Epilogue (Patreon)

*

Above, the winter sun was shining brightly, and the day was in full swing. Here, deep underground, there was semi-darkness and silence. It was broken only by the occasional drip from the high vaults of the man-made cave, and by a constant, monotonous rustle, punctuated by quiet clicks.

The monstrosity slid inside the magic circle like a huge, wide ribbon one and a half-human long. The Ribbon was indeed motley, combining shades of orange, red, and yellow on a dark brown base. The segmented carapace crackled dryly at the joints, and the paws rustled. The movement did not stop for a moment. Here the millipede was testing the strength of the circle bordered with green candles, drawn with the blood of the infanticide, and here it was flowing into the middle of the figure, drawing figure eights. The creature never tired and never backed down.

The dark-haired sorceress folded her arms across her chest, grimly contemplating the insect-like creature, one of the Wasteland's most fearsome creatures. And perhaps the most precious, worth more than its weight in pure gold. The woman was in a rage that the hoops of iron self-control, an indispensable companion of sorcerous skill, could hardly contain.

The stone staircase behind her echoed with soft footsteps. The red-eyed witch stepped on the polished granite that paved the floor of the crypt for special practices. The witch turned around, and for a few moments, the two women stared at each other, looking very much alike - tall, black-haired, cold-blooded, and tall. A black gaze crossed with a blood-red one. After a second's hesitation, the witch lowered her eyes.

"Come here," the sorceress commanded. "Look."

Without raising her eyes, the witch stepped toward the patroness. Her dark gloved hand rested on the hilt of her sword, pulling the hilt aside so it wouldn't interfere with her walking. They stood side by side, as angry sisters, watching the flowing creature run in a circle. The green candles shook the tall tongues of flame, reinforcing the magical barrier, and preventing the creature from breaking free.

"I can't see anything," the witch stated.

"Indeed," the sorceress said sarcastically. "No wonder."

As if sensing who they were talking about, the Ribbon slid to the edge, rose two-thirds of its length like a snake ready to lunge, and swayed in front of the humans, ready to attack. A dozen grasping legs and razor-sharp stingers moved in unison, ready to claw, tear, and gnaw. When it was sure it could not reach its victims, the monster sank to the rocks and continued to run.

The witch was silent, waiting.

"It was my fault," the witch finally gave in and admitted her guilt. "My signs weren't as good as they should have been. The mindless thing never found anything."

"Really?" The sorceress's words increased in venom as if they were limescale on top of broth, so that the witch retreated a few steps, as if confused.

"What did I do?" The red-eyed woman asked hoarsely. "What do you blame me for?"

"Indeed, your signs turned out to be not so good...'' The magician snapped her long fingers with gold-colored nails. There were no rings or bracelets on her hands, just silver wire, carefully inserted under the skin and twisted in intricate patterns to concentrate magical energy.

"Yeah, that's what failed you. It's too unsophisticated."

"I don't understand," the witch took another step back, her head thrown back, trying to show innocence, confidence, and determination.

"When Ribbon accomplished nothing, I wondered why. My Ritual was flawless. Things belonged to Spark. So it was bound to fulfill its purpose. Then I checked the words you had inscribed on the Ribbon's shell. And the errors seemed too simple, too deliberate to be natural. Just a little bit, but still..."

"My hands are more used to the sword," the witch tried to defend herself.

"Not so much. And I looked deeper."

The sorceress clenched her fists with such force that drops of blood came out where the gilded nails dug into her skin. But her voice remained calm and steady.

"I was so surprised to find out the signs were applied in two layers," the magician said with feigned surprise.

The witch remained silent, only clenched her fingers tighter on the spiral encompassing the hilt of her sword.

"I have given you a clear and direct instruction. The symbols must be woven into a pattern of Death. So the Ribbon will find the target and kill it. But the hidden pattern. hmm... can you tell me what it was?"

"The pattern of the Watcher," the witch twisted her lips in a wicked grin. The red-eyed girl didn't seem to have done anything, at least nothing noticeable, but there was a distinct change in her demeanor. Gone was the subservience and apprehension, but the readiness and focus of a seasoned warrior remained.

"Watcher..." The sorceress rolled the word around on her tongue, wrinkling her nose at the unpleasant taste. "You disobeyed. Or, more accurately, betrayed me."

"Yes," the witch agreed, putting aside her show of repentance, not feeling an ounce of fear or guilt. "I didn't need Ribbon to kill Spark. I wanted the creature to lead me to Spark."

"I see," the sorceress said dryly, like a south wind. "Why? Did you want to kill her yourself? To avenge her shameful failure on the ship?"

