Chapter 24. "Ash to ash"
Chapter 24. "Ash to ash"
* * *
Nearly half of the crew and mercenaries of the Ranyan die during the battle or immediately after it. The damage from the fire and magical explosions was tolerable, but the collision of the ships had split the planks on the underwater part of the hull and opened up multiple leaks, so the pumps were working nonstop. By morning they had to look for an anchorage for at least superficial repairs - the ship was losing speed, and the risk of a second encounter with a pirate remained. By the time it dawned, by the time they found a more or less suitable place, the heaviest wounded died. The bodies were sent overboard without prayer or proper rites, just in case. The horror of the night, the blind, inexpressive faces of the dead like clay masks, was too well remembered. And the terrible screams from the pirate ship in the night.
Hel worked tirelessly, easing the suffering of the more fortunate who hadn't been hit too hard. The healer's face was frozen in a ghastly grimace that one of the routiers said would scare even Death away. It was as if a soul-crushing hysteria had almost burst forth, but was instantly frozen by a powerful cold spell. Never thaw again.
It was gray and gloomy, like the aftermath of a storm. The rain had stopped, but the air was damp, and the rocks on the shore were covered with a painful vapor. The captain chased everyone ashore, intending to hook the mast with a rope and "lay the damaged vessel on its side," but the carpenter stopped him, pointing out that the mast might not hold and it would take too long to change it. It was easier to wait for low tide, but the rope still had to be used to open the right side. Axes clattered, sharp commands scaring away the shore birds.
The process was managed by Einar. The crew had been thinned out in the fight, so the ownership of the ship had naturally passed to the tarred men and the mercenaries. That is, to Santelli, who was still the employer of the routiers and commanded them as his retinue. Since the continuation of the journey was out of the question, the brigadier had his plans for the future and the ship as well. The captain did not share them, but for lack of choice, he submitted to force.
The place was relatively settled, and a few times in the distance, from behind the gentle hills, observers appeared, probably from the surrounding villages. They didn't come close, though. Maybe they didn't trust outsiders, or they were familiar with the coastal pirates.
Kai stood with his back to the ship, sharpening his sword. Or rather, he was mindlessly scraping at the blade with a bar. It was as if the squeak of stone against metal drowned out the thoughts running through the knight's mind. Santelli approached from behind, quietly but not stealthily. The Brigadier held his trusty axe, from which he had never wiped off the blood. The red liquid had been thoroughly eroded by the salt water, promising to turn to brown rust soon.
Santelli stopped just behind the knight's back. Kai ran the bar over the blade once more, sighed, and turned around, gripping the sword by the blade at the hilt. The wet, doubled-up cloak clung to his shoulders like heavy armor.
"These aren't pirates. They knew where and what to look for. They came for us," Santelli didn't ask but stated the self-evident.
The Brigadier and the swordsman stood facing each other, their faces impenetrable. Santelli's hand hung deceptively still, lowering the axe. Kai held the sword still by the blade. The Brigadier grimaced at the pain in his shattered ear and jerked his head.
"Matrice?" The brigadier said only one word. He thought for a moment and put his axe behind his belt.
"Yes," Kai was equally succinct.
"Did she and the Duke make a deal a long time ago?"
"No."
Santelli was silent again, looking directly into Kai's eyes. The knight tried to endure the unblinking gaze, which held no threat, only heavy sadness. And he couldn't. He lowered his head.
"That's funny," said the Brigadier. "I used to think of myself as the most cunning and mistrustful. And so foolishly trusted... As the church says, pride is a sin."
"Are you going to take revenge on her?" Kai asked, already knowing the answer. Just to fill the heavy, bitter pause. "Will you sell the ship and use the money to start a brigade war?"
"Yes. But it's not about her."
"Are you gonna get revenge on me, too?"
"How on earth did that happen?" Santelli answered the question with a question. He tried to hide the pain in his voice, undignified, belittling him as a brigadier who could not complain about life and betrayal. It was partly working, but Kai knew his "sergeant" too well.
"I ... owe you a lot," Kai set the sword point down, leaning on the cross, just like in the studio, at the magic mirror. The knight never looked up, feeling that now it was his "it just so happened" that sounded pathetic. "But this is my family."
"Yes, family is worth a lot," the Brigadier agreed. He sighed and shook his head again. The wound was not dangerous, but it hurt, nasty, annoying as if a swamp spider had burrowed into his head and sucked blood from his shattered ear.
"When was I supposed to be killed according to the first plan?" Santelli asked. "There, in the harbor or on the way?"
"In Malersyde, after handing over the painting," Kai answered bluntly. "But ..." he slapped his wet-gloved palm on the crosspiece. "But I wanted to keep you alive. After you didn't leave me on the shore as a hostage."
"And how?" The Brigadier asked sarcastically.
"After talking to my father. He felt there was no point in having two partners if you could only pay one. I thought I could change his mind."
"Apparently, someone had a change of plans," the brigadier grinned. "Or someone is too impatient."
Zilber came up, limping badly. He handed the brigadier a ladle of seawater. He advised him briefly:
"Pour it on the wound. Hel said it'll keep it from rotting."
Santelli took the ladle silently, and the mercenary walked back, careful not to slip on the wet stones. The sand was almost invisible beneath the layer of pebbles and large, wave-rolled stones. The Brigadier tilted his head to the side and lifted a wooden vessel, letting a thin trickle of cold water run down. He hissed like an angry meowr as the salt bit viciously into his cut flesh.
Kai looked behind the foreman's back. There, farther from the shoreline, Hel was gathering rocks and stacking them into a pyramid. Farther away, Charley was sitting on a wave-swept log, scrutinizing his mangled arm. He looked as if he couldn't get used to the idea that the bandaged stump without a wrist really belonged to him.
"I wanted to save you," Kai repeated. His ugly, bony face twitched into a grimace.
"You have betrayed us ... friend," the Brigadier said, twirling the empty ladle aimlessly in his hands. For a moment, Santelli's eyes flashed with anger. His fingers clenched as if preparing to throw the ladle at the swordsman, distracting him for a moment as the axe swung from his belt to break his enemy's skull. Kai's hands clenched on the cross of the sword.
"We chopped the coin, you and I," Santelli tossed the wood aside as if shrugging off temptation. "You gave your word. You chose the brigade."
"In the end, I chose family. My sisters are a pack of hyenas, and my father is even worse, but they are still my family. Without them, I am nothing. A wanderer who lives only from his sword."
"And you bought your way back into the family by selling us. And me. Oh, yes, how could I forget-- you wanted to keep us alive," the Brigadier's words oozed with venomous irony. "Brotherly, yes."
"That's right, you have the right to mock me, the right to exact blood in a duel," Kai said.
"I have the right to slaughter you like a pig," Santeli said grimly and angrily. "Just call them in," the Brigadier waved his hand toward the ship. "And tell them to whom we owe all this mess."
"Yeah. But I covered for you at the mast."
Kai tapped his sword against the rocks. A deep gouge was clearly visible on the blade.
Santelli was silent. For a long time.
"Yeah, you covered for me," he finally agreed. "Well, let's just say we're even. But from here on out, we'll be going our separate ways."
"If you say so," Kai said again, an empty, useless phrase just to fill the silence. "Well, I have to go."
"I won't wish you luck. And ..." Santelli, who had turned toward the ship, froze half-turned. Kai tensed.
"Don't come back to the Wastelands again," said the Brigadier. "Yesterday, you ceased to be my brother. Tomorrow you will be my enemy."
Santelli walked toward the ship. The swordsman stared after him, keeping his hands in the crosshairs of his sword, and with every step the Brigadier took, Kai's head dropped a hair as if an invisible hand was pressing down on his neck.
* * *
Ash to ash.
There's nothing left. No thoughts, no hopes. Nothing. Nothing at all. Just three words from a past life so far away that it seemed like it had never happened - just a fleeting flap of a dream fairy's wing.
Ash to ash.
There weren't even ashes left of Shena. And Hel was stacking stones into a pyramid. A cenotaph. A grave without a body. A memory of a person who once came into the world and now left it irrevocably.
Forever.
Stone to stone. Memory to memory. A year lived in the same city. A few days were spent side by side. A few hours of confidential conversation. A few minutes of genuine intimacy, preserved in memory like a stamp.
Emerald-chrysolite eyes, at the bottom of which always hide sparks of sadness. A slight, ironic half-smile that easily turns into a wicked grin and rarely, so rarely, blossoms into genuine tenderness.
Memory.
This is all that's left of the green-eyed Valkyrie.
The stones licked by the wave lay in the pyramid, tapping their gray sides. Her hands were frozen, the sea salt eating away at her scraped fingers. Droplets of blood mingled with the water, coating the stones with dark beads. Her tangled wet hair was out from under her hat, sticking to her cheeks like a dirty felt.
Finally, the pyramid was complete. Somehow Hel knew for sure that the cenotaph was exactly as it should be. Not higher or lower. No more and no less. It would withstand the pressure of the waves. It would outlive all who were now gathered on this shore. Time will come, and Hel will die, and with her will finally die Shena, imprinted in the memory of her red-haired friend. But the pyramid will stand, reminding the sea, wind, and sky - a man lived.
Hel was on her knees, hands folded and staring at the cenotaph mindlessly. A small but unquenchable fire was burning in her chest, burning her heart and her very soul. Now that the healer could no longer maintain her iron self-control and could no longer concentrate on helping the wounded fighters, it grew and burned, brighter and brighter. Hel growled deafeningly, like a beast, clenching her fists. And when, finally, the heat seemed unbearable, and her heart stumbled, ready to stop, unable to withstand the torture of extreme grief, a heavy hand lay on the girl's shoulder.
"Cry, child."
Hel looked up at Charley from below. Her eyes were deep-set, her features painfully sharp, adding another ten years to her age. Brether looked no better, pale, like a dead man whose blood had been drained. The blurred eyes indicated that the Maître was on his feet only because of a killer dose of amber elixir.
"Cry while you can," Charley repeated, and a deep sadness flooded his gaze.
"She's gone," Hel whispered, feeling a small, traitorous shiver cover her lips.
"It hurts... so painful..."
She pressed her hands to her chest, where the all-consuming fire of endless grief burned. Her lips trembled more and more.
"Will it always hurt like this?" Hel squeezed her throat through the spasm of the executioner's ligature.
