the stepmother’s fireplace, in which something was constantly burning. She was probably a witch.

Father was seriously ill. On his last sea voyage, he’d contracted some rare disease that crippled his entire body. Superstitious servants said he turned into a sea creature after a run-in with the Morgens. He should have reprimanded them, but his stepmother wouldn’t let him. Her father’s death would only benefit her. And if there was some sea-dweller who could be paid to drag her annoying stepdaughter to the bottom, the stepmother wouldn’t care.

Ever since he married her, her father had become practically a merchant, forgetting his high birth. Because of this, Desdemona’s family was almost not accepted at court, except in rare cases, when they called everyone to announce some special decree. And now there was such a case, because from the royal palace came an invitation that took the form of an order. All the neighbors received the same invitation. All those of noble blood were commanded to attend the coronation festivities.

“He’s choosing his victim!” The maids whispered. They saw the letter. Desdemona must have misheard. Or they were playing some kind of game of horror stories again. After all, Desdemona’s father’s castle was said to be haunted. She herself had never seen ghosts here, but some people swore they had witnessed them.

Ghosts are too dark a subject. Better to think of something soothing. Desdemona looked at the delicate lily heads floating on the water. The sight of them made her feel a little better.

Dad hadn’t come to his senses for a week. There was nothing to fix his damaged ship now. The holes in the stern and sides looked like the marks of monstrous paws. That’s when you start to believe in legends.

“It’s her! It’s definitely her! We finally found her! We’ve got to get her to him! He’s been waiting for her for so long!”

Were the lilies whispering? Or maybe she’s just dreaming. Desdemona felt the persistent scent of water flowers making her dizzy. She began to think that all the lilies in the pond had women’s faces. There was too much water around.

The pond overflowed into the whole garden. She stood waist-deep in it. Someone was looking at her from the water instead of her own reflection.

“And you’re going to marry a waterman!” A green clawed hand, playing, stuck out of the water and threatened her. “You can’t be drowned yet. Too bad! I need a victim! I’ll have to choose someone else.”

When Desdemona woke up, the pond was the same. No bigger than a large fountain. The lilies had been plucked and woven into a wreath lying on the ground. She must have dreamed the whole thing. It wasn’t until the evening at dinner that she learned that one of the maids had drowned in the garden pond this afternoon.

An heir from the sea

He was named after the state his father had invaded and destroyed. That was probably why in Moran’s presence it felt as if the fortress around him was crumbling and the walls were fiery cracks.

The former Viceroy of Aquilania and now First Minister Ramiro felt insecure in his presence. The young man himself had nothing to do with watermen, though he was rumored to be of their kind. From head to neck he was definitely human, and quite handsome. His hair, the color of ripe rye, hung over the collar of his purple robe. They barely reaching his shoulders. His snow-white skin was completely free of tan and blush, which was unusual for the local climate. But the heir had returned from faraway lands. And right on the night of his return he was crowned by the priests from the temple of the sea god, who had now become the main one in the country.

Ramiro was not made aware of the appearance of the new king until the morning of his awakening. Not that it was a surprise to him. He, like everyone else, had been expecting the appearance of an already grown-up heir. But it had come too suddenly. No one had been notified of Moran’s arrival even a day in advance.

When Ramiro dressed in ceremonial attire and came to see him, the young king was already seated on the throne, and the intimidated archivist was familiarizing him with all the important records of the past years. The royal guards at the door were replaced by some ghastly giants with their faces covered with shields. In their presence Ramiro felt trapped.

“Do they wake so late in Aquilania?” The king had dumbfounded him with his first question.

“We are not awake at night, if that is what you mean, Your Majesty,” Ramiro said with a stammer. His tongue was not listening well, and dawn was just breaking outside the window. In its rays, the new king of Aquilania looked like a perfect marble statue that someone had placed on the throne as if in mockery of human imperfection. The luxurious coral crown, too, would have been the envy of any earthly ruler. It certainly didn’t come from the royal treasury. Only the gods could create such a thing.