"No. After the, uh... the ship, I wondered whose soul you sent me after. How a girl with no magical power or skill could perform a miracle of necromancy with a single move? And I was in for some amazing discoveries!"

"Knowledge has not been good for you."

"You all are so stupid..." the witch said with genuine disappointment. "So limited. You're so afraid the Spark will destroy you, take away your privileged, sweet, sleepy existence. I am not afraid. I am worthy to possess it more than all of you put together."

"Because you're a filthy brat," the sorceress's words snapped like the teeth of a bear trap. "A talentless wretch who couldn't give up her stupid steel to serve pure magic. A feeble-minded spawn of stupidity that went mad and died from immoderate sorcery and frequent transitions."

"Funny. When your magic failed, when you sent me out again and again to do your secret, dirty work, I never heard anything like that," the witch said, the leather of her new glove creaking as her fingers clenched on the hilt of her sword. "On the contrary. When it came to stealing, intimidating, and killing, you sang the praises of my skills, will, and willingness to transition."

"Do you hope to squeeze the power of the Foundation out of Spark's soul through nightmarish torture? Do you want to keep your sick mind on edge and prolong your existence a little longer? You are driven by the same fear. Only it comes from a different source."

"And that's among other things," the witch said coldly. "But only among other things. While you were shaking with terror, I looked at you and wondered if no one would think how much was hidden in the essence of the Foundation. What power it is? What possibilities? But no, you're like a barnyard cattle, afraid of being taken by the tail and dragged away from a trough full of food. That's why Spark is mine. Not yours."

The steel hissed faintly, sliding against the wood of the sheath. The witch unsheathed her blade, signaling a short salute to the magician.

"Really?" The sorceress raised her eyebrows in feigned surprise. "No, really? You're going to try to kill me with this?"

She unclasped her hands, palms up. The air above her fingers rippled, as if over an invisible and hot flame.

"No, of course not," the witch smiled miserably and, quickly folding the fingers of her left hand into a tricky figure, knocked down one of the candles at the edge of the circle with the tip of her blade.

"Enjoy it."

The Motley Ribbon curved without changing speed, never stopping, sliding over itself, tearing toward the gap in the magical defenses. With a furious cry, the magician threw a stream of fire in the witch's direction and was only a moment too late. The millipede was already making its way through the circle, the dried blood slowing the monster down, but it couldn't stop it completely. The sorceress wasted no time in cursing and further screaming. She turned toward the mindless foe, arms stretched forward. Her skin sizzled, dripping fat in the places where the implanted wires burned the flesh from the inside out.

The ribbon snapped all its jaws at once and broke free. Liquid fire doused the carapace, burning away the lithics and symbols, ice coating the joints and claws, slowing its movements. But the monster crawled and crawled forward, writhing its multicolored body.

The witch watched the battle unfold for a few moments. She decided not to get mixed up in the mad cycle of magical forces and ran up the stairs, leaving the two men to fight alone.

*

Curzio drew the curtains. The islander didn't like bright light, preferring dusk. Besides, in the light of the exquisite, almost soot-free candles, Yulo's bulging eyes seemed almost normal. The conversation was not going well.

"You have deceived me," Curzio accused. "You have concealed the most important thing from me. From me! A key executor. And I want no further part in it."

"My friend..." The woman lightly adjusted the huge wig, and the man wondered how her neck could bear such a weight daily.

"My friend, I would not say your choice is so broad. A rider does not change a horse at the crossing, and you understand that a horse cannot replace a rider at the crossing."

"A horse," the man gritted his teeth as if in readiness to spit.

"Yes. A privileged, responsible, essential executor," the Head of the Council of Gold and Silver replied with businesslike ruthlessness. "And certainly no equal to the Council. When you win, you will be close. If you quit, you lose everything."

"It's not a game anymore. It's the madness you've created with your pointless game of mystery. The council has confused itself and confused the doers. This is the result. Our plan has gone down the shithole."

"Really? Did I miss something? Could it be that there's still a Gotdua asshole on the throne? Or are our mercenaries not freely disposing of unnecessary, harmful people all over the capital?"

"Artigo Jr. is alive. And it happened because you shattered a good plan into shards that formed the wrong mosaic."

"It won't last long."

"Really? Did I miss something?" The islander returned the quip. "Had his head already been delivered in a barrel of salt?"

"It won't last long," she repeated.

"And if it's for a long time?"

"So what?" Yulo waved it away with admirable disdain. "It doesn't matter."

"None of you understand... No one," Curzio crossed his arms with a long and sorrowful sigh. "Saltoluchard has stood apart from the world for too long. It built too high a wall between itself and the continent!"