"No," the old Brether said with a soft but firm assurance. "Time heals everything, even extreme grief. The pain will stay with you forever, but it won't cut you like a razor."
Unable to fight the pain in her tearing heart, Hel gave a deafening howl.
"Cry, child, while you can. While you have this great gift of the young to shed tears for those who have left us."
A gift I have long been deprived of, Charley thought. He watched in silence as Hel crouched by the stone pyramid folded herself almost in half with her wet cloak. The girl's shoulders shook, and she swayed like a willow trunk in a hurricane.
Cry while you can...
Hel clutched at the ground, literally hammering her fingers between the rocks, feeling her nails break. Charley ran his hand over her head, a fatherly gesture. And that was the last straw. The tears rolled away, falling on the pebbles as tiny diamonds dissolved into a film of seawater. Ashes to ashes, bitterness to bitterness. For the first time in her life, Hel cried at the stone pyramid, and the old killer looked down at her in silence.
* * *
"Take it. It'll come in handy on the road"
Santelli handed her a purse, not quite full but quite not bad. Even if it was only filled with pennies, it would last for a long time. Hel accepted the gift, again catching the surprised ... no, more of a puzzled look from the foreman. It was the look most people got after the medic cut her hair. Unevenly, with a hand trembling from weakness, but determined and irrevocable. That's how one leaves the plow and his father's trade to become a soldier. They sell everything and outfit a one-way merchant ship. Choosing between wine and poison in a noble and cruel reckoning of a hopeless card debt. Hel has chosen her fate and marked it most irreversibly.
The ship's crew shunned the redhead as an obvious lunatic. Because who else would dare to do such a thing in a foreign land, going nowhere, alone, without any protection? The surviving routiers were surprised but generally accepted the event without much excitement. They had seen more than their share of such things. And Santelli. Yes, he watched like the others. But in the farthest corner of the brigadier's cold eyes, Hel read understanding. Understanding and a tiny bit of approval. So a man accepts someone else's choice - not easy, but worthy - and agrees with it, silently, without descending to trivial words, wishing the traveler to follow the chosen path to the end.
"And here's another," the Brigadier handed over a chain with half a coin. Hel recognized it at once and clutched it like a jewel. It was the most precious thing in the world. The only thing left of Shena. The girl put on the chain, joining another of the same kind on a twisted cord. The metal links felt cold, slow to heat from her body.
"You don't need to go any further with us now."
Hel read knowledge in the Brigadier's eyes as well. Santelli knew exactly to whom the brigade and the mercenaries owed the nightmare of the dead rising. And while recognizing the usefulness of magical horror, he didn't want to go any further with whoever was raising the dead. Actually, he could have just pointed her out as a necromancer in the first place, could have, and should have. But he remained silent, and that was another gift from the Brigadier, the last.
"Farewell, red-haired witch. You have come and gone strangely, but we have seen no harm or treachery from you. And may Pantocrator watch over you."
Santelli walked away toward the ship without turning around.
"Goodbye ... Brigadier," Hel said into his back, and for some reason, she thought Santelli smiled. But, of course, it was impossible to check it through the brigadier's back, crossed by the straps of the half-cuirassa.
Hel found herself alone with the brether. All the others were gathering around the ship, climbing aboard, ready for a new journey.
"Take it," Charley handed her the dagger. It was a fine dagger, even the unskilled healer realized at once. It was not a very long, faceted blade, almost a stiletto with a small grip, and it rested in a special scabbard - not leather, not wood, but tubular bone discolored to translucence. Such a knife is not easily wielded in household matters. Its purpose is death. A valuable object, as important as money in a purse, if not more so. Coins do not scare and do not fend off a robber or a murderer.
"Will you go on with him?"
"Yes," replied the maître very calmly, almost peacefully. "I liked that hand. I am accustomed to it. I want to find the man to whom I owe its absence and express my displeasure to him."
Charley didn't make a sinister face, not even a sinister grin. But looking at him, Hel remembered the house on the marshes. The Brether had become a one-armed man, but the one to whom Charley intended to express the depth of his displeasure should have had a sharper blade and a bigger guard.
"And I will go to the City," Hel said.
"That's a good idea. Just change your nickname first. Calling yourself by a demon's name with a haircut like that and traveling alone isn't very sensible. They might offer to answer for it."
"I'll think of something."
"Do you want to learn a magical skill at the Academy?"
"No. Mastery of the fight."
"Not the best choice," Brether grumbled. "I understand you want to be prepared for the new arrival of a witch's creature. But age... What are you, about twenty, I think? You should have started about five years earlier to get to mastery. At least."
"There's really no choice. They'll be looking for me. They'll probably find me sooner or later," she thought out loud with cold judgment. "If I study magic, I'm sure they'll find me sooner."
"Yes, I hadn't thought of that," Charley agreed after a short pause. "You were being hunted by very powerful people. Few can afford the services of a twisted warrior-mage with a soul mangled by magical transitions. It's unlikely your enemies will back down. I'm also thinking," he looked at Hel questioningly. "That you won't just wait."
She remained silent. The answer was easy to read on the young woman's hard face, which had matured overnight.
Hel put on the belt straps and bounced, "shrinking" the weight. She slipped the bone scabbard behind her belt, thought about it, and decided it was uncomfortable and too conspicuous. The woman placed the dagger in her sleeve, and it fell into place as if it had been intended. The handle reached the middle of her palm, the short grip not disturbing. Convenient and inconspicuous to carry, easy to retrieve when needed. Sharley watched these evolutions in silence, saying nothing, only smiling slightly and approvingly when Hel finally realized the correct way to carry the blade.
"If you get to the City," Charley said as if he'd made up his mind. "Go to the Street of Free Blades. Anyone can point it out. Don't even look at the schools of fencing fraternities, you won't be welcome there, and they're all in plain sight. You'll find Figueredo the Draftsman's workshop, at the very end near the river if he's still alive. You will tell him." the Brether thought for a few moments. "Tell him you want to study the Àrd-Ealain. The Grande Art."
The Brether spoke the last words in a special way. It was noticeable that for him, it was not a high-sounding turn of phrase, not two simple words, but something much, much more.
"The Grande Art." Echoed Hel.
"He'll ridicule you and chase you away. Then you'll say hello from Vincent Mongayard. Remember."
"Vincent Mongayard," Hel obediently repeated.
"Good. And you will say that Vincent asked to teach you the science of the geometry of the circle and the eighty-three angles of the human body, as well as to teach you sixteen simple and sixteen complicated tricks and techniques. Don't be confused. If he takes you into his service..."
Charley's pale face twisted into an ugly smile. The drug seemed to be wearing off, and the Brether was getting worse.
"Draftsman is a nasty man, rude and arrogant. He hates people and wants them to know it. But remember, if anyone can turn you into a real fighter, it's him. Now, farewell. Pantocrator protects you."
The crew was preparing for low tide. The ship looked decent now, and after the deck had been cleaned, it no longer looked like a bloody slaughterhouse. Perhaps only traces of repairs and a few scorched spots on the deck testified to recent events.
Santelli watched the small figure of the red-haired woman moving away toward the hills. He thought of the medic's face. He thought about how much money he could get for the ship, how to pay off the routiers, and where to hire fighters for the war with Matrice. Engrossed in his thoughts, he missed the mercenary who approached unnoticed.
"It is good that she has left us, commander," the routier, face, and speech a true Highlander, said softly, only to the brigadier's ears. "You did the right thing in sending the witch away."
"Is that so?" snarled the brigadier habitually, as he always did when anyone allowed himself to make the slightest attempt on his authority or even to speak patronizingly.
"Yes, sir," the Highlander immediately lowered his head, showing that he had no intention of being disrespectful. And, as it seemed to Santelli, the routier's reverence was due to the fact that the brigadier had supposedly gotten rid of the medicine woman.
"I can see, a little, the very least, but I can," the mercenary spoke quickly and even more quietly. "And I can see her. She is coisich a'bàs, misfortune is hidden in her right hand, death hides in her left hand, and Erdeg Gozchasar himself looks at the world through her eyes. It is good that the witch is no longer with us."
"Yes..." Santelie automatically made the sign of the Pantocrator. The Highlander repeated the sign, only spreading his fingers with horns. "Maybe you're right."
The small figure moved farther and farther to the southeast. Until, at last, it was out of sight.
Epilogue
* * *
The last few days of spring in Malersyde had been rich in surprising and mysterious events. For starters, one of the warships had returned to port, an ordinary event, but the ship looked as if it had come out of a terrible battle. With its crew hollowed out and its deck trashed, it looked as if a whole crew of mad lumberjacks had tried to smash everything they could into splinters. The survivors were immediately isolated like the plague and kept in the quarantine barracks.
Then a wave of silent deaths swept through the ducal palace. Of course, on the one hand, "wave" is a bit of a mouthful. On the other hand, when in one night, three not the last cronies of the duke hang themselves, leaving penitential letters and bequeathing to the patron all the property, bypassing even direct relatives - how else to call it?
And finally, the middle daughter of the Lord, the beautiful Clavel ausf Wartensleben, the duke's heiress, if not by birth, then by merit and general recognition, was at once removed from all family affairs, locked up under house arrest and married to who the fuck knows who. But that is again. On the one hand, the groom was not the last man on the Island, a real Bonomn of Aleinse, albeit a side branch. On the other hand, where is it seen that the marriage ceremony was held in absentia (!), taking no more than a quarter of an hour, and the bride immediately went to the Island to her betrothed (who, it should be noted, from a young age enjoyed the notoriety of a man corrupted even by the free standards of ancient families). Without introduction, engagement, solemn entries, festivities, festivities, festivities, and distribution of gifts .... Unprecedented!
Evil tongues in the back alleys, on the wharves, and in the darkness of the taverns whispered that the old Duke was in a rage such as had not been seen in forty years. Since that time, when the last and weakest in the long chain of Wartensleben's heirs had once again been humiliated by his elders after he had decided that almost two dozen brothers and nephews were too many, and the number "one" was beautiful in its noble simplicity.
However, no cunning mind has ever been able to unravel the nature of the anger that has overwhelmed the Old Man.....
* * *
The painting was encased in a brand-new silver frame with a spell firmly cast to stop the decay of the fabric and colors. Now, cleansed of the dust of centuries, the canvas seemed unnaturally white, further emphasizing the laconic simplicity of the painting.
