Rhianon-9. The Birth of the Dragon. Natalie Yacobson

were swarming too, but Rhianon didn’t listen to them. She was on her way to feast with the humans.

      Douglas refused to help her. He was captivated by the girl. He would not harm Rhianon for any money or promises. Hildegard herself thought with regret that she would no longer be such a beauty, but she was faced with a choice. Which was sweeter: the lips and long lashes and languid glances of the devil’s mistress or the power? Anyone who was smart would have chosen the latter.

      Had Douglas learned of her plans, he would have been dangerous. He might have blabbed everything to Rhianon. So it was worth using all her charms to weave a sorcerer’s web around the tower so that no one’s thoughts could penetrate it. No sorcerer could understand what she was doing.

      The witch potions and potions in Hildegard’s jars were running out. And there were no ingredients to make new ones yet. They were too difficult to obtain. She had to go to the cemetery and dig in the places where she could hear claws clawing under the ground and nocturnal creatures. The bones they nibbled in the graves were perhaps the most necessary, just as the seed of the hangmen or the mandrake growing under the feet of the hanged. She needed many things to maintain her witchcraft arsenal. Talented magicians use their charms; she had to act more like a witch doctor. No potions, no effect. She could only conjure using formulas given to her by others.

      Pheba, the witch doctor of the village, was another matter. She had recently been brought in by Velicia, one of Hildegard’s special friends. She had long been bewitching suitors for court ladies, or casting spells. If Hildegard could have given her a golden lock of Rhianon, she would have done so. It was a pity she had only managed to comb a few hairs out of the strands of the newfound queen. But even those should have been enough.

      Rhianon is a queen, but her age is short. Hildegard decided to take care of it. She tried not to miss a single detail, even the most insignificant. Pheba’s efforts alone did not seem enough to her. She could have done something herself. If only Rhianon would accept gifts from her. How easy it would have been to slip her poison and spell-soaked things. Such jewelry would have killed her faster than any knife. Yet Hildegard also hoped for a conspirators’ knife. As a last resort, it was not a sin to rely on them either. Just as long as, after the death of one queen, they decided to support a new one. There seemed to be no other candidate but Hildegard. She could be confident in her powers and still she had doubts. Lately she had felt like she was on pins and needles. Her skin prickled and her eyes stung, as if she’d seen the fallen angel firsthand. Until now she had only noticed the ugly burnt limbs that sometimes peeped out of the grave earth, heard the moans and rustling of wings at the bottom of the well, noticed the inhuman footprints beside the tree of the hanged man. The supernatural was very close and yet she never really came into contact with it until she saw Rhianon return and realized how much she had changed. It was as if she were no longer human at all. There was an unearthly grandeur about her. Had she been in the arms of a fallen angel and become an angel herself? But Rhianon has no wings. She must still be mortal.

      Rhianon will die. There will be no more of her seductive lips, no more of her expressive calm eyes, no more of her slender frame that you want to embrace. There will be no more temptation. Rhianon is an irresistible temptation, for men and women alike. Yet she herself is neither a woman nor an angel, but something indescribable. She is above everything. Such a being should be removed from the world as a filth, so that it would not seduce anyone else.

      Hildegard smiled at the sight of the toads on her table. They sat next to empty vials of witch ointment. This substance attracted them and helped the black flowers bloom right on the tabletop. Everything gloomy is so beautiful. Black is the best color in the world. Why the need for a gamut of other hues when there is blackness. Now Hildegard despised herself for succumbing to a momentary impulse and trying on something purple. Only black suited her. And it was her favorite color, after all.

      The color of the grave is also black, but the creature came from the cemetery was white and winged. Hildegard was already nauseated at the thought of being close to it. Why? After all, she has Velicia. Even though angels have female faces, women themselves are still more beautiful and seductive. To be with them is far more pleasant than with a cold piece of marble. And killing them was just as pleasant. She loved the feel of their warm blood on her neck, not the thick sludge that flowed from the corpse of her last lover.

      She would not make the same mistake again. Nor would she feel pity for Rhianon. She paid Pheba in gold to make the spell particularly thorough. Rhianon would lose all her beauty and rot alive if she did it the right way, and she would beg for death. And in the end she will die. That’s it, no more angel. There’s no need for one on earth. Loretta is for mortals. This is no place for winged creatures.

      Hildegard almost changed her mind when she noticed someone’s reflection in the mirror. The winged young man seemed incredibly beautiful to her. His face bore some resemblance to Rhianon’s, but his eyes… how evil they were. It was as if he was burning her through with his eyes. The vision lasted only a moment, but the sensation of an incredibly strong hand gripping her hair and nearly ripping her braids out remained.

      Hildegarde grimaced in pain. The headdress seemed to be in place. The braids were not torn out either. And no one was reflected in the mirror but herself. Her outfit today was exquisite. Her favorite black color is set off by a smoky, somber veil. Dark amethysts adorn the corset and hemline. And her hair is like darkness itself. Except that in her mind, in her brain, just beneath her skull, a bright fire seemed to blaze.

      Hildegard cried out in fright at the sight of the worms on the table, and she did not understand why she was so frightened. After all, she was not afraid of the sight of toads and rats prying into her elixirs. And nausea never felt. On the contrary, she was attracted to disgusting things. So why was she suddenly disgusted by worms?

      «Worms,» the angel’s voice echoed in her mind, not from the mirror. «I’ll crush you like a worm before you can touch Rhianon.»

      She didn’t believe him. So what if there are so many worms. They were crawling in exactly the places where something edible had lain recently: sweets, grapes, or figs. The food must have gone bad. So they crawled.

      Hildegard didn’t want to imagine herself as one of those worms, but the idea was coming to mind. She even had to grab onto the first support she could find to keep from falling. Her legs did not hold her. She felt as if her body were becoming as flat and streamlined as a limbless worm’s.

      «This is stupid,» she covered her mouth immediately, realizing that she was talking to herself. But it really was stupid. Who could have put such thoughts into her head? As she emerged from her tower, she realized that she could hardly make it to the Feast Hall on her own. She couldn’t be bothered to keep a thin cobweb of charms on the door.

      The crown of Loretta rested on Rhianon’s head, she was given the main seat at the table, everyone listened to her, from the first minister to the latest minstrel, called to the court only for the evening. And yet here she felt like a statue or a ghost. That was how a visitor from another world felt, not understood or even noticed by people. That was probably how Madael felt, everything was in his hands, people’s lives, their souls, their destinies, they depended on him, but they did not notice him. Only he didn’t feel superfluous, and she did.

      Madael was used to being worshipped, it was new to her. Rhianon watched the stunts of the acrobats, the mimes and actors, the jugglers tossing balls or burning torches. She did not mean to ignite anything, but one of the torches she had been watching for a particularly long time burst into flames so that it scorched the juggler’s hands. It must have been the first time that had happened to him. He stared so dumbfounded at his burned palms. Then they took him away. Rhianon watched it all with frightening indifference. It was as if the world did not exist in front of her. The action unfolded in a haze. The songs of the troubadours and bards sounded as if they were from afar. That must be what it feels like to be enchanted by elves. The world simply ceases to exist for him because his consciousness remains a prisoner of magical creatures.

      Is she