"Yes, of course, the Privy Council as a whole has not understood anything, being in a state of delusion!" said the woman sneeringly. "And only the wise Curzio saw the truth with fearless eyes!"

"Yes!" he exclaimed. "Yes! Because I understand how people live on a land without a sea! I understand that the Emperor is not a man!"

"So who is he?" Yulo, in turn, barely raised her voice. "He's a man, he was mortal, now he's dead! And the disgusting boy is just a nuisance on the road. We'll throw him aside like a branch under a cartwheel!"

"The Emperor is a symbol!" Curzio shook his clenched fist. "He is like the first ice flake in the cold. He is the point from which the ice shell begins to grow! It's not a branch, but a stone that breaks the wheel. Are you only afraid of the other Primators you failed to buy and seduce? In vain!"

"Who else should we be afraid of?" Yulo waved her hands. "Night demons? The curses of a handful of fugitives? Maybe the wrath of the false god Pantocrator?!"

She, in turn, waved her fist as if hammering in a nail.

"Behind us is power, behind us is a race that has been saving strength for centuries while others have only squandered it. We have the power of the sea, gold, and the best mercenaries in the world! The favor of the Two with Aleinsae, so what is against us?"

"The Emperor is not a man," Curzio repeated. "It is a symbol. It is hope for anyone and everyone we haven't shoved a purse of gold and the promise of trade privilege in their teeth. The petty nobles and the penniless knights who fear their small holdings will be taken by our powerful allies. And they will, and we will turn a blind eye because that is the price of silence and consent! The Church of the Pantocrator, which will now have to surrender its true faith. The poor merchants, artisans, and peasants, who must repay our costs and fill our coffers. Anyone who thinks they deserve more than they have. Anyone whose life will now be worse and who will blame Aleinsae for it. And then some see the turmoil not as trouble, but as opportunity. There are thousands of thousands of them, and young Artigo is the point of attraction for them. May the Two be merciful to us, if his father has any sense of reason and ambition and the boy is not a complete idiot. And that's just the top of the mountain!

Curzio paused and took a breath. He continued with angry energy:

There is only space in the world for one Emperor. He is the nail that holds the state together. He is the ultimate judge of disputes. He is the bulwark of justice, the protector of the laws. He can be as bad as he wants, but without the Emperor, there is no power, no foundation. And two rulers are as good as none. So there is no more order, no more law, it's clear to everyone. As soon as word of the dual power spreads, neighbors will raise a hand against neighbors, villages will move the boundaries in their favor. The Trades will kill the remnants of the Crafts Councils and begin to re-divide privileges. Old enemies from small "ausf" and "cin" will settle ancestral scores for forests and cities. And every winner in this strife will create a loser who will find the Aleinsae family personally guilty because we have broken the established order. And taxes! Who is to pay taxes when there are two emperors? And how will you pay the Highlanders, how will we recoup our expenses if no new money flows into the treasury? Plenty of money, for you, Chief treasurer, know better than anyone, that the dwindling gold and silver mines are no myth.

"The Distemper is no big deal," Yulo snorted. "Not the first and not the last. Our family goes back seventy generations. We've survived far worse. We'll get through it this time, too."

It's not distemper," Curzio said quietly. He calmed down as quickly as he had flared up. He pulled back the lace on his sleeves, and smoothed the hair patched at the nape of his neck, checking to see if a stray hair had escaped.

"This is war. A war of free-for-all. The forgotten horror of the Cataclysm, ready to return and devour us."

"So much the better. The Council didn't want war, but it had considered the possibility of it. And we don't mind," the woman smiled cruelly. "Let there be war! Let the continent bleed, let it burn to the ground! Let the fields be overgrown with weeds and white with bones, and the cities turned into graveyards."

"You have succumbed to the mainland contagion, craving power for power's sake," Curzio shook his head, a shadow of confusion mixed with disgust on his face. "But the Aleinsae way has always been different! Power follows money, and every endeavor must bring in more money than it consumes. We don't waste gold on pompous foolishness, we capitalize on chaos, not throw money into its jaws! That's why the family survived the ordeal. Madmen..."

"Have you forgotten history? It was four hundred years ago the Ecumen was roaring in the flames of a general war. We didn't just survive, no, the Aleinsae family went from despised outcasts to first among equals. Has the ocean gotten shallower since then? Has our navy grown weaker? Have our minds and wills become weaker? Not at all. So we must fear new challenges! If the fire is to burn, let it burn brighter, stronger, more terrible. The deeper the abyss opens, the higher the Saltoluchard rises. So we are not madmen. We are those who by the grace of Isthen and Erdeg, will inherit the whole world.

