Rhianon-8. War and Magic. Natalie Yacobson

that now, by naming him out loud, she had stirred up something unforeseen. It was as if she had deliberately made a comment to inform his immortal father that Edwin existed. Madael has a right to know that he is about to have a son. Yet he does not know this. Perhaps he has no idea. The name, like a spell, must hide the truth from him. But it’s not like he flew here in anger to demand his child back, so the spirits haven’t lied. He could still be, though. He can assert his rights to the child, and then really be war. Or rather, war will not change anything; the duel must be between her and him. Rhianon prepared herself for that. Madael’s son would be prince of Vinor, no one would ever know the truth. You can’t pass off a monster as Ferdinand’s child anymore. And a boy, even handsome as an angel, could pass for a brother of Florian and Claude. They need a younger brother, don’t they? Perhaps in the future some disease will take the lives of the older princes and Edwin will be king. Rhianon stared at her own fingernails with exaggerated attention. It wasn’t fair, but Setius was in the castle, after all. He could have brought the vibe of the very creepy contagion that roamed beneath Madeel’s tower here. And if he didn’t bring it in now, he might bring it in later, she might ask him to, if he didn’t figure it out himself. All of them cursed and beautiful are themselves interested in their lord’s son being first in everything.

      Rhianon watched the miniature dragon on her desk. He was perched on the pages of an open book, and a fragrant rose now lay beside him, along with several other precious ornaments, which he scrutinized. He must have been cramped and uncomfortable in the box where he had been locked up, for now, free, he was wrinkling painfully and kneading his stiff claws.

      He was very handsome. Rhianon admired him as if he were a rare jewel. It was a gift she had never dreamed of receiving. It would be good if, contrary to the spirit’s warning, it did not grow, but remained as diminutive as an expensive toy. Then it would be possible to spoil it, to give it jewelry, and to put it to sleep on a velvet pillow. She wanted a pet like that, and he, despite all his dexterity and laudable agility, was in no hurry to get away from her.

      Rhianon took the brooch out of the box and held it out to him, to which the little dragon reacted with great joy. He was real, or he wouldn’t be so fond of jewelry. Rhianon had noticed that he wasn’t interested in just any object, only the purest stones and trinkets of gold.

      «So you are still in the power of your former master,» she gently caressed his golden-tipped head, combed and feathered with sharp ears. The little dragon obviously did not understand her, but his claws slid enchantingly over the gold, so reminiscent of Dennitsa, almost forgotten but still unconsciously and warmly loved. To Rhianon herself, too, he reached out as if he had known her for a long time. She even laughed at the warnings of her invisible companion.

      «Well, my little one, if you believe him you will soon have a brother like you in every way,» she stroked the golden head, which was nice and warm, and laughed merrily. «Then you will not only share the contents of my boxes. You will also have to fight over Ferdinand’s crown.»

      She figured the little dragon wouldn’t mind snatching the glittering crown from her head even now. She would lend the crown to him for a while. She was even curious to see how, for its tiny size, it would manage to try it on. The suddenly and long silent spirit apparently disapproved of her jokes. Rhianon didn’t care. Let him keep his mouth shut; if he was dissatisfied or jealous of something, that was his problem. She watched as the little dragon greedily gathered jewels from the table and laughed. In the same way she was going to take treasure from her enemies.

      More than revenge

      It was heavenly strife. It was the deafening noise of wings beating against each other. It was the scratching of claws against thin angel skin. Shouts and accusations like a bird’s cackle. It was the dazzling gleam of swords. He was already nearly blinded once when he looked at Dennitsa. He dared to swing his sword at him, and now his hand was withering and worms were crawling in it. But the ruthless and beautiful angel still continued to beckon him through sleep.

      Bertrand awoke in a cold sweat. He was still alive, and that was his greatest misfortune. It had been better to have died long ago. Then, on the battlefield, he had not yet understood that his happiness was to put his chest to the blow, not to repel it.

      Until now, in the darkness of his bedroom, he had seen the battlefield illuminated by an unnaturally bright light. It was neither sunrise nor sunset. The light was not coming from the sun at all, though at that moment it seemed that the fiery ball of sun had become unnaturally close to the ground. In fact, the sun had disappeared behind the clouds; it was not in the sky. But the helmet fell from the unknown warrior’s head for a moment, and the glow became unbearable, so much so that it hurt his eyes. Even the tears that seeped from his eye sockets could have turned fiery in that moment. Bertrand could still feel the burning in his eyeballs. His vision was much worse than before, but that wasn’t what was most frightening. He seemed to be losing his mind, slowly and painfully. The longer he lived, the clearer the picture of a brutal overhead massacre overlapped with reality. And each time it became more terrifying.

      He told the servants to leave a bowl of cold water and a wet towel beside his bed, but even ice would not bring down his fever. His shriveled hand burned as if it had been placed in an oven and roasted over hot coals. The healer, who tried in vain to conceal his own fright, bandaged it tightly, but the ugly growths were showing through even the bandages. They seemed to be diseased and living on their own, and there were worms in them, so disgusting they were not even in the grave earth. Maybe they weren’t worms at all. Bertrand almost screamed when he suddenly noticed that some disgusting creature that looked like a big rat had come up to the bandaged stump and was trying to gnaw at the growths.

      He had been wary of rousing the servants who guarded the closed doors with their shouts. He did not want the vassals or the peasants to know what had happened to their feudal lord. Rumors were already rife in the surrounding villages. When the nobles talk of the devil it is even worth fearing an attack on the castle. In addition, the healer, no matter how well paid, must have told someone about the horror he saw. And they, in turn, told others. Another day or two and there would be a riot. But much scarier were the dreams. The creature that glowed beneath his armor by itself and beckoned him to the precipice, across the field where the massacre was taking place, became something secret, hidden and unspeakably cruel. No one was allowed to speak of it, his tongue would not obey, it was scary to see it in his dreams, but it was scary not to see it either.

      The withered hand, with its living thorny growths, reacted to the thought of Dennitsa with unceasing flashes of pain. Bertrand could no longer move the arm, as if it didn’t exist at all, but the withered ashy creature it had become seemed to live on its own. It parasitized the weakened body, threatening to devour it like a fungus.

      Bertrand was too weak to light a candle or reach for his dagger. He couldn’t even see in the darkness what the nasty creature was getting at his arm. Nor did he have the strength to drive it away. He tried to see the strange big rat and could not, but the candle at the head of his bed suddenly flashed on its own, revealing from the darkness the fine binding of the window, the brown bearskin on the floor, the carved chair and the creepy horned demon chewing on his bandages.

      The scream stuck in his throat. He had only dreamt of creatures like that, but he had never seen anything like it in his life before, and he had no idea that such an abomination existed. In his dreams such creatures had eaten corpses on the battlefield. Was this not a dream, too? No, his needle-sharp teeth had jabbed into the outgrowth on his arm, and the pain, a red-hot arrow that pierced his whole body, was very real. Not a dream, then. The bloodthirsty creature grinned, the crooked horns on its head twitching, the black ashy skin on its shapeless body with its tail and claws gleaming greenish in the candlelight.

      «It is leprechaun!» Said a beautiful and resonant voice came out of nowhere. It sounded like the echo of celestial spheres and heavenly melodies, only there was something cruel in it as well as indifference. The next moment Bertrand saw the glint of a sharp, mirrored blade reflecting the room. He braced himself for the worst. Now the sword