The image was not complete. It is in that state when rough work is in full swing, and it is still far from being erased with stale breadcrumbs. However, from the web of "working" lines that formed simple geometric figures, showing the direction of perspective and the boundaries of the images, the artist's intention was already quite clearly visible.
The painting was organized according to the classical principle of "rectangle within a rectangle by a corner". Thin black lines represented the image of a woman wearing a loose jacket with a wide and very loose collar, partly revealing even her shoulders. The model folded her arms so that the left one rested on a fencing mask made of intertwined bars, and the right one rested with an elbow on the left hand, in turn supporting the chin.
The palms of her hands were concealed in gloves with wide sockets and protective pads. The right collarbone, just above the collar neckline, was slightly obscured, a shadow or a bruise. The overall composition suggested the latter, the bruise most likely sustained in a training match. The model had her hair pulled back, only a couple of loose curls falling down to her temples and one, especially loose, reaching her shoulder.
The lower half of the face was only sketched in the most general outlines, but one could say that the unknown painter had managed to capture that wonderful moment when laughter is just emerging in the fine wrinkles, in the elusive curve of the lips. It was the calm, restrained smile of an absolutely self-confident man.
The entire drawing appeared to be done in charcoal. Only the hair was touched a few times with a sanguine pencil, as if the author was trying it on, assessing how the charcoal lines matched the reddish hue.
"What do you say?" The Duke asked
"I think..." The brunette in the routier jacket was silent. Her pale, beautiful face seemed to be a fixed mask. But a careful eye could detect the slightest sign of uncertainty. The dark-haired feminine hesitated - not in her convictions, but in the need to voice them. But she did.
"I'm sure the painting is authentic. This is the hand of Geryon, the last period of creativity, when the master began to cultivate very sparing graphics. From large-scale colorful canvases to portraits in one or two colors."
"That's it?"
"No. I'm also sure... sure. The sign in the corner."
"Yeah, the usual artist's warm-up."
"It's too ornate, even for those times. And if it is mirrored, the symbol looks like a pictogram of the Old Language, even before the primary imperial alphabet."
"And does she mean-?" impatiently prompted the duke.
"It can be read as - portraying myself," the brunette said in one breath.
The old man in the snow-white robe with gold embroidery was silent, gazing myopically at the picture. In fact, the duke's eyesight was as sharp as a mountain bird's.
"Self-portrait," he finally said, not so much asking for clarification as agreeing. The brunette chose to remain silent.
"And that, in turn, means," the Duke continued thoughtfully. "The art fringe who said that Geryon was just a pseudonym for a master who wished to be anonymous was right."
Once again, the brunette didn't utter a word.
"Ogoyo was right. Stigmatized, disgraced, banished from all artistic communities. Died in poverty, forgotten. And yet he was right. We are now the only ones in the entire Ecumene who know exactly what the greatest painter in history looked like. Or, more accurately, how she imagined herself."
The Duke was silent again, sighing. He cast a long, gloomy glance at the window, or rather at the missing wall, beyond which, from a wide balcony without railings, a wonderful view of the harbor opened up. There, in the distance, the last sail of the ship's cortege that was taking the beautiful Clavel to the Island, to her impatient fiancé, was just disappearing.
"Stop dressing like a lowly batalero," the duke ordered brusquely, without transition or introduction. "And get rid of that vile creature of yours at last. It annoys me and shits on the castle floors. After all, it is disrespectful to the ancestors and the best sandstone in Evumene. It is acceptable to desecrate the stone of ancestral estates with the blood of relatives, not the beast shit."
"As you wish, revered Father," the brunette lowered her gaze.
"So... Truly, I am now the most unhappy parent in the two Kingdoms. The first and only son is unfit for the family business. The eldest daughter has devoted herself," the old man seemed to be barely able to keep from spitting on the very floor of the finest sandstone in Ecumene.
The brunette bowed her head as if in readiness to take on all the sins of the family in atonement.
"It would seem that the third attempt was more successful, and the middle daughter finally lived up to the senile hopes, but lo and behold...."
The Duke sighed again. His voice rattled like glass pendants in a thunderstorm.
Well, that makes you the hope of the Wartensleben family.
The old man went to the balcony and looked again at the sail, which had shrunk to the size of a white dot on the line that separated the blue sea from the pale blue sky. It was a glorious day, and a fair wind would drive the ships all the way to the Island.
"Why do you think she's there and unlikely to ever come back?" Duke asked without turning around.
"It is the will of my revered Father."
"Flessa, that was a good answer for a younger and respectful daughter. But a poor one for a man eager to enter the family enterprise. You're nineteen and a member of the family that holds the commerce of the entire continental west in its fist. If you still haven't acquired your network of spies, you have no place in our business. So I'll wait for more and repeat the question of why she's there."
"As far as I'm concerned, the kindly sister ... has been playing around," the brunette didn't hesitate for a second, changing her tone immediately. "She saw the painting as an opportunity for unreported earnings and organized a pirate raid. At any rate, that's what the second, hidden layer of secrecy your spies are spreading, revered Father."
"Not bad, Flessa, not bad. And?" the Duke wiggled his fingers, inviting his daughter to continue the sentence as she saw fit.
"It's not clear to me," the brunette replied with the utmost honesty, clearly realizing that the slightest lie or innuendo would ruin her irrevocably now. "To outsiders' ears, this legend is as good as any other, but ... The plan is too crude, too ... direct."
"Would you have acted differently?"
"Of course. First of all, I wouldn't mess with Herion. This painting can only be bought by Bonomes and Heads of Merchant Guilds. No more than three dozen people in the world. And hardly anyone would agree to bury it in obscurity without boasting of a precious find. So it would be all too easy to walk along the thread between the canvas and the pirates, identifying the customer of the raid. I think there is a third cloak of secrecy, but into it, my spies have not been able to penetrate. One thing is certain, Clavel acted of her own accord, without your approval."
"Nothing is as solid as hindsight," the old man said with a wry chuckle. "And as convincing as a detailed description of why the already fallen stumbled. In truth, however..."
He was silent, turning resolutely away from the panorama of the bay.....
"Looks like your dreams will come true, Flessa... at least for a while. So far, my children have been mostly disappointments in the order of the day. Let's see what you're capable of. And as a dedication, listen carefully."
He approached the brunette almost closely, and she lowered her eyes even further, looking almost to the very toes of her dainty boots.
"In reality, our blonde girl was conspiring. She was approached by a certain, uh, person. Her name won't tell you anything right now, and let it remain anonymous for now. It is enough to know that it was a sorceress, one of the strongest. The sorceress did not waste precious time and immediately offered ... negotiation. A highly radical one. She demanded - exactly demanded! - the lives of all those taken by the copper flagship in the northern harbor. In exchange for a large reward. A very large reward," the Duke emphasized the word very.
"So much so that Clavel would risk valuable family property and your wrath?"
"Yes. Let's just say it was a very elegant offer. It harmonized both the promise of a reward and very sophisticated blackmail."
"So the painting wasn't a bet?" Flessa clarified.
"No, the theft of Geryon is already a private initiative of our dear relative."
"She wanted to use the canvas to organize a false trail?"
"Quite right. And now I'm disappointed, extremely disappointed. Clavel was doing so well with her share of our common concerns... and so stupidly, so ridiculously broken."
"I can do better than that," Flessa finally looked directly into her father's eyes. And withstood their icy intensity.
"Maybe. But first, think about it and tell me why I'm so angry and sad. It's not the first or the last time children have tried to put their hand into their parents' coffers. It's a mundane matter. What is Clavel's real sin?"
"A mage who wants ragamuffin from the wild lands..." reasoned Flessa aloud, almost without pause for thought. "Willing to pay something extremely valuable for their lives, so much so that even Clavel trembled... That's more valuable than any money."
"Indeed," the duke shook his gray head in a subtle gesture of approval. "That's what upset me the most. Why were these people so important? Magicians try not to interfere openly in worldly affairs; they fear the Church and get their way by quiet conspiracies, like spiders in the shadows."
The Duke turned away from his daughter and took a few steps, musing aloud.
"What was it about Santeli's crew that made the powerful sorceress lose her composure and patience, organizing a robbery on the open ocean? This is what one does in view of great danger, which must be exterminated at any cost by one's hand. Maybe the brigade is not only important to the sorceress? Maybe these grimy marauders could be useful to us? That's what the empty-headed wench ought to have realized at once!"
"As far as I'm concerned, that's my job now?" The dark-haired one clarified.
"And this one, among others. Since I have no other choice, I'll start bringing you into the family business. Just like you dreamed of, scheming so cleverly against family members."
He was silent and raised his index finger as a sign that the instructions were to be heeded with the utmost care as if Pantocrator himself were speaking through the mouth of his prophet.
"Find them. Find out what the sorceress wants. Oh, and, uh."
The Duke looked his daughter in the eyes again, this time he pressed his gaze until she repented.
"My firstborn will be back soon. Remember, he's untouchable."
"It's unlikely he'll decide..."
"Oh, you never learned to understand him," the old man hummed mirthlessly. "Kai is alive, and he'll be back to chivalrously confront me about trying to kill him. He doesn't know he owes it to Clavel, who decided to cut off a branch of the family tree. And I need him."
"I don't think so..." Flessa stopped short, realizing that she had let herself go too far.
"I think so," the duke cut her off flatly. "And that's enough. Kai is not a merchant, which is unfortunate. But during his voluntary hermitage, he has acquired other talents that I intend to use. And someone must represent our family in the treaty with Matrice. The artifacts and gold of the dungeons are dust, a trifle. But Santelli was right. We need mercury, and most importantly, the sulfur of the Wastelands."
"Sulphur...?" Flessa didn't understand.
"Another trump card that the cunning Brigadier put aside for later. The world's best raw material for "resin" armor, about which few people know yet. But we'll discuss this matter later. In the meantime, remember, your vendetta is not to my liking. Kai is untouchable until I authorize otherwise. I hope you heard and understood what I said. Now go. Noble Flessa ausf Wartensleben, my word and my hand in Malersyde."