"No, you are not mad," Curzio said after a long pause. "You are children who play with coals in the hayloft because you've seen your father burn the forest for arable land. And I want no part of it. I happened to light the first fire with my hands, and that's enough."

"Think it over," Yulo was just as calm, drilling her companion with a look of froggy eyes with swollen eyelids. "Take your time. Let your feelings fade and your judgment take over. You'll realize we're right. It doesn't matter, if Artigo Junior's head is cut off by his companions to sell for the weight of emeralds, or if he gathers some supporters and throws them under the spears of Aleinse's hired troops. The family will win, either way, it will take a week or ten years. That's the way it will be. It's inevitable. But you can choose your destiny. Today you still can, the Privy Council will understand and forgive a brief weakness. After all, only Two are perfect. But tomorrow it will be too late to hesitate."

*

The rustling of the pages, infrequent, repeated at strict intervals, was maddeningly annoying. Flessa sat silent, staring at the wall, straight, and folded her hands in her lap. The dress was constricting, hanging on her body like a burlap, but it was the one she had to wear today.

The duke flipped through a black-covered book, his daughter's ledger, in which all the family's expenses for organizing the riots in the capital were noted. From the silver paid to spies and scribes of false imperial edicts, to the heralds and scatterers of copper money used to stir up the discontent of the mob. The trial had been going on for over an hour, and the old man had not changed his posture or expression. Only his hand and fingers moved moderately. Flessa, too, remained gravely silent and motionless.

Despite the tightly closed windows, the smell of burning intruded into the office. Milvesse was burning. It was not burning as a captured city should, but rather a little, as if lazily smoking. But still, the black pillars were numerous leaning against the low clouds like pillars supporting the vault of the sky. Flessa breathed in the warm air again, which left the distinct flavor of fried meat on her tongue. It was most likely an illusion, a consequence of the morning's walk through Milvess, in the retinue of the arriving Vartensleben. Unlike the Aleinsae representatives who had disembarked from the battle galleys in the harbor, the old duke had entered the cobblestones of the City in the traditional manner, entering through the northern gate.

Another column of infantry marched beyond the wall enclosing the estate-house grounds. The whole capital had become one military camp, with fighting - or should say massacres - taking place in the streets, intersections, and squares. And the army, assembled and paid for by the Island, was perhaps the least violent of all. Saltoluchard wanted control, not ruin, so the actions of Aleinse's emissaries were limited and well-calculated. Immediately taking control of the military port and the Palace, the rebels gained control of the capital's main thoroughfare from west to east along the line of Port - Palace - Avenue - Island Mission Tower. Any resistance proved to be scattered, and unmanageable was decisively and brutally suppressed by the halberds of the hired infantry and armored horsemen under the command of the "soldier duke" Shotan.

However, by easily breaking up organized and random demonstrations against the new power, the conquerors could do nothing about the huge city, which was overheated with a thirst for violence and discontent like a tightly closed cauldron. When the Law very clearly, visibly left the streets of the City - neighbors, debtors, workshops and crafts councils, bandits, thirsty for plunder and wine, a lot of dashing fighters ready for the Tournament, all rushed to take advantage of the chaos, to settle old scores, to make quick money, to cancel debts, getting rid of the creditor. Looting and arson rolled through Milvess in destructive waves, which, by and large, no one was eager or able to repay. So the townspeople managed to cope with the unrestrained bloodshed on their own, more than successfully.

Flessa closed her eyes and remembered the leisurely ride with her father through the streets of the City as the red sun rose over it. A winter storm was approaching from the sea, but the clouds were still unable to produce snow, hanging over the rooftops like gray carcasses in a slaughterhouse. A strong guard kept the nobles safe from adventures, but nothing obstructed their vision.

I did it, thought Flessa. I prepared it, I directed it. I did it.

There is not so much blood in the human body that it pours down the drains like water, even if there are a lot of people killed. It's a metaphor, the kind that minstrels love. But if you tried hard enough, you could paint the sidewalk dark red, and the horses' horseshoes would squelch through the freezing sludge with a wet slurp.

How pathetic a murdered man looks... how ridiculous a body abandoned by a soul looks...