Moran drank wine from a precious goblet that he had obviously brought with him. The walls and stem of the goblet were decorated with a ringed sea dragon made of pure gold. As far as Ramiro had heard, sea dragons were only blue, but blue gold was obviously not even found underwater. The large pearl in the middle of the cup resembled the eye in the dragon’s forehead and appeared to be sighted, as did the tiny stones on the rim.

“You have been expected for a long time,” how else to start a dialog with the king.

“So here I am,” the king tapped the armrests of the throne with long, graceful fingers studded with unusual rings. His hands were so strong that the powerful jade throne was cracked by his touch. Ramiro would have to call in the craftsmen to fix it. Would it be worth it? Ramiro noticed the cracks in the ceiling and walls. Is the castle collapsing or is it magic?

“You’re just in time. The armada from the Black Shores is closing on us.” Who doesn’t know that the Black Shores is home to tribes that practice evil magic? “We can’t handle it on our own. We need a ruler who can negotiate with the elements.”

“Is it with the elements or with those who dwell within them?” The king’s piercing gaze pinned Ramiro in place.

“Well, how can I put it more precisely?” The First Minister felt as if he were growing to the floor and the floor itself was turning to ice. “You have a whole family in the sea.”

It’s a touchy subject. Is it possible to speak directly to the young king? And how young is he? He looks like a young man, but it’s been over a century since the last heiress of Aquilania disappeared into the waves.

“I am the only one allowed to come,” Moran ventured a revelation. His long, frosty stare made Ramiro uncomfortable.

“But the others in your sea dynasty… They can be called in to help.”

“Forget the others!” Moran rose from his throne without letting go of his wine goblet. He looked magnificent in his royal robe. He was yery statuesque, tall, well-built, and strong. And they said he was a monster, the offspring of a union between a princess and a water monster. He didn’t look like a monster at all. He didn’t look like a water monster either. Except for the golden plaque like fish scales on his ears, and the coral crown that seemed to grow out of his head. Otherwise Moran was perfect, except for one minor point.

“You are the youngest son,” Ramiro reminded him gently. “The Almanac of Kings records that you have six older brothers. Their names are even listed. It is customary for the first born to inherit the throne. It is as long as he’s alive.”

“The elder brothers are still in their domains,” the heir did not deny it.

“Would they come to your aid if you called them from the abyss?”

“They don’t walk at all. But if you need them to come…” he arched his beautiful eyebrows meaningfully. Moran had expressive violet eyes beneath a rim of gold lashes, but his gaze gave Ramiro a chill.

“Shall we officially record them as cripples, to explain why you are the ones who inherit the inheritance?”

“Officially they don’t exist!” Moran objected emphatically. He glanced at the archivist’s nimble hand, which hovered in the air above the paper like a frozen thing.

“I think it’s broken,” whispered the young man, who could not move his own arm. But he dared not call for a physician. Under the heavy gaze of the new king, both health and willpower were drained from everyone.

“You have only me! Rely only on me! There’s no one else to protect you, and the sea is right under your windows,” Moran grinned wryly and moved toward the Viceroy. There was no sound of footsteps. Does he have no legs? Or is he floating above the floor?

Who knows what kind of body he has under his robe. Moran steadfastly refused to try on the doublets and caftans that had become fashionable at the court of Aquilania. He doesn’t follow fashions. But his face is divinely beautiful. Not surprising, considering that his mother, the officially deceased Princess Lilophea, was famous for her beauty.

Ramiro thought that if he didn’t prefer women, he would be wildly in love with the young king, despite the fear he felt in Moran’s presence. His proximity felt as freezing as a desert of ice. So did he really come from the sea? Probably he is some powerful wizard pretending to be the son of a princess who disappeared into the waves. But then where did he get Lilophea’s signet ring? That ring was supposed to be for the heir to the throne.

“The father won’t protect you,” Moran relented before explaining in detail. “It’s because of a long-standing conflict over a bride.”

“I remember! It was an unpleasant affair,” agreed Ramiro. He had not seen it himself, of course. The story was old. But all the details were recorded in the archives and chronicles of the kingdom. It was a pity that the paper in the local repositories got wet in some places, and some lines could not be restored later. What can you do, the humidity here is too saturated. But Ramiro was aware of the events, though not in detail. So he appreciated Moran’s remark:

“If you don’t concede a small thing to someone, it’s hard to count on their generosity.”