* * *
She burst into the crypt abruptly, like a splinter of a hurricane hurling thunder and lightning. She was tall, coal-black from head to toe, from her loose hair slicked to one side to her hiking boots. Only her face remained white, untouched by even a pinch of blush. In the half-darkness of the cave, it looked like a postmortem mask, forever contorted with a grimace of anger.
"How could you?!" The guest said briskly. The translucent lace cloak over her shoulders fluttered like the wings of a dunghill.
A young woman with skin of an unusual grayish hue and blond hair rose gracefully from the soft mat and turned toward her guest in one cohesive motion. The long-haired woman in black trembled and took a step back, seeing that the pearly-skinned woman's face was covered by a bandage.... no, it was a mask. Strange, sinister, forged of gray metal without a single decoration, only the pre-Imperial sign "lìonra" glowing faintly in the center. The mask covered her forehead and eyes like a fine instrument of torture, tiny droplets of blood oozing from beneath it, pooling to the edges of her lips.
"We could very well have met at my house. Or in the tower," the 'pearl' mage remarked coldly. "Or any other place. It wasn't necessary to disrupt my meditation and... work. Afterimages are not easy and very exhausting, just so you know."
"I've come to demand an answer!" The dark one threw angrily.
"An answer?" even without seeing the light one's face, one could easily imagine a critically raised eyebrow.
"An answer!" repeated the dark one. "You began to play against us! You warned them!"
"Not at all," the masked sorceress said softly, as if to an unintelligent child, carefully blotting her bloody face with a handkerchief.
"You're helping her!" The dark one didn't slow down and seemed to have reached the point of extreme anger.
"Not at all," Pearl repeated, sighing. "I take it you failed again? Did your half-crazed sadist go wrong?"
"She failed," the guest said through gritted teeth, her anger crashing against the unbreakable calm of the cave mistress.
"You can't send performers through magical passages so often. It hurts the mind. And, alas, I am not to blame for your fiasco," the lady of pearls said politely but with rigid finality. "As you may remember, I am not involved in your vanities. I am neither interfering with nor helping your hunt."
"She walked away from the carefully prepared trap, raising the dead to her defense."
"I know."
A graceful hand with pearl-colored skin lightly touched the mask, silently pointing to the source of knowledge.
"Do you realize what's happening?" the dark one took a couple of nervous steps, chopping the air with a small fist. "She's a necromancer, a damned necromancer of incredible power! No rituals, no accumulation of power. And yet, in the middle of an ocean that halves her magical abilities. She took one look, and the dead rose up, fighting for her. It's just like I thought it would be. Just as I feared. As I warned all you, non-believers!"
"You're wrong," the masked sorceress still said softly. "And wrong all along."
"Oh, so reveal the truth to me, oh, greatest of the wise, wisest of the great," the dark one bowed in a mocking half-bow. "It must be the sea demons that have risen from the abysses, must it not? Or has Pantocrator shown miracles of resurrection?"
The Pearl Witch shook her head, and again, despite the mask, her expression was readable without the slightest difficulty. It was a reproachful, unkind half-smile.
"I will reveal. Though, the truth will sadden you, mainly because it is a monument and epitaph to your unwillingness to listen. Your collective unwillingness."
Light took a pre-prepared bowl of wine from the table, which was under a light spell of frost. Just enough to stay pleasantly chilled. As the sorceress drank, the guest nervously cracked her fingers in a way that made it seem as if the joints were going to crunch.
"I warned you," the pearl lady set the bowl down. "Do not touch her. Let her go her own way. You didn't listen."
"Necromancer," the dark one repeated with a quiet and from that even more intimidating fury. "Necromancer!"
"First of all, no. The girl is not a necromancer. It was a spontaneous outburst, subordinate to the main passion that possesses the initiator. Unconscious and therefore uncontrollable. She wanted to resurrect a murdered friend and raise everything around her from the dead. Secondly, she is not actually Riadag. She's not Spark. She is Darkness. Foundation. Nothing."
The dark one gasped, choking on the swear word that was about to roll off her tongue. Pearl one raised her fingers, moving them like a puppeteer controlling an invisible puppet. The air between the sorceresses tinkled, shuddering, shattering the light into a multitude of shards - each no larger than the point of a needle - shimmering with all the colors of the rainbow. A moment more, and a Construct appeared in the space where nothing had been before.
It seemed both ghostly and material at the same time. Inherent in this world and, at the same time, existing in the entire Macrocosm simultaneously. Something unimaginable, uniting light and darkness, as static as a stone and as infinitely variable as a ribbon of time.
"You built it..." whispered the dark one, unable to stop the trembling in her fingers. "The Stein Grid, the Machine of Probabilities..."
"Yes," the pearly one said without further ado. A thin trickle of scarlet blood, as if drawn by the best calligrapher, slid out from under the mask.
"And third, you all forgot the main tenet of Stein's theory."
"False doctrine," the dark one continued to rage, but there was no true faith in her words.
"Scientific truth," the light one continued to conjure, and, obeying the movements of her hands, a ruby thread flashed deep inside the Machine. Elena, if she'd seen it, would have compared it to a laser beam.
"Stein's Paradox," the light one reminded her, playing with the ruby needle, which ran in endless motion, surrounded by light reflections, splitting and coming together again. It was like human life, alternating between light and dark, goodness and trials.
The law of the universe does not allow magicians to reach the divine essence and control time. We can influence the future only unconsciously. And seen and learned means "accomplished". And the stronger our attempts to somehow change the future, the tougher the counter-resistance.
"There is no paradox!" roared the dark one, like a seasoned soldier. "There is only cowardice and fear to face one's fate. To look and then break it!"
"Watch."
The ruby thread flashed and scattered with purple sparks.
"Basic probability. The girl should have died in the first hours of her appearance. That was her real, true destiny."
It seemed the dark one had twisted her finger after all. At least that's what it clicked like.
"But you intervened. Your actions provoked a reaction from the other side," With a new movement of her hand, a new drop of blood appeared on her pearly cheek to touch a strand of hair and be absorbed without a trace, like a drop of ink in a calligrapher's brush. "And thus routier saved her, without knowing it himself."
The ruby thread came together from the dancing sparks and turned sharply, at an angle, in the other direction.
"The paradox in action. Interference generates a distortion, a counterwave that repels the attacker. And the side probability becomes the main probability. The girl survives."
"Tricks..." whispered the dark one. "It's all tricks..."
"That's the truth," the light one said adamantly. "Keep looking."
This time, the red thread was intertwined with several other colors. The emerald one came especially close. The two blindingly bright beams trembled, ready to merge. They pulsed so fast that they seemed to be both threads and clouds of light.
New probabilities for a new time, equally possible, equally probable. The first is that the Duke kills all the new arrivals. The bodies rest at the bottom of the harbor until the fish eat the flesh and the sea water dissolves the bones. The second, the Duke's son, manages to talk his father out of it. The girl and her friend go to the South, where they live a normal life for many years together. And die naturally. It was inevitable, one or the other. But in both cases, their lives were inextricably linked to the very end. And you intervened again.
The emerald beam flashed and fell with sad lights that descended, swirling like tiny, weightless fluffs of ash.
"Once again, your attempt to cheat fate has produced a response. A new iteration - the girl is not only alive but now she's wandering around in the middle of nowhere, seeking revenge."
"And then what?!" the dark one blurted out. "Where to find her now?"
"Somewhere," Pearl replied indifferently and clapped her hands together. Obeying the order, the Machine trembled, lost all its colors for a moment, turned into a contrasting black-and-white skeleton, and disappeared. To be more precise, it shifted, no longer visible and tangible to an ordinary person.
"Stein's Paradox," the light one repeated. "Don't try to trick him. You didn't guess the future. You didn't see it with Jyotish or by reading the path of the stars. You saw it, and now you cannot change it. Leave the Spark to its path. You have no control over it. None of us, none of the paod an sgàthan."
"You're trying to trick me," the dark-haired woman whispered, a black waterfall down her right shoulder, covering one eye. The other glowed with angry, fanatical determination.
"Why am I the only one who sees all the danger?" she asked bitterly. "Everyone else is afraid, covering themselves with decrepit fairy tales, obscuring themselves from the truth with fairground tricks. They even get in the way. And I'm the only one trying to stop the avalanche that will destroy us all."
Dark glanced pleadingly at her interlocutor but only encountered the blind face of the mask.
"She's not a girl. Not a victim. Not a random guest," the dark one pleaded openly, unconsciously extending her hand palm upward as if for alms. "And I don't believe in the ravings of the long-dead madman Stein. I believe the creature threatens us all. It will wipe us out if it is not stopped."
"Not believing doesn't make the rules go away. You can't make a rock fall upward. You can't reverse the course of the sun. You can't get around Stein's rule."
"Do you want me to beg you? To go down on my knees, groveling and begging for a drop of help?" the dark one straightened up with a string as if in opposition to her own words, clasping her hands to her chest. "Necromancer she is, Spark, Gatherer, or whatever, the creature must die! For all of us. Help me! Show me where to look. You can find out!"
"You don't listen," said the pearl sorceress sadly. "You hear, yet you do not listen.... What if I told you..."
For a moment, it seemed to the dark one that the blind mask was piercing with a cold, invisible beam, cutting as if with shards of ice.
"If I told you that your actions would turn her into what you fear most in the world?"
The dark one was silent for a long time. She calmed down, or rather, took herself in hand, shackled by the bonds of steely restraint. Her face was once again a pale mask that did not reflect a single thought.
"It's just words," she finally said.
"So listen to my Word. My word as Lady of the Probable," the pearly sorceress's voice rang out in the semi-darkness of the crypt. "You can step back and let Spark create her destiny, whatever it may be. Or you can continue on your way. But you must remember that the most destructive avalanche always starts with a single grain of sand. Droplets of blood from Spark's dead friend will turn into a raging torrent and create a war like the Ecumene has never known before. The entire continent, from edge to edge, will blaze in battle, and we, paod an sgàthan, will disappear because today you have remained deaf to my words. The choice is yours."
This time the dark one did not wait. Her voice still echoed through the stone vaults as she wrapped herself in her cloak, making her look like a giant bat. A sinister ghost creeps into houses in the darkness to drink the blood of the living and kidnap children. An unyielding, iron resolve seared into the thin features of her white face.
"My choice was made long ago. I will save us all. Even if the rest of us, in our carelessness, long for death. The darkness has come to our world, and it will die."