Flessa clenched her jaw and tightened her lips, remembering the body of the young Countess Baia. The day before, one of Ecumene's most beautiful brides had enjoyed a cloudless life. Now her mutilated body lay like carrion against the wall of the house. The lovely head that had greeted the morning several times on Flessa's pillow was almost unharmed. Only someone's hand had cropped the luxurious hair the color of molten gold. Everything else looked much worse. Long slender legs were broken and covered with dirty sweat - the Countess had tried to escape by jumping out of the window, but it didn't save her and didn't prevent them eager to check how a noble lady differed from ordinary brothel meat. Her arms were cut off at the elbow to remove the famous family bracelets without interference. Merchants of magical counterfeits cut out the girl's heart to make a decoction for the call of a suitor, and fat from her abdomen for magical candles

Flessa opened her eyes and inhaled deeply, remembering the robed bodies floating down the river.

And I did it.

The old duke flipped to the last page, rested his elbows on the tabletop, and folded his fingers in a house as if he were covering a ledger.

"Well, I'm pleased," he said. "The funds have been spent with care and prudence. They were saved where necessary and spent generously where circumstances demanded."

The Duke was silent for a moment and repeated:

"I'm pleased."

He was quiet for a moment and added:

"With this."

"What are you dissatisfied with, Father?" Flessa asked.

"Don't be impertinent," the father ordered briefly, and the daughter bit her tongue. It was humiliating, and nauseating, but the old man still ruled the domain and the family. And she...

What she?

And I turned the Capital of the World into a battlefield. I commanded. I gave orders. I killed the Emperor, even if I didn't kill him in person.

Flessa looked up and endured her father's unblinking gaze. The blue pupils glittered like sapphires, reflecting everything without giving anything away.

"Father, I'm twenty years old, and I've served my family enough. If you are dissatisfied, tell me why, and I will give you a report."

The Duke lowered one eyebrow and tilted his head slightly to the side, a lively interest in his gaze.

"And you've grown up. daughter..." he stretched out as if he were pondering a dilemma. "I don't know whether to be happy about it or vice versa."

"I want to go home," Flessa said bluntly, wincing slightly at the pervasive smell of burning and charred meat. Though, it seemed the latter was still a whiff. The smell had haunted her since the riders had passed the prison. Rioters were killing prisoners and demanding, for fun, that it be done "right," with the approval of the church, by the hands of the chief executioner. The confessor monk cursed the murderers, calling down the wrath of the Lord on their heads. The executioner threw his axe to the ground and, crossing his arms, refused to carry out the lawless massacre without the decision of the court, without the order of the Emperor. Both were hanged by their feet over a weak fire.

"The air of the capital has become unpleasant to me. I want to go home to Malersyde."

"To power and domain?"

"Yes," Flessa saw no reason to juggle words now.

"I don't mind you coming back," the duke wiggled his fingers as if checking his joints.

He stood up, walked to the high floor-to-ceiling window, and looked out at the fumes, which had increased. It looked like the streets would be very bright when night came.

"What's up with Mourier?" The owner asked.

"He's badly wounded. He'll live, but he'll be crippled. Not a fighter."

"Take care of him. And reward him handsomely so everyone will know it. A loyal servant is a valuable asset. Even more valuable is a master's reputation for rewarding true loyalty."

"They will burn the city," Flessa said suddenly. "Destroy it."

"Its trifles..."

Although the old man did not turn around, the daughter realized by the turn of his shoulders, by the movement of his head, that the duke had curled his lips in annoyance.

"A city is not its walls or its inhabitants. It's its essence, the quintessence of utility. Take it away and everything falls apart. Leave it in, and the city revives after the worst calamity. Milvess is not rocks, not people, not even the Court. It's a place where a great river meets the sea. A place where it is convenient to trade, build, and live. What's happening on the streets now seems like a universal horror. But in reality. It's just another mayhem. Another turmoil. It will end. The dead will be buried. The broken will be rebuilt. And the city will continue to exist because that's its nature."

Flessa remembered that, according to the morning's reports, the cemeteries had been turned into markets, where the looted Profit was being sold off. Why graveyards? Who knows? But it was there, in the light of the fires, to the screams of the slain and the march of Aleinse's mercenaries, that jewelry, clothes stained with blood that had not yet dried, precious china and utensils were bought and sold. Knights, noblemen, and the guard of the late Emperor did not disdain the neighborhood of criminal scum, in a hurry to get rid of the "tainted", to turn the booty into a ringing coin devoid of signs.

Milvesse was ringing with endless screaming, squirming in the moans of the dying, stinking of blood.

Which is on my hands. But I don't care... or don't?

"You would speak differently if Malersyde were burning like this. If our servants were slaughtered in the streets and our riches scattered in the corners."

"Yes," the ruler turned and looked at his daughter. "No doubt. But this isn't Malersyde, is it?"

The Duke returned to his chair and pushed the ledger carelessly toward Flessa.