Ramiro had to account to him for the mistakes of those who had died long before Ramiro was born.

“The thing is,” Ramiro shifted from foot to foot. Is it just his imagination that there are slippery tentacles beneath the king’s robe and wet footprints on the floor? No, probably not, considering whose son he is.

“I don’t know what it’s like on the seas, but here in Aquilania, you don’t hand over your only princess to just anyone at the drop of a hat.”

“To you, a powerful king is just anyone?” Moran took a sip of wine. If only the purple liquid in his glass could be called wine? If it was a type of wine, it was definitely a sorcerer’s wine.

“Besides, the Lord of the Seas had complained that there had been over a hundred demands before he had to use force.”

Ramiro’s heart sank. He had called his father by his official title. Apparently their family relationship wasn’t so friendly that Moran could call on his relatives for help.

“I’m afraid the state is in a sorry state right now. We’re down to ten ships at most. And the enemy’s armada is almost at the fortress walls.”

Moran gave him an expressive look. It is clear under whose supervision we are so impoverished, said his eyes from under half-lidded eyelids.

“Come!” He beckoned instead of judging, and fish scales glistened on his hand. “I’ll show you how to deal with your enemies without a fleet.”

A shattered fleet

Desdemona watched from below the crowded square. It was dangerous here. The enemy’s armada was approaching the coast. Now the foreign ships would start firing their cannons. We must run away from here, headlong. But the beautiful silhouette of the young king, as if stuck to the side of the tower arch, fascinated her.

“So this is our new king?” She exhaled in amazement.

Too young! But how majestic is he. He is standing tall, without fear of falling. And there is no barrier under his feet. You’d think he was winged. No fear of crashing at all.

Everyone, like her, came to see him, but the others had already fled the square. The first cannon volleys came from the harbor.

“The young king didn’t even tell us to assemble the fleet,” complained one of the panicked men running through the square. “We’re all going to die!”

“We will die not from our enemies, but from the monster who came to rule us,” shouted an old woman. The first volley hit her as if for a lie. The bloody body fell at Desdemona’s feet.

She herself was too shocked to run away. And where would she go? They’re firing all around. The ships of the enemy are already under the fortress wall. At the side of the harbor is burning and smoking real hell, and the newly proclaimed king of Aquilania stands in the opening of a high tower arch and silently watches. His kingdom is about to be crushed, and there is no emotion on his beautiful face.

Could it be a statue up there, dressed in a royal robe for distraction? No, it doesn’t look like it, because he’s moving. He stretched his hand out toward the sea, whispered something, and the square immediately became dark. It’s the storm coming. And a moment ago the sky was clear except for the smoke from the cannons.

The king’s ominous whisper travels over the land like a spell. It sounds like the mutterings of the sea priests, only it’s frosty.

Desdemona looked at her wrists and palms. They were covered in hoarfrost. Some creatures of water were crawling across the square and biting the flesh off the corpses left by the enemy’s heavy artillery. She looked down at the king again, as if he were a deity. To those watching, he probably was now, for he stood in the place where he was most likely to be killed. With his scarlet robe fluttering in the wind, he was a perfect target for the enemy. Probably he was a madman, but definitely not a monster. No matter what they say about him! He looked more like an angel with a golden head, but the pattern of tentacles of some sea animal stuck to the wall near his feet spoiled the impression. One of the tentacles rubbed his cheek, touched his crown.

The king was no longer whispering, but the echo of his whisper, like an infernal hiss, hung over the square. It rained. It washed the corpses, washed the blood from the sidewalk. Desdemona, holding her long hem with her hand, stepped over crushed skulls and disfigured bodies. What a joke of fate: she came to the festivities of the coronation, and got right into the middle of the massacre. Hell washed by the salty sea. Suddenly a storm broke out so that the enemy ships began to sink.

The king, who stood tall as if ready to sacrifice himself in case of defeat, seemed like a hero to many.