The End.
* * *
* * *
Nearly half of the crew and mercenaries of the Ranyan die during the battle or immediately after it. The damage from the fire and magical explosions was tolerable, but the collision of the ships had split the planks on the underwater part of the hull and opened up multiple leaks, so the pumps were working nonstop. By morning they had to look for an anchorage for at least superficial repairs - the ship was losing speed, and the risk of a second encounter with a pirate remained. By the time it dawned, by the time they found a more or less suitable place, the heaviest wounded died. The bodies were sent overboard without prayer or proper rites, just in case. The horror of the night, the blind, inexpressive faces of the dead like clay masks, was too well remembered. And the terrible screams from the pirate ship in the night.
Hel worked tirelessly, easing the suffering of the more fortunate who hadn't been hit too hard. The healer's face was frozen in a ghastly grimace that one of the routiers said would scare even Death away. It was as if a soul-crushing hysteria had almost burst forth, but was instantly frozen by a powerful cold spell. Never thaw again.
It was gray and gloomy, like the aftermath of a storm. The rain had stopped, but the air was damp, and the rocks on the shore were covered with a painful vapor. The captain chased everyone ashore, intending to hook the mast with a rope and "lay the damaged vessel on its side," but the carpenter stopped him, pointing out that the mast might not hold and it would take too long to change it. It was easier to wait for low tide, but the rope still had to be used to open the right side. Axes clattered, sharp commands scaring away the shore birds.
The process was managed by Einar. The crew had been thinned out in the fight, so the ownership of the ship had naturally passed to the tarred men and the mercenaries. That is, to Santelli, who was still the employer of the routiers and commanded them as his retinue. Since the continuation of the journey was out of the question, the brigadier had his plans for the future and the ship as well. The captain did not share them, but for lack of choice, he submitted to force.
The place was relatively settled, and a few times in the distance, from behind the gentle hills, observers appeared, probably from the surrounding villages. They didn't come close, though. Maybe they didn't trust outsiders, or they were familiar with the coastal pirates.
Kai stood with his back to the ship, sharpening his sword. Or rather, he was mindlessly scraping at the blade with a bar. It was as if the squeak of stone against metal drowned out the thoughts running through the knight's mind. Santelli approached from behind, quietly but not stealthily. The Brigadier held his trusty axe, from which he had never wiped off the blood. The red liquid had been thoroughly eroded by the salt water, promising to turn to brown rust soon.
Santelli stopped just behind the knight's back. Kai ran the bar over the blade once more, sighed, and turned around, gripping the sword by the blade at the hilt. The wet, doubled-up cloak clung to his shoulders like heavy armor.
"These aren't pirates. They knew where and what to look for. They came for us," Santelli didn't ask but stated the self-evident.
The Brigadier and the swordsman stood facing each other, their faces impenetrable. Santelli's hand hung deceptively still, lowering the axe. Kai held the sword still by the blade. The Brigadier grimaced at the pain in his shattered ear and jerked his head.
"Matrice?" The brigadier said only one word. He thought for a moment and put his axe behind his belt.
"Yes," Kai was equally succinct.
"Did she and the Duke make a deal a long time ago?"
"No."
Santelli was silent again, looking directly into Kai's eyes. The knight tried to endure the unblinking gaze, which held no threat, only heavy sadness. And he couldn't. He lowered his head.
"That's funny," said the Brigadier. "I used to think of myself as the most cunning and mistrustful. And so foolishly trusted... As the church says, pride is a sin."
"Are you going to take revenge on her?" Kai asked, already knowing the answer. Just to fill the heavy, bitter pause. "Will you sell the ship and use the money to start a brigade war?"
"Yes. But it's not about her."
"Are you gonna get revenge on me, too?"
"How on earth did that happen?" Santelli answered the question with a question. He tried to hide the pain in his voice, undignified, belittling him as a brigadier who could not complain about life and betrayal. It was partly working, but Kai knew his "sergeant" too well.
"I ... owe you a lot," Kai set the sword point down, leaning on the cross, just like in the studio, at the magic mirror. The knight never looked up, feeling that now it was his "it just so happened" that sounded pathetic. "But this is my family."
"Yes, family is worth a lot," the Brigadier agreed. He sighed and shook his head again. The wound was not dangerous, but it hurt, nasty, annoying as if a swamp spider had burrowed into his head and sucked blood from his shattered ear.
"When was I supposed to be killed according to the first plan?" Santelli asked. "There, in the harbor or on the way?"
"In Malersyde, after handing over the painting," Kai answered bluntly. "But ..." he slapped his wet-gloved palm on the crosspiece. "But I wanted to keep you alive. After you didn't leave me on the shore as a hostage."
"And how?" The Brigadier asked sarcastically.
"After talking to my father. He felt there was no point in having two partners if you could only pay one. I thought I could change his mind."
"Apparently, someone had a change of plans," the brigadier grinned. "Or someone is too impatient."
Zilber came up, limping badly. He handed the brigadier a ladle of seawater. He advised him briefly:
"Pour it on the wound. Hel said it'll keep it from rotting."
Santelli took the ladle silently, and the mercenary walked back, careful not to slip on the wet stones. The sand was almost invisible beneath the layer of pebbles and large, wave-rolled stones. The Brigadier tilted his head to the side and lifted a wooden vessel, letting a thin trickle of cold water run down. He hissed like an angry meowr as the salt bit viciously into his cut flesh.
Kai looked behind the foreman's back. There, farther from the shoreline, Hel was gathering rocks and stacking them into a pyramid. Farther away, Charley was sitting on a wave-swept log, scrutinizing his mangled arm. He looked as if he couldn't get used to the idea that the bandaged stump without a wrist really belonged to him.
"I wanted to save you," Kai repeated. His ugly, bony face twitched into a grimace.
"You have betrayed us ... friend," the Brigadier said, twirling the empty ladle aimlessly in his hands. For a moment, Santelli's eyes flashed with anger. His fingers clenched as if preparing to throw the ladle at the swordsman, distracting him for a moment as the axe swung from his belt to break his enemy's skull. Kai's hands clenched on the cross of the sword.
"We chopped the coin, you and I," Santelli tossed the wood aside as if shrugging off temptation. "You gave your word. You chose the brigade."
"In the end, I chose family. My sisters are a pack of hyenas, and my father is even worse, but they are still my family. Without them, I am nothing. A wanderer who lives only from his sword."
"And you bought your way back into the family by selling us. And me. Oh, yes, how could I forget-- you wanted to keep us alive," the Brigadier's words oozed with venomous irony. "Brotherly, yes."
"That's right, you have the right to mock me, the right to exact blood in a duel," Kai said.
"I have the right to slaughter you like a pig," Santeli said grimly and angrily. "Just call them in," the Brigadier waved his hand toward the ship. "And tell them to whom we owe all this mess."
"Yeah. But I covered for you at the mast."
Kai tapped his sword against the rocks. A deep gouge was clearly visible on the blade.
Santelli was silent. For a long time.
"Yeah, you covered for me," he finally agreed. "Well, let's just say we're even. But from here on out, we'll be going our separate ways."
"If you say so," Kai said again, an empty, useless phrase just to fill the silence. "Well, I have to go."
"I won't wish you luck. And ..." Santelli, who had turned toward the ship, froze half-turned. Kai tensed.
"Don't come back to the Wastelands again," said the Brigadier. "Yesterday, you ceased to be my brother. Tomorrow you will be my enemy."
Santelli walked toward the ship. The swordsman stared after him, keeping his hands in the crosshairs of his sword, and with every step the Brigadier took, Kai's head dropped a hair as if an invisible hand was pressing down on his neck.
* * *
Ash to ash.
There's nothing left. No thoughts, no hopes. Nothing. Nothing at all. Just three words from a past life so far away that it seemed like it had never happened - just a fleeting flap of a dream fairy's wing.
Ash to ash.
There weren't even ashes left of Shena. And Hel was stacking stones into a pyramid. A cenotaph. A grave without a body. A memory of a person who once came into the world and now left it irrevocably.
Forever.
Stone to stone. Memory to memory. A year lived in the same city. A few days were spent side by side. A few hours of confidential conversation. A few minutes of genuine intimacy, preserved in memory like a stamp.
Emerald-chrysolite eyes, at the bottom of which always hide sparks of sadness. A slight, ironic half-smile that easily turns into a wicked grin and rarely, so rarely, blossoms into genuine tenderness.
Memory.
This is all that's left of the green-eyed Valkyrie.
The stones licked by the wave lay in the pyramid, tapping their gray sides. Her hands were frozen, the sea salt eating away at her scraped fingers. Droplets of blood mingled with the water, coating the stones with dark beads. Her tangled wet hair was out from under her hat, sticking to her cheeks like a dirty felt.
Finally, the pyramid was complete. Somehow Hel knew for sure that the cenotaph was exactly as it should be. Not higher or lower. No more and no less. It would withstand the pressure of the waves. It would outlive all who were now gathered on this shore. Time will come, and Hel will die, and with her will finally die Shena, imprinted in the memory of her red-haired friend. But the pyramid will stand, reminding the sea, wind, and sky - a man lived.
Hel was on her knees, hands folded and staring at the cenotaph mindlessly. A small but unquenchable fire was burning in her chest, burning her heart and her very soul. Now that the healer could no longer maintain her iron self-control and could no longer concentrate on helping the wounded fighters, it grew and burned, brighter and brighter. Hel growled deafeningly, like a beast, clenching her fists. And when, finally, the heat seemed unbearable, and her heart stumbled, ready to stop, unable to withstand the torture of extreme grief, a heavy hand lay on the girl's shoulder.
"Cry, child."
Hel looked up at Charley from below. Her eyes were deep-set, her features painfully sharp, adding another ten years to her age. Brether looked no better, pale, like a dead man whose blood had been drained. The blurred eyes indicated that the Maître was on his feet only because of a killer dose of amber elixir.
"Cry while you can," Charley repeated, and a deep sadness flooded his gaze.
"She's gone," Hel whispered, feeling a small, traitorous shiver cover her lips.
"It hurts... so painful..."
She pressed her hands to her chest, where the all-consuming fire of endless grief burned. Her lips trembled more and more.
"Will it always hurt like this?" Hel squeezed her throat through the spasm of the executioner's ligature.