"I'm pleased with the way you've conducted our business here," he returned to the interrupted conversation. "And I thought you would return home as a recognized heiress. In fact, I've taken some-- measures. Aleynse's lawyers have duly drafted a claim to declare you my successor, bypassing the seniority of the other children. The glossators have found precedents. The new emperor is prepared to grant my petition."

Flessa took a sip, wetting her parched throat and clenching her fists. She noted how little reverence her father had put into the word "Emperor," which was clearly not capitalized.

"But I'm upset."

"With what?"

"You were supposed to find the wasteland wench. You failed. I was not angry. The task was difficult, and our abilities were constrained by other matters. But..." The old man spread his hands, wearing a mask of quite sincere bewilderment. "Suddenly I'll know that you found her after all. What's more, you got her into bed. And then you let her go with a little money to boot. Just the day before I showed up. What's that supposed to mean?"

"I didn't let her go, but chased her away," Flessa corrected.

"Daughter, many have thought me a fool," the ruler's voice became dangerously soft. "But few have lived long enough to maintain that misconception. Do not be like them."

"I apologize," Flessa bowed her head.

"It's good."

The Duke was silent, moving his fingers as if he were sprinkling an invisible seasoning on an invisible plate.

"I loved her," Flessa said with the determination of a cavalryman charging into a line of pikes.

"I understand."

The woman raised her head, startled to the core. She couldn't believe her ears.

"I understand you."

The Duke looked at her. In his eyes, Flessa saw no kindness or reproach. Nothing at all. Only... sad indulgence. And really, understanding.

"Love is the gift of the Pantocrator in His attribute of the Giver. And a curse at the same time. Love gives us the most vivid experiences. It's great happiness and the meaning of life. It also punishes us with madness, generates suffering, and breaks our hearts and souls. Love is an element, a hurricane that nourishes crops with life-giving moisture and washes them away."

Udolar Wartensleben was silent, sighed, and blinked his heavy eyelids.

"Its power seems limitless, but there are defenses against it. Our experience, knowledge, and the memory of defeat and pain give us the strength to put an iron gauntlet around a rebellious heart. The wisdom of experience, the hard and learned lessons enable us to resist the madness of blind passion."

The Duke sighed heavily again, this time not hiding his sad disappointment.

"Daughter, what upset me was not that you gave in to your heart. It's that you're twenty years old and your heart is still above your common sense. You've let your desire override your judgment. And a ruler can't afford that. Never. Just as a city is not a house or its inhabitants, a ruler is not a man. The real ausf is the Power. He is the priest who devotes his life, his every breath, to serving Her."

Udolar bowed his head and covered his eyes with the palm of his hand in the gesture of a tired man blinded by too bright a sun.

"I might have turned a blind eye before. In a calmer time. However. our island allies have made a big mistake. A very big one. A mistake that raises many new and very curious possibilities. It opens up new roads. At the same time, it creates chaos and destroys much that seems immutable. We're entering a dangerous time that may end quickly but could last for months, or years... In such an era, weakness is a killer, and a ruler's judgment must be sharp and ruthless. But you. you're not ready. Not yet. So I'll leave Kai in the City. We'll return to Malersyde together. You'll remain Vice Duchess for now."

"Father."

"Don't ask me to change my mind, don't humiliate both of us," the old man said. "The decision was already hard enough for me. I'm not old enough to carry this burden any longer. But I must think of Malersyde. The legacy we took from our ancestors to pass on to our descendants. И... I don't want my haste to cost you your life. Not yet. Not yet."

"Father," Flessa repeated. "I'm not going to beg."

The duke looked at her upturned chin, and tight, sharply defined lips. He assessed her firm gaze. He raised an eyebrow, mimicking a mute question.

"Yes, I loved her. But that was only one reason out of two. The other..."

"Yes?"

"I was scared."

"What? A commoner who learned to wield a blade?"

The expression of sadness and disappointment on the old man's face trembled, enriched with barely concealed notes of contempt.

"No. During the whole time of our relationship, I kept thinking I'd seen her before, that I knew her face. I... put it down to romantic fascination. But the truth is, I've actually seen Hel's face before."

"And where?" The Duke asked with undisguised skepticism.

"The painting. The one they brought us from the Wastelands on the ship. The one Clavel got after the failed boarding party. That's her."

"Who?" The duke asked incomprehensively, and immediately made an angry face, realizing that he had rushed, asked a question with an obvious answer, and lost face. At least in front of himself.

"She is," Flessa repeated. "Hel of the Wastelands. The same one whose life the unknown sorceress was so eager to take. The one who raised the dead on the ship."

The Duke drew in air through his hooked nose in silence, his teeth clenched so the jowls in his jaw hardened. Flessa read the mute question in her father's eyes and answered:

"Yes. In the picture, she's older and redheaded. Hel is younger, short-cropped, recolored black-haired. Her face is harder now, embittered, marked by adversity. But that's her."

The Duke raised his hand sharply and turned his stiff palm as if to cut the flow of words coming from Flessa. The daughter interpreted everything correctly and fell silent, giving her father a chance to comprehend what he had heard. In the silence of the study, it was especially good to hear the muffled and terrible roaring of the unhappy, tormented city. The halberds of the changing guard at the gate clattered against the stone. The horse of the patrol assigned by Shotan to guard the house rumbled. It was as if the beast of war were complaining to the heavens about the agonizing inactivity.

"Impossible," the old lord said quietly at last. "The painting isn't even finished. But if you are right..."

"I'm right," the woman said with unwavering confidence. "Hel and the one who called herself Herion are the same person. And when I realized it..."

"What happened then?" encouraged the duke.

"I got really scared."

"Flessa now is not the time to joke," the Duke's voice had regained an unpleasant softness, almost soulfulness.

"This is not a joke. It was clear before. This is the man whose life the family needs. He must be found, his usefulness determined, extracted. But now..."

Flessa bowed her head and shook it slowly from side to side, feeling the uncomfortable collar of her dress tight around her neck like a boa constrictor.

"I got scared. This is... something different. Not ours. Not human. Something you can't mess with. Absolutely not."

"Love and fear. What a disgusting combination," the duke muttered. He was angry and displeased, and at the same time, Flessa sensed her father's anger had shifted, shifted to something other than the disappointed heiress.

"So what's more to your decision? The call of your heart, the desire to keep her alive? Or is it, uh... fear?"

"I don't know," Flessa said bluntly and firmly.

"Daughter, of mine, you are multiplying entities unnecessarily. The simplest explanation is kinship. An ancestor and a descendant."

"No," Flessa said with the same certainty. "The portrait was painted over four centuries ago. Nearly twenty generations, and in that time, family traits blur and lose their resemblance. And they don't just look alike, Father, I repeat. They're the same person."

"Or in their family, like the degenerates of Saltoluchard, it is customary not to dilute the blood by taking spouses from other families," the duke raised his hand, stopping his daughter's objection. "Or a distant offspring may be endowed by chance with the appearance of an ancestor, which is extremely rare, but still happens"

"Father..."

"Be quiet, Flessa," the duke clenched his open palm into a fist, cutting his daughter off. "I didn't say you were wrong. I said, "If you're right." So... if you're not wrong..."

He was silent and thought for a long time, again covering his eyes with heavy eyelids like battlements with strong shutters. Then he spoke, at the moment when Flessa had exhausted her patience and was ready to speak:

"I'm still not happy with you. The decision to let Hel go was dictated by your heart and must have been extremely foolish. But if you were right... about the painting. Maybe your choice was wise. And the only right one."

Flessa held her breath, trying to remain impassive, and composed. It didn't work very well. And the woman thought, indeed, today was a historic day, a great day. Among other things, because for the first time in her life, she was speaking to her father as an equal to an equal. One has more power, the other less, but they are both ausf, lord of the present and lord of the future. And their speech is appropriate to their position.

"A long time ago, when I was a young man, there came to Malersyde an old woman. A sorceress. She was a very weak sorceress and did not so much magic as gather knowledge. Like wandering storytellers, and minstrels who swap songs, and stories. Or monks who spend their days copying books. This woman was to the magic guild as a monk was to the Church, only she wasn't looking for lost scrolls and rare apocrypha, but... fairy tales."

"Fairy tales?" Flessa asked incredulously.

"Yes. Every shop and every craft has its legends, tales, and stories that rarely go beyond the circle of the initiated. Turns out, mages have their legends, too. The sorceress had been collecting them for many years, describing them, and replenishing the guild library. There was no special use of the sorceress, but there was no sense in quarreling with sorcerers because of one old woman. This fraternity is vindictive and carefully keeps lists of offenses. So her father accepted her, gave her moderate honors, and allowed her to live in the castle as long as she wanted."

The duke frowned, and Flessa turned away diplomatically, as if by accident, realizing that mentioning her father did not put the ruler in a good mood. Too much had come between great-grandfather and descendant. For a moment she wanted to ask if it was true that the young pretender had killed the old man himself, not only to free the crown, but also to avenge some terrible offense. But, of course, Flessa instantly stifled the inappropriate urge.

"At first I thought she was looking for new knowledge in Malersyde, everyone did. But as time went on, I realized everyone was wrong. The old woman wasn't picking up crumbs of half-forgotten tales. She was hiding. Or rather, she was waiting, hoping that time would pass and she would be forgotten."

"Forgotten by whom?"

"Her Guild."

"She told you that?"

"Not immediately. Not all of it. In bits and pieces. She and I talked. for a long time. She longed for her old life, and I..." the duke grimaced painfully as if reliving the humiliation of his youth. "I had no friends. Two outcasts who began to talk often. She instilled in me a taste and love of reading. She showed me how to get books from Milvess and order copies from copyists. Sometimes she would lose her guard and mention something from her former life. So I realized that in her search, the sorceress had found something very, very old. Something very important. And very dangerous. At first, she didn't realize what she was up against and shared the secret with one of her own. Then she realized and left everything behind, ran to the ends of the earth. She hoped she'd be forgotten. It seemed that her hopes had come true, three years magician quietly, unnoticed lived in Malerside. However, the sorcerers did not forget. One day they... came for her."

"Mages?"

"Yeah. They took her away. The old woman was never heard from again. Along with the magician, all her notes disappeared, including the big book the old woman was working on. But no one knew that I had read that book."

"Did you read it?" Flessa couldn't help but shout. The lion-like appearance of the proud ruler didn't fit with the image of a young man reading secret writings in secret.

"Yes. I've been secretly studying the sorceress's writings. Sorcerers were in our family once, and I hoped maybe I could awaken the gift. Become..."

He cut himself short.

"Now, decades later, I see how ridiculous my secrecy was. The sorceress must have understood and known everything. But the old sorceress wanted someone to appreciate her life's work. She allowed me to think of myself as cunning and clever. So when the guild mages took the old woman and all her records, a modicum of knowledge was left... here."

The Duke touched a finger to his temple beneath a short gray strand of hair.

"What was that?" Flessa was so engrossed in the mysteries that she allowed herself to rush her father, but the old ruler only smiled indulgently.

"What was that book?"

The Duke half-closed his eyes and was silent, as if he were gazing into the past, communicating without words with ghosts.

"A chronicle from four hundred years ago. The story of one magician. His working notes are interspersed with short reports of life, events, and expenses. It's something between an apprentice manual, a ledger, and a diary."

"That chronicle must be very valuable to the Mages. Part of their history?"

"Yes. But its real value lies in something else. The author saw the Calamity. He witnessed the collapse of the old world with his own eyes. The sorcerer saw and recorded in detail how the great Empire that ruled the Ecumene for a thousand and fifteen years perished. The original was lost long ago. Several copies of the book had been made, but time had been cruel to them. It was believed that the final part of the epic work was irretrievably lost. But the collector of tales achieved the impossible. She restored the missing part, almost in its entirety. She hastened to share the happiness of a successful researcher with her brothers and sisters in the field. Too late, she realized what she had the misfortune to discover."

"And the mages' guild came after her?"

"That's right. And for good reason. The long-dead sorcerer didn't just write down what he saw. He trusted the papyrus with his hunches about what happened. Speculation. Theories. Very educated guesses, disgustingly plausible theories."

The duke opened his eyes wide and looked at Flessa with an unblinking gaze as if testing the heiress's readiness to join in the dark secrets. The young woman did not lower her eyes.

"I think there is no point in explaining in detail why everything said here should enter your ears but never leave your mouth?"

"No."

"Then listen."

The duke adjusted the loose sleeve of his robe, scenting the garment as if the draft chilled his old bones.

"I'll tell you a tale that the high mages have been scaring each other for four centuries. A terrible legend that they didn't want to believe, but they were afraid anyway. Deadly afraid. And which, if you're not mistaken..."

Udolar Wartensleben rubbed his shivering palms together. The old duke was cold, despite the hot hearths throughout the house, despite his clothes of the finest and warmest wool from the finest sheep of the Middle Mountains. The cold spread from his heart, coursing through his veins to his fingertips.

"Which might be true."

*

[1] There are no runes and runic combinations in the Ecumene. Their approximate analog - is "signs". The letters of the old, pre-Imperial alphabet. According to legends, this script was invented by creatures that inhabited the world even before humans (such tales, of course, heresy, because people - the first and only creation of Pantokrator in the Ecumene). Signs do not have magical power, but, like any object in magical actions, allow you to concentrate, and serve as a conductor and a vessel of energy. The ability to correctly combine rituals, symbols, and spells is the basis of witchcraft practices.

THE END

... or not...