Rhianon-9. The Birth of the Dragon

Rhianon-9. The Birth of the Dragon

Natalie Yacobson

Translator Natalia Lilienthal

© Natalie Yacobson, 2022

© Natalia Lilienthal, translation, 2022

ISBN 978-5-0059-1330-2 (т. 9)

ISBN 978-5-0056-8618-3

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

Immortal lovers

He gave the statue his beauty as well as his youth, his strength… He was no longer the first toy in Madael’s collection. It seems that recently, when the angel had first picked him up on the field, it had been a handsome blond young man; now a miserable decaying creature crawled with difficulty across the mosaic floor. It wasn’t as black and charred as its fallen brethren, but it was sickening to look at, too.

Madael turned away. It had been a long time since he’d allowed himself that. Not since he’d mutilated Yve, he supposed, but now his anger was festering, and he wanted to take it out on other living things. The pain and dissatisfaction he’d accumulated over the past few days had to find an outlet. He was tired of turning his divine body into a bastion of hellish pain. And so he had endured it for too long. Now let others suffer. Now it was their turn.

The merciless angel tormented and destroyed not only the rare gifted, but everyone. At first they bowed at his feet out of admiration, then out of fear. He became a bloody deity. He didn’t need a sword to crush people’s lives. He broke people as if they were toys.

That’s what power means. Even his demons, huddled in their darkest holes, grew frightened of him after they watched him crush the insects that we humans call people. Once they saw him, they lost their will. One look at Dennitsa and people completely lose their pride and dignity. They crawl under the footsteps of their infernal deity and don’t even notice how quickly their flesh decays.

Madael even felt content to see how painfully they died. Perhaps some of them had been her supporters, her associates, her lovers during their lifetime… His head ached at the thought of Rhianon, as if a wreath of thorns was already becoming. If consciousness could bleed, he would bleed forever.

Rhianon… Not only had the girl betrayed him, she had lured his faithful servants to her side. She had not only betrayed him, she had won his loyal servants over to her side. He involuntarily remembered God’s purpose for her to take his place. He is flawed, she is innocent, he is fallen, she only blossoms, he is all burnt, and she generates fire herself. He should have hated her, and he loved her. All the jealousy he should have had for the new favorite of the god arose only toward Rhianon herself. It hurt to imagine her in the arms of another.

He was determined to prove to the traitors that humans could serve him just as well as they did. And now, instead of a supernatural sculptor, he had a decaying boy crawling at his feet, a plowman whose coarse hands, however, were no less capable than those of the greatest of masters. Madael could bestow his talents on anyone, even the most foolish one. He could make anyone great, but the human age is short. Men wore out even faster than supernatural beings could change them. So it was that in a matter of days, instead of a healthy young man, there were living relics crawling at his feet. Madael despised humans for their weakness. The short-sighted human head could not bear the insights and talents he could bestow upon it.

It was different with Rhianon. She easily took all the best qualities from him, and it was as if she herself had become a better person. She was not damaged by his dangerous knowledge. He could gift her again and again. And there was always room for something new. He missed her.

He could have defeated Rhianon, swept her head from her shoulders and carried it away with him as his greatest treasure. In his power, in his hands, her severed head would become imperishable. She would live on. Kisses alone would have been enough for him, if he could not tear out her body as well.

Behead her for what she had done. A tempting thought! Instead, however, he put his gold crown on one of her marble busts. The ruby stones, in a gleaming setting, immediately flashed, shading the whiteness of the marble. They were rubies and pearls, flame and innocence. He ran his hand through the marble curls, and his wings fluttered nervously behind his back. The quiet rustling sounded like mournful sighs.

Rhianon! Now he really wanted to cry. He wondered if his tears would be fiery or bloody. He didn’t know that yet. He could only catch the occasional reflection in the mirrors that the wings behind his back had become almost black. They contrasted unusually with the light wheat curls. The reflections in the mirrors lived. Before, only they had become separate from him. Now there was a new living thing inside him – an intense pain. There was no stopping it. It was like the experience of the lost angels in the Cathedral of Thunder. It was like being torn apart by claws of steel from the inside, but the fire was still burning you from above, and there was no way out of the dead end where the infernal pain had driven your mind. He was stronger than they were, he could resist it, but the pain was overpowering. Even when he was falling from heaven, it didn’t hurt this much.