"No," the old Brether said with a soft but firm assurance. "Time heals everything, even extreme grief. The pain will stay with you forever, but it won't cut you like a razor."
Unable to fight the pain in her tearing heart, Hel gave a deafening howl.
"Cry, child, while you can. While you have this great gift of the young to shed tears for those who have left us."
A gift I have long been deprived of, Charley thought. He watched in silence as Hel crouched by the stone pyramid folded herself almost in half with her wet cloak. The girl's shoulders shook, and she swayed like a willow trunk in a hurricane.
Cry while you can...
Hel clutched at the ground, literally hammering her fingers between the rocks, feeling her nails break. Charley ran his hand over her head, a fatherly gesture. And that was the last straw. The tears rolled away, falling on the pebbles as tiny diamonds dissolved into a film of seawater. Ashes to ashes, bitterness to bitterness. For the first time in her life, Hel cried at the stone pyramid, and the old killer looked down at her in silence.
* * *
"Take it. It'll come in handy on the road"
Santelli handed her a purse, not quite full but quite not bad. Even if it was only filled with pennies, it would last for a long time. Hel accepted the gift, again catching the surprised ... no, more of a puzzled look from the foreman. It was the look most people got after the medic cut her hair. Unevenly, with a hand trembling from weakness, but determined and irrevocable. That's how one leaves the plow and his father's trade to become a soldier. They sell everything and outfit a one-way merchant ship. Choosing between wine and poison in a noble and cruel reckoning of a hopeless card debt. Hel has chosen her fate and marked it most irreversibly.
The ship's crew shunned the redhead as an obvious lunatic. Because who else would dare to do such a thing in a foreign land, going nowhere, alone, without any protection? The surviving routiers were surprised but generally accepted the event without much excitement. They had seen more than their share of such things. And Santelli. Yes, he watched like the others. But in the farthest corner of the brigadier's cold eyes, Hel read understanding. Understanding and a tiny bit of approval. So a man accepts someone else's choice - not easy, but worthy - and agrees with it, silently, without descending to trivial words, wishing the traveler to follow the chosen path to the end.
"And here's another," the Brigadier handed over a chain with half a coin. Hel recognized it at once and clutched it like a jewel. It was the most precious thing in the world. The only thing left of Shena. The girl put on the chain, joining another of the same kind on a twisted cord. The metal links felt cold, slow to heat from her body.
"You don't need to go any further with us now."
Hel read knowledge in the Brigadier's eyes as well. Santelli knew exactly to whom the brigade and the mercenaries owed the nightmare of the dead rising. And while recognizing the usefulness of magical horror, he didn't want to go any further with whoever was raising the dead. Actually, he could have just pointed her out as a necromancer in the first place, could have, and should have. But he remained silent, and that was another gift from the Brigadier, the last.
"Farewell, red-haired witch. You have come and gone strangely, but we have seen no harm or treachery from you. And may Pantocrator watch over you."
Santelli walked away toward the ship without turning around.
"Goodbye ... Brigadier," Hel said into his back, and for some reason, she thought Santelli smiled. But, of course, it was impossible to check it through the brigadier's back, crossed by the straps of the half-cuirassa.
Hel found herself alone with the brether. All the others were gathering around the ship, climbing aboard, ready for a new journey.
"Take it," Charley handed her the dagger. It was a fine dagger, even the unskilled healer realized at once. It was not a very long, faceted blade, almost a stiletto with a small grip, and it rested in a special scabbard - not leather, not wood, but tubular bone discolored to translucence. Such a knife is not easily wielded in household matters. Its purpose is death. A valuable object, as important as money in a purse, if not more so. Coins do not scare and do not fend off a robber or a murderer.
"Will you go on with him?"
"Yes," replied the maître very calmly, almost peacefully. "I liked that hand. I am accustomed to it. I want to find the man to whom I owe its absence and express my displeasure to him."
Charley didn't make a sinister face, not even a sinister grin. But looking at him, Hel remembered the house on the marshes. The Brether had become a one-armed man, but the one to whom Charley intended to express the depth of his displeasure should have had a sharper blade and a bigger guard.
"And I will go to the City," Hel said.
"That's a good idea. Just change your nickname first. Calling yourself by a demon's name with a haircut like that and traveling alone isn't very sensible. They might offer to answer for it."
"I'll think of something."
"Do you want to learn a magical skill at the Academy?"
"No. Mastery of the fight."
"Not the best choice," Brether grumbled. "I understand you want to be prepared for the new arrival of a witch's creature. But age... What are you, about twenty, I think? You should have started about five years earlier to get to mastery. At least."
"There's really no choice. They'll be looking for me. They'll probably find me sooner or later," she thought out loud with cold judgment. "If I study magic, I'm sure they'll find me sooner."
"Yes, I hadn't thought of that," Charley agreed after a short pause. "You were being hunted by very powerful people. Few can afford the services of a twisted warrior-mage with a soul mangled by magical transitions. It's unlikely your enemies will back down. I'm also thinking," he looked at Hel questioningly. "That you won't just wait."
She remained silent. The answer was easy to read on the young woman's hard face, which had matured overnight.
Hel put on the belt straps and bounced, "shrinking" the weight. She slipped the bone scabbard behind her belt, thought about it, and decided it was uncomfortable and too conspicuous. The woman placed the dagger in her sleeve, and it fell into place as if it had been intended. The handle reached the middle of her palm, the short grip not disturbing. Convenient and inconspicuous to carry, easy to retrieve when needed. Sharley watched these evolutions in silence, saying nothing, only smiling slightly and approvingly when Hel finally realized the correct way to carry the blade.
"If you get to the City," Charley said as if he'd made up his mind. "Go to the Street of Free Blades. Anyone can point it out. Don't even look at the schools of fencing fraternities, you won't be welcome there, and they're all in plain sight. You'll find Figueredo the Draftsman's workshop, at the very end near the river if he's still alive. You will tell him." the Brether thought for a few moments. "Tell him you want to study the Àrd-Ealain. The Grande Art."
The Brether spoke the last words in a special way. It was noticeable that for him, it was not a high-sounding turn of phrase, not two simple words, but something much, much more.
"The Grande Art." Echoed Hel.
"He'll ridicule you and chase you away. Then you'll say hello from Vincent Mongayard. Remember."
"Vincent Mongayard," Hel obediently repeated.
"Good. And you will say that Vincent asked to teach you the science of the geometry of the circle and the eighty-three angles of the human body, as well as to teach you sixteen simple and sixteen complicated tricks and techniques. Don't be confused. If he takes you into his service..."
Charley's pale face twisted into an ugly smile. The drug seemed to be wearing off, and the Brether was getting worse.
"Draftsman is a nasty man, rude and arrogant. He hates people and wants them to know it. But remember, if anyone can turn you into a real fighter, it's him. Now, farewell. Pantocrator protects you."
The crew was preparing for low tide. The ship looked decent now, and after the deck had been cleaned, it no longer looked like a bloody slaughterhouse. Perhaps only traces of repairs and a few scorched spots on the deck testified to recent events.
Santelli watched the small figure of the red-haired woman moving away toward the hills. He thought of the medic's face. He thought about how much money he could get for the ship, how to pay off the routiers, and where to hire fighters for the war with Matrice. Engrossed in his thoughts, he missed the mercenary who approached unnoticed.
"It is good that she has left us, commander," the routier, face, and speech a true Highlander, said softly, only to the brigadier's ears. "You did the right thing in sending the witch away."
"Is that so?" snarled the brigadier habitually, as he always did when anyone allowed himself to make the slightest attempt on his authority or even to speak patronizingly.
"Yes, sir," the Highlander immediately lowered his head, showing that he had no intention of being disrespectful. And, as it seemed to Santelli, the routier's reverence was due to the fact that the brigadier had supposedly gotten rid of the medicine woman.
"I can see, a little, the very least, but I can," the mercenary spoke quickly and even more quietly. "And I can see her. She is coisich a'bàs, misfortune is hidden in her right hand, death hides in her left hand, and Erdeg Gozchasar himself looks at the world through her eyes. It is good that the witch is no longer with us."
"Yes..." Santelie automatically made the sign of the Pantocrator. The Highlander repeated the sign, only spreading his fingers with horns. "Maybe you're right."
The small figure moved farther and farther to the southeast. Until, at last, it was out of sight.
Epilogue
* * *
The last few days of spring in Malersyde had been rich in surprising and mysterious events. For starters, one of the warships had returned to port, an ordinary event, but the ship looked as if it had come out of a terrible battle. With its crew hollowed out and its deck trashed, it looked as if a whole crew of mad lumberjacks had tried to smash everything they could into splinters. The survivors were immediately isolated like the plague and kept in the quarantine barracks.
Then a wave of silent deaths swept through the ducal palace. Of course, on the one hand, "wave" is a bit of a mouthful. On the other hand, when in one night, three not the last cronies of the duke hang themselves, leaving penitential letters and bequeathing to the patron all the property, bypassing even direct relatives - how else to call it?
And finally, the middle daughter of the Lord, the beautiful Clavel ausf Wartensleben, the duke's heiress, if not by birth, then by merit and general recognition, was at once removed from all family affairs, locked up under house arrest and married to who the fuck knows who. But that is again. On the one hand, the groom was not the last man on the Island, a real Bonomn of Aleinse, albeit a side branch. On the other hand, where is it seen that the marriage ceremony was held in absentia (!), taking no more than a quarter of an hour, and the bride immediately went to the Island to her betrothed (who, it should be noted, from a young age enjoyed the notoriety of a man corrupted even by the free standards of ancient families). Without introduction, engagement, solemn entries, festivities, festivities, festivities, and distribution of gifts .... Unprecedented!
Evil tongues in the back alleys, on the wharves, and in the darkness of the taverns whispered that the old Duke was in a rage such as had not been seen in forty years. Since that time, when the last and weakest in the long chain of Wartensleben's heirs had once again been humiliated by his elders after he had decided that almost two dozen brothers and nephews were too many, and the number "one" was beautiful in its noble simplicity.
However, no cunning mind has ever been able to unravel the nature of the anger that has overwhelmed the Old Man.....
* * *
The painting was encased in a brand-new silver frame with a spell firmly cast to stop the decay of the fabric and colors. Now, cleansed of the dust of centuries, the canvas seemed unnaturally white, further emphasizing the laconic simplicity of the painting.
The image was not complete. It is in that state when rough work is in full swing, and it is still far from being erased with stale breadcrumbs. However, from the web of "working" lines that formed simple geometric figures, showing the direction of perspective and the boundaries of the images, the artist's intention was already quite clearly visible.
The painting was organized according to the classical principle of "rectangle within a rectangle by a corner". Thin black lines represented the image of a woman wearing a loose jacket with a wide and very loose collar, partly revealing even her shoulders. The model folded her arms so that the left one rested on a fencing mask made of intertwined bars, and the right one rested with an elbow on the left hand, in turn supporting the chin.
The palms of her hands were concealed in gloves with wide sockets and protective pads. The right collarbone, just above the collar neckline, was slightly obscured, a shadow or a bruise. The overall composition suggested the latter, the bruise most likely sustained in a training match. The model had her hair pulled back, only a couple of loose curls falling down to her temples and one, especially loose, reaching her shoulder.
The lower half of the face was only sketched in the most general outlines, but one could say that the unknown painter had managed to capture that wonderful moment when laughter is just emerging in the fine wrinkles, in the elusive curve of the lips. It was the calm, restrained smile of an absolutely self-confident man.
The entire drawing appeared to be done in charcoal. Only the hair was touched a few times with a sanguine pencil, as if the author was trying it on, assessing how the charcoal lines matched the reddish hue.
"What do you say?" The Duke asked
"I think..." The brunette in the routier jacket was silent. Her pale, beautiful face seemed to be a fixed mask. But a careful eye could detect the slightest sign of uncertainty. The dark-haired feminine hesitated - not in her convictions, but in the need to voice them. But she did.
"I'm sure the painting is authentic. This is the hand of Geryon, the last period of creativity, when the master began to cultivate very sparing graphics. From large-scale colorful canvases to portraits in one or two colors."
"That's it?"
"No. I'm also sure... sure. The sign in the corner."
"Yeah, the usual artist's warm-up."
"It's too ornate, even for those times. And if it is mirrored, the symbol looks like a pictogram of the Old Language, even before the primary imperial alphabet."
"And does she mean-?" impatiently prompted the duke.
"It can be read as - portraying myself," the brunette said in one breath.
The old man in the snow-white robe with gold embroidery was silent, gazing myopically at the picture. In fact, the duke's eyesight was as sharp as a mountain bird's.
"Self-portrait," he finally said, not so much asking for clarification as agreeing. The brunette chose to remain silent.
"And that, in turn, means," the Duke continued thoughtfully. "The art fringe who said that Geryon was just a pseudonym for a master who wished to be anonymous was right."
Once again, the brunette didn't utter a word.
"Ogoyo was right. Stigmatized, disgraced, banished from all artistic communities. Died in poverty, forgotten. And yet he was right. We are now the only ones in the entire Ecumene who know exactly what the greatest painter in history looked like. Or, more accurately, how she imagined herself."
The Duke was silent again, sighing. He cast a long, gloomy glance at the window, or rather at the missing wall, beyond which, from a wide balcony without railings, a wonderful view of the harbor opened up. There, in the distance, the last sail of the ship's cortege that was taking the beautiful Clavel to the Island, to her impatient fiancé, was just disappearing.
"Stop dressing like a lowly batalero," the duke ordered brusquely, without transition or introduction. "And get rid of that vile creature of yours at last. It annoys me and shits on the castle floors. After all, it is disrespectful to the ancestors and the best sandstone in Evumene. It is acceptable to desecrate the stone of ancestral estates with the blood of relatives, not the beast shit."
"As you wish, revered Father," the brunette lowered her gaze.
"So... Truly, I am now the most unhappy parent in the two Kingdoms. The first and only son is unfit for the family business. The eldest daughter has devoted herself," the old man seemed to be barely able to keep from spitting on the very floor of the finest sandstone in Ecumene.
The brunette bowed her head as if in readiness to take on all the sins of the family in atonement.
"It would seem that the third attempt was more successful, and the middle daughter finally lived up to the senile hopes, but lo and behold...."
The Duke sighed again. His voice rattled like glass pendants in a thunderstorm.
Well, that makes you the hope of the Wartensleben family.
The old man went to the balcony and looked again at the sail, which had shrunk to the size of a white dot on the line that separated the blue sea from the pale blue sky. It was a glorious day, and a fair wind would drive the ships all the way to the Island.
"Why do you think she's there and unlikely to ever come back?" Duke asked without turning around.
"It is the will of my revered Father."
"Flessa, that was a good answer for a younger and respectful daughter. But a poor one for a man eager to enter the family enterprise. You're nineteen and a member of the family that holds the commerce of the entire continental west in its fist. If you still haven't acquired your network of spies, you have no place in our business. So I'll wait for more and repeat the question of why she's there."
"As far as I'm concerned, the kindly sister ... has been playing around," the brunette didn't hesitate for a second, changing her tone immediately. "She saw the painting as an opportunity for unreported earnings and organized a pirate raid. At any rate, that's what the second, hidden layer of secrecy your spies are spreading, revered Father."
"Not bad, Flessa, not bad. And?" the Duke wiggled his fingers, inviting his daughter to continue the sentence as she saw fit.
"It's not clear to me," the brunette replied with the utmost honesty, clearly realizing that the slightest lie or innuendo would ruin her irrevocably now. "To outsiders' ears, this legend is as good as any other, but ... The plan is too crude, too ... direct."
"Would you have acted differently?"
"Of course. First of all, I wouldn't mess with Herion. This painting can only be bought by Bonomes and Heads of Merchant Guilds. No more than three dozen people in the world. And hardly anyone would agree to bury it in obscurity without boasting of a precious find. So it would be all too easy to walk along the thread between the canvas and the pirates, identifying the customer of the raid. I think there is a third cloak of secrecy, but into it, my spies have not been able to penetrate. One thing is certain, Clavel acted of her own accord, without your approval."
"Nothing is as solid as hindsight," the old man said with a wry chuckle. "And as convincing as a detailed description of why the already fallen stumbled. In truth, however..."
He was silent, turning resolutely away from the panorama of the bay.....
"Looks like your dreams will come true, Flessa... at least for a while. So far, my children have been mostly disappointments in the order of the day. Let's see what you're capable of. And as a dedication, listen carefully."
He approached the brunette almost closely, and she lowered her eyes even further, looking almost to the very toes of her dainty boots.
"In reality, our blonde girl was conspiring. She was approached by a certain, uh, person. Her name won't tell you anything right now, and let it remain anonymous for now. It is enough to know that it was a sorceress, one of the strongest. The sorceress did not waste precious time and immediately offered ... negotiation. A highly radical one. She demanded - exactly demanded! - the lives of all those taken by the copper flagship in the northern harbor. In exchange for a large reward. A very large reward," the Duke emphasized the word very.
"So much so that Clavel would risk valuable family property and your wrath?"
"Yes. Let's just say it was a very elegant offer. It harmonized both the promise of a reward and very sophisticated blackmail."
"So the painting wasn't a bet?" Flessa clarified.
"No, the theft of Geryon is already a private initiative of our dear relative."
"She wanted to use the canvas to organize a false trail?"
"Quite right. And now I'm disappointed, extremely disappointed. Clavel was doing so well with her share of our common concerns... and so stupidly, so ridiculously broken."
"I can do better than that," Flessa finally looked directly into her father's eyes. And withstood their icy intensity.
"Maybe. But first, think about it and tell me why I'm so angry and sad. It's not the first or the last time children have tried to put their hand into their parents' coffers. It's a mundane matter. What is Clavel's real sin?"
"A mage who wants ragamuffin from the wild lands..." reasoned Flessa aloud, almost without pause for thought. "Willing to pay something extremely valuable for their lives, so much so that even Clavel trembled... That's more valuable than any money."
"Indeed," the duke shook his gray head in a subtle gesture of approval. "That's what upset me the most. Why were these people so important? Magicians try not to interfere openly in worldly affairs; they fear the Church and get their way by quiet conspiracies, like spiders in the shadows."
The Duke turned away from his daughter and took a few steps, musing aloud.
"What was it about Santeli's crew that made the powerful sorceress lose her composure and patience, organizing a robbery on the open ocean? This is what one does in view of great danger, which must be exterminated at any cost by one's hand. Maybe the brigade is not only important to the sorceress? Maybe these grimy marauders could be useful to us? That's what the empty-headed wench ought to have realized at once!"
"As far as I'm concerned, that's my job now?" The dark-haired one clarified.
"And this one, among others. Since I have no other choice, I'll start bringing you into the family business. Just like you dreamed of, scheming so cleverly against family members."
He was silent and raised his index finger as a sign that the instructions were to be heeded with the utmost care as if Pantocrator himself were speaking through the mouth of his prophet.
"Find them. Find out what the sorceress wants. Oh, and, uh."
The Duke looked his daughter in the eyes again, this time he pressed his gaze until she repented.
"My firstborn will be back soon. Remember, he's untouchable."
"It's unlikely he'll decide..."
"Oh, you never learned to understand him," the old man hummed mirthlessly. "Kai is alive, and he'll be back to chivalrously confront me about trying to kill him. He doesn't know he owes it to Clavel, who decided to cut off a branch of the family tree. And I need him."
"I don't think so..." Flessa stopped short, realizing that she had let herself go too far.
"I think so," the duke cut her off flatly. "And that's enough. Kai is not a merchant, which is unfortunate. But during his voluntary hermitage, he has acquired other talents that I intend to use. And someone must represent our family in the treaty with Matrice. The artifacts and gold of the dungeons are dust, a trifle. But Santelli was right. We need mercury, and most importantly, the sulfur of the Wastelands."
"Sulphur...?" Flessa didn't understand.
"Another trump card that the cunning Brigadier put aside for later. The world's best raw material for "resin" armor, about which few people know yet. But we'll discuss this matter later. In the meantime, remember, your vendetta is not to my liking. Kai is untouchable until I authorize otherwise. I hope you heard and understood what I said. Now go. Noble Flessa ausf Wartensleben, my word and my hand in Malersyde."
* * *
She burst into the crypt abruptly, like a splinter of a hurricane hurling thunder and lightning. She was tall, coal-black from head to toe, from her loose hair slicked to one side to her hiking boots. Only her face remained white, untouched by even a pinch of blush. In the half-darkness of the cave, it looked like a postmortem mask, forever contorted with a grimace of anger.
"How could you?!" The guest said briskly. The translucent lace cloak over her shoulders fluttered like the wings of a dunghill.
A young woman with skin of an unusual grayish hue and blond hair rose gracefully from the soft mat and turned toward her guest in one cohesive motion. The long-haired woman in black trembled and took a step back, seeing that the pearly-skinned woman's face was covered by a bandage.... no, it was a mask. Strange, sinister, forged of gray metal without a single decoration, only the pre-Imperial sign "lìonra" glowing faintly in the center. The mask covered her forehead and eyes like a fine instrument of torture, tiny droplets of blood oozing from beneath it, pooling to the edges of her lips.
"We could very well have met at my house. Or in the tower," the 'pearl' mage remarked coldly. "Or any other place. It wasn't necessary to disrupt my meditation and... work. Afterimages are not easy and very exhausting, just so you know."
"I've come to demand an answer!" The dark one threw angrily.
"An answer?" even without seeing the light one's face, one could easily imagine a critically raised eyebrow.
"An answer!" repeated the dark one. "You began to play against us! You warned them!"
"Not at all," the masked sorceress said softly, as if to an unintelligent child, carefully blotting her bloody face with a handkerchief.
"You're helping her!" The dark one didn't slow down and seemed to have reached the point of extreme anger.
"Not at all," Pearl repeated, sighing. "I take it you failed again? Did your half-crazed sadist go wrong?"
"She failed," the guest said through gritted teeth, her anger crashing against the unbreakable calm of the cave mistress.
"You can't send performers through magical passages so often. It hurts the mind. And, alas, I am not to blame for your fiasco," the lady of pearls said politely but with rigid finality. "As you may remember, I am not involved in your vanities. I am neither interfering with nor helping your hunt."
"She walked away from the carefully prepared trap, raising the dead to her defense."
"I know."
A graceful hand with pearl-colored skin lightly touched the mask, silently pointing to the source of knowledge.
"Do you realize what's happening?" the dark one took a couple of nervous steps, chopping the air with a small fist. "She's a necromancer, a damned necromancer of incredible power! No rituals, no accumulation of power. And yet, in the middle of an ocean that halves her magical abilities. She took one look, and the dead rose up, fighting for her. It's just like I thought it would be. Just as I feared. As I warned all you, non-believers!"
"You're wrong," the masked sorceress still said softly. "And wrong all along."
"Oh, so reveal the truth to me, oh, greatest of the wise, wisest of the great," the dark one bowed in a mocking half-bow. "It must be the sea demons that have risen from the abysses, must it not? Or has Pantocrator shown miracles of resurrection?"
The Pearl Witch shook her head, and again, despite the mask, her expression was readable without the slightest difficulty. It was a reproachful, unkind half-smile.
"I will reveal. Though, the truth will sadden you, mainly because it is a monument and epitaph to your unwillingness to listen. Your collective unwillingness."
Light took a pre-prepared bowl of wine from the table, which was under a light spell of frost. Just enough to stay pleasantly chilled. As the sorceress drank, the guest nervously cracked her fingers in a way that made it seem as if the joints were going to crunch.
"I warned you," the pearl lady set the bowl down. "Do not touch her. Let her go her own way. You didn't listen."
"Necromancer," the dark one repeated with a quiet and from that even more intimidating fury. "Necromancer!"
"First of all, no. The girl is not a necromancer. It was a spontaneous outburst, subordinate to the main passion that possesses the initiator. Unconscious and therefore uncontrollable. She wanted to resurrect a murdered friend and raise everything around her from the dead. Secondly, she is not actually Riadag. She's not Spark. She is Darkness. Foundation. Nothing."
The dark one gasped, choking on the swear word that was about to roll off her tongue. Pearl one raised her fingers, moving them like a puppeteer controlling an invisible puppet. The air between the sorceresses tinkled, shuddering, shattering the light into a multitude of shards - each no larger than the point of a needle - shimmering with all the colors of the rainbow. A moment more, and a Construct appeared in the space where nothing had been before.
It seemed both ghostly and material at the same time. Inherent in this world and, at the same time, existing in the entire Macrocosm simultaneously. Something unimaginable, uniting light and darkness, as static as a stone and as infinitely variable as a ribbon of time.
"You built it..." whispered the dark one, unable to stop the trembling in her fingers. "The Stein Grid, the Machine of Probabilities..."
"Yes," the pearly one said without further ado. A thin trickle of scarlet blood, as if drawn by the best calligrapher, slid out from under the mask.
"And third, you all forgot the main tenet of Stein's theory."
"False doctrine," the dark one continued to rage, but there was no true faith in her words.
"Scientific truth," the light one continued to conjure, and, obeying the movements of her hands, a ruby thread flashed deep inside the Machine. Elena, if she'd seen it, would have compared it to a laser beam.
"Stein's Paradox," the light one reminded her, playing with the ruby needle, which ran in endless motion, surrounded by light reflections, splitting and coming together again. It was like human life, alternating between light and dark, goodness and trials.
The law of the universe does not allow magicians to reach the divine essence and control time. We can influence the future only unconsciously. And seen and learned means "accomplished". And the stronger our attempts to somehow change the future, the tougher the counter-resistance.
"There is no paradox!" roared the dark one, like a seasoned soldier. "There is only cowardice and fear to face one's fate. To look and then break it!"
"Watch."
The ruby thread flashed and scattered with purple sparks.
"Basic probability. The girl should have died in the first hours of her appearance. That was her real, true destiny."
It seemed the dark one had twisted her finger after all. At least that's what it clicked like.
"But you intervened. Your actions provoked a reaction from the other side," With a new movement of her hand, a new drop of blood appeared on her pearly cheek to touch a strand of hair and be absorbed without a trace, like a drop of ink in a calligrapher's brush. "And thus routier saved her, without knowing it himself."
The ruby thread came together from the dancing sparks and turned sharply, at an angle, in the other direction.
"The paradox in action. Interference generates a distortion, a counterwave that repels the attacker. And the side probability becomes the main probability. The girl survives."
"Tricks..." whispered the dark one. "It's all tricks..."
"That's the truth," the light one said adamantly. "Keep looking."
This time, the red thread was intertwined with several other colors. The emerald one came especially close. The two blindingly bright beams trembled, ready to merge. They pulsed so fast that they seemed to be both threads and clouds of light.
New probabilities for a new time, equally possible, equally probable. The first is that the Duke kills all the new arrivals. The bodies rest at the bottom of the harbor until the fish eat the flesh and the sea water dissolves the bones. The second, the Duke's son, manages to talk his father out of it. The girl and her friend go to the South, where they live a normal life for many years together. And die naturally. It was inevitable, one or the other. But in both cases, their lives were inextricably linked to the very end. And you intervened again.
The emerald beam flashed and fell with sad lights that descended, swirling like tiny, weightless fluffs of ash.
"Once again, your attempt to cheat fate has produced a response. A new iteration - the girl is not only alive but now she's wandering around in the middle of nowhere, seeking revenge."
"And then what?!" the dark one blurted out. "Where to find her now?"
"Somewhere," Pearl replied indifferently and clapped her hands together. Obeying the order, the Machine trembled, lost all its colors for a moment, turned into a contrasting black-and-white skeleton, and disappeared. To be more precise, it shifted, no longer visible and tangible to an ordinary person.
"Stein's Paradox," the light one repeated. "Don't try to trick him. You didn't guess the future. You didn't see it with Jyotish or by reading the path of the stars. You saw it, and now you cannot change it. Leave the Spark to its path. You have no control over it. None of us, none of the paod an sgàthan."
"You're trying to trick me," the dark-haired woman whispered, a black waterfall down her right shoulder, covering one eye. The other glowed with angry, fanatical determination.
"Why am I the only one who sees all the danger?" she asked bitterly. "Everyone else is afraid, covering themselves with decrepit fairy tales, obscuring themselves from the truth with fairground tricks. They even get in the way. And I'm the only one trying to stop the avalanche that will destroy us all."
Dark glanced pleadingly at her interlocutor but only encountered the blind face of the mask.
"She's not a girl. Not a victim. Not a random guest," the dark one pleaded openly, unconsciously extending her hand palm upward as if for alms. "And I don't believe in the ravings of the long-dead madman Stein. I believe the creature threatens us all. It will wipe us out if it is not stopped."
"Not believing doesn't make the rules go away. You can't make a rock fall upward. You can't reverse the course of the sun. You can't get around Stein's rule."
"Do you want me to beg you? To go down on my knees, groveling and begging for a drop of help?" the dark one straightened up with a string as if in opposition to her own words, clasping her hands to her chest. "Necromancer she is, Spark, Gatherer, or whatever, the creature must die! For all of us. Help me! Show me where to look. You can find out!"
"You don't listen," said the pearl sorceress sadly. "You hear, yet you do not listen.... What if I told you..."
For a moment, it seemed to the dark one that the blind mask was piercing with a cold, invisible beam, cutting as if with shards of ice.
"If I told you that your actions would turn her into what you fear most in the world?"
The dark one was silent for a long time. She calmed down, or rather, took herself in hand, shackled by the bonds of steely restraint. Her face was once again a pale mask that did not reflect a single thought.
"It's just words," she finally said.
"So listen to my Word. My word as Lady of the Probable," the pearly sorceress's voice rang out in the semi-darkness of the crypt. "You can step back and let Spark create her destiny, whatever it may be. Or you can continue on your way. But you must remember that the most destructive avalanche always starts with a single grain of sand. Droplets of blood from Spark's dead friend will turn into a raging torrent and create a war like the Ecumene has never known before. The entire continent, from edge to edge, will blaze in battle, and we, paod an sgàthan, will disappear because today you have remained deaf to my words. The choice is yours."
This time the dark one did not wait. Her voice still echoed through the stone vaults as she wrapped herself in her cloak, making her look like a giant bat. A sinister ghost creeps into houses in the darkness to drink the blood of the living and kidnap children. An unyielding, iron resolve seared into the thin features of her white face.
"My choice was made long ago. I will save us all. Even if the rest of us, in our carelessness, long for death. The darkness has come to our world, and it will die."
The End.
* * *