“He is the one causing the storm,” whispered one of the survivors.

“Or it is the monster beside him,” Desdemona stammered.

Someone’s tentacles were hugging the young king from behind, clutching his shoulders and torso, and the shouts from the sinking enemy’s armada were already replacing the roar of the cannonade. The enemy is sinking. This is victory! But what had the king given for it? Was no one but Desdemona willing to see that he was in the arms of a monster? Why not in her own? She suddenly felt a burning jealousy.

“And this is the girl who wanted to go to a convent and spend her life serving the sea god,” came a mocking voice from behind.

Desdemona turned around. In the corner, shabby children were clustered in the rain, looking more like river monsters themselves.

“You know that the sea god makes his novices drown during initiation, and then they come back to life and serve him as slaves,” the children, scales sprouting on their faces, said in a chorus.

“Who are you? What do you want?” Desdemona backed away, stumbling over dead bodies and moaning wounded. She would have helped everyone, but she didn’t have the strength to even run herself. And a group of strange children were picking up anything of value left from the dead. Children or fish were biting off fingers with rings instead of removing them, tearing off women’s hands with bracelets that glittered on them, pulling earrings from the corpses’ lobes.

“Better become something other than a priestess. If you are drowned, the light in you will go out, and you will be of no use to us. You’re not meant for any other service.”

What can I say to them? She’d love to. But her stepmother wants to get her out of her home as soon as possible. And the only way for a homeless woman is a convent. Do they really drown and then resurrect all the initiates as will-less zombies?

The children laughed, playing with someone’s severed head like a ball. The head belonged to a beautiful girl. The carnelian hoop could not be removed from her.

“We’ll take her with us,” said the fish girl, all purple scales like armor.

Who did she mean? Her gaze wandered eloquently over Desdemona’s own dress. There was no need to wear her best for the feast. The velvet dress, woven with silver lilies, had been hers since her mother had been alive. The tiara in her hair was also her mother’s. Desdemona would have given it to the children to keep them behind, but they wanted something else. They surrounded her in a ring. Where to go? All around were the ghastly faces of half-children and half-fish. Their mouths chattering with needle teeth. It’s like a nightmare! That’s how dangerous it is to walk alone in a storm! There’s no telling what the rain and waves will bring from the sea. She had been warned that Aquilania was a dangerous country, after all, because of the elements surrounding it.

The scaled hand reached for Desdemona, and then a menacing shout sounded from the sea. Was it either a voice or a trumpet sound?

The fish girl cursed through her teeth in some incomprehensible language.

“We have to go! But we’ll come back for you!” She wagged her finger in farewell. The creepy children, like a host of ghosts, drifted away into the mist of smoke and rain. Did they dissolve in the rainwater?

Desdemona’s heart was pounding with fear, but she wanted to look at the majestic figure of the king in the high archway one more time. She raised her head high, exposing her face to the merciless rain. He was still standing there. The arch itself was braided with a network of tentacles. The raging sea was subsiding, taking with it the wreckage of ships and the corpses of warriors. It seemed as if the king would step down and follow the sinking enemy fleet, but he was only talking to someone invisible in the heights. Could he really be mad? But madmen don’t control the elements. Though there’s no guarantee he caused the storm. It could only appear that way from the outside. The formidable figure that looked like a dragon drained entirely from the water that hovered over the archway was also an illusion. The young king saw it and even spoke to it about something, and then suddenly he laughed so loudly that everyone in the square was horrified.

Desdemona shuddered. The thunder of an enemy cannonade, capable of destroying the whole country, was nothing compared to this laughter. It made her blood run cold. It echoed ferociously through the alleys. Her ears ached unbearably. It was as if a dark specter was trailing its tentacles through the streets of Aquilania. It was no longer an illusion. Desdemona barely had time to break free when some gray limbs grasped her shoulder. There were many of them here. They braided the walls and friezes and arches. It seemed as if the fog had become a sea monster with many limbs that crawled through the streets, grabbing and strangling people. There was nowhere to run, but Desdemona picked up her skirts with her hand anyway, and ran.