The sculptor crawled and worked, creating the last statue with wings, So far only one wing was complete. He was giving it his beauty, youth, and vitality, but he himself was deformed. His wings sagged, his fingers twisted, he could no longer walk, only crawl and sculpt. He worked tirelessly, diligently, and still perfectly. It was even more perfectly than before. Now that the pieces of Madael lived in his fingers, the labor was becoming costly to himself, but genius to the world.

Madael watched his work coldly and carefully.

The human sculptor was doing exactly the same thing, but he could die before his work was finished. Arnaud, sitting in the alcove and fiddling with his harp, pretended not to notice it. He tried not to watch his master breathing life into the dead bodies only to watch them writhing in agony.

He had to get used to his new life in the midst of nightmares, though his lot before had not been an enviable one either. The existence of a wanderer rejected by both the mortal and spirit worlds would have enticed few. But Arnaud was resilient. His new master appreciated it. Day after day he guided his servant through a new hell, but Arnaud was still unperturbed. Perhaps it was only because he was originally insane. In any case, he now contemplated the world as only madmen could imagine it. He saw a beautiful devil. This devil was the de facto lord of the universe, he took lives, he dispensed talents, he made marble move and fire burst forth, or, conversely, he froze the world into ice.

What he observed was already insane in itself. He was not, however, on a chain, as a madman should be. Ever since he had been in the Cathedral of Thunder, he had not been out of his wondrous state of contemplation. Everything seemed magical to him, his own hands touching the strings of the harp and the wheat-golden curls of the fallen archangel. Arnaud admired him, himself, and even the eerie burnt creatures lurking in the shadows. Everything had its own amazingly unique shapes. Everything was astonishing in its own way. Perhaps only an artist could see the world this way, but Arnaud was not one. His soul belonged to the harp. His body, inextricably linked to the instrument, enjoyed its sounds. Sometimes Arnaud listened to the music and felt fine, but the wounds in his belly would not heal. The ritual went a little differently than the others and had slightly different consequences. For now, Arnaud was not going to puzzle over what it would bring him. There would still be time for that – all eternity – but for now he was a servant of Madael. He could look at him, be near him. Anyone else would have traded his most beautiful dreams for that, but Arno couldn’t help but think of Rhianon as well.

The princess who knows him as a minstrel would never consider him a fallen angel. Arnaud looked at the bust in the real crown and couldn’t take his eyes off either. What would prevent his master from breathing life into one of these marble replicas of Rhianon? Then all problems would be solved at once. She would be marble and malleable here, and the rebellious unruly body would remain far away.

Madael could only touch the marble lips once, breathe into them, and revive. Once he tried to do so, but he never could. Perhaps he didn’t feel comfortable kissing the marble after a living body. Or maybe he considered it sacrilegious. If you know Rhianon herself, her imitation can no longer be complete.

Madael pulled away from the bust, slowly and reluctantly. If he could he would fly for Rhianon now. Only it was unlikely she would want to see him. He was alone again. Even surrounded by those creatures, he was always alone.

With Rhianon, it was different. When she appeared for a while, she changed everything about him. Feelings that had been forbidden had become familiar. He had enjoyed them for a while, but they were gone with her. Perhaps even fighting with her would be better than not seeing her at all.

He found himself on the battlefield faster than the wind. Her husband’s troops were no longer here. There was nothing but bones and bloody bits and pieces of corpses. His demons had feasted. He would have drunk blood with them, too, if it had given him satisfaction.

A grim, hunched silhouette in the distance was doing just that. He was leaning over the remains and cradling the wounds. He also kidnapped children from the village and drank their blood, here on the battlefield. Asmodeus! Madael grinned at the sight of him here. Like a shadow, he always loomed over the empty space. Once he thought of something bad, he was there.

And now, just as his master leaned on his sword, he left his victim and began pestering him with exhortations. They came like echoes. Madael could have simply flown away from them, but he was unwilling to leave the battlefield. He wanted war, and there was none. So it would have to start somewhere else in the morning. He grinned wryly again. Yes, that’s where he’d like to fight this time.

It was as if the grim creature had caught his thoughts. Asmodeus suddenly expressed concern. Strangely, he was beginning to get nervous. Not only his hoarse voice, but his entire mutilated body spoke volumes.

«Do you think about what you have to lose?»

«I have nothing to lose. I’ve already lost the most precious thing,» Madael jammed his sword into the ground and stared up at the darkening skies. The wind parted his strands, almost burning his face, pulling at his skin like golden wire, so soft to the touch, but he wouldn’t have been surprised if one day they had turned into writhing worms. He didn’t care anymore. As he had said, he had lost the only thing he wanted to have. There was nothing more to lose.

Rhianon caught herself repeating the names of the sentinel gnomes in her sleep. Clo, Melor, Seth, Hugh, Horace, Ivan, Pip, Byrne, Soiro, Fodel… They sounded like the ticking of hands. Saying them, the tongue seemed to merge with the one single mechanism of the devil’s clock. Rhianon awoke in a cold sweat. It seemed to her that even after she awoke, she could clearly hear the clanging of the dwarves’ hammers, the movement of the counterweights and the hands, all in one single hymn of hell. She caught her breath when she thought the clock was moving very close by, right in her room and yet somewhere outside. They were measuring her deadline…

Was it deadline for what? Only the Cathedral of Thunder and the blood sacrifice came to mind. The vision of wings growing out of her back gave way to a very different picture. A golden-haired angel girl was trampling a dragon, golden limbs slithering, coiling around her ankle. The picture looks both triumphant and erotic. It is not clear whether the victorious girl agrees to make love to him or decapitate him. There was a beauty and the serpent. The mural was as clear as if imprinted on the retina of her eyes.

She had remembered the face of Yve, only his features were already blurred, merging with the endless dusk.

«Give me a chance! Just give me a chance!» whispered from the darkness his already powerless and distant voice. «Give me a chance to be born in his place in the body of a supernatural being.»

Maybe his taken life was worth it. Just a frail human, Yves died, and he could no longer be born as a supernatural being. Or could he? Would his giftedness have allowed him to do so? Sometimes Rhianon felt as if her bloody baby fingers were sliding across her still flat belly. Yve was so attracted to the supernatural life inside her. How he wished he could be part of that life. But she knew in advance that she would never let him. And the ghost disappeared back into the darkness with a stifled groan.

When Rhianon awoke, she found the room rattling. She didn’t remember taking any tame animals with her, but that was what was fussing over the bed. Here was her harpy, already stealing a cage of canaries from somewhere. With its sharp claws it had snatched the birds from behind the bars and torn their throats out. Rhianon cringed in disgust. But the tiny gold dragon was pleasing to the eye. It dragged unsteadily on a cord to which a box full of jewels was attached. None of the baubles were hers, and the ebony box was not hers either. But now it belonged to her precious Ingot, as she’d called the creature. The dragon’s paws were occupied, but in its mouth it was carrying a red rose for its mistress, or perhaps for itself. Rhianon never understood. But the thorns on the stem didn’t hurt him at all.

«It was I who took care of getting them here,» Orpheus voiced from the darkness. The invisible Orpheus slowly detached himself from the gloom and hid in it again, like an actor lurking behind a curtain. «Are you at least grateful to me? After all, you’ll have a lot more fun with them in this black hole.»

«Loretta is not a black hole,» she sternly reminded him, though she doubted it herself. Take this castle, gorgeous though it is, and it’s so bleak. Was this pile of stones worth fighting over?

Orpheus grunted disapprovingly. He did not find this kingdom magnificent himself, as he had said many times before. In his opinion there was not enough treasure in the treasury, too many people to be sent immediately to the executioner’s axe, and, in general, Loretta, he said, was squalid, no better than the Duchy of Rothbert. Rhianon was not even angry with him for that. She knew for herself that he had a point. Since she had fled, the treasury had indeed been depleted of money. Manfred had been too exhausted for the wars, the upkeep of soothsayers and wizards, and the entertainment of his own son. In retaliation for that, she let Drusil win a week, but only a week. For seven days he would feel like the richest and luckiest man in the world, and then his luck would change. He will begin to lose with such frightening regularity that he will be left without the last shirt, but even then his excitement will not be able to stop. He will go mad. Rhianon had already sentenced him.

Things were much more difficult with the other courtiers and members of the council, whom Orpheus said should have been sent to the scaffold immediately. Rhianon would have gladly done so. If it were up to her will, Angus and Hermione and Roderick and Darius and Clotter would lay down their heads right now. Even Hildegard, who hypocritically greeted the new queen as if she were her own sister, gave Rhianon a pang of dislike. The snake was up to something. Her affectionate kiss made Rhianon feel disgusted, as if a toad had licked her cheek, and the words «my dear sister» sounded like an insult. Although the maidens and courtiers who had previously surrounded Hildegard were all gone, Rhianon still felt that she was in a hornets’ nest.

It would have been easy to kill them all. She could have turned them to ash without even going near them, burned them and pretended she had nothing to do with it – they had burned themselves. There are a lot of candles in the castle, and anyone who isn’t careful can light their hair on fire. Especially it was Hildegard. Her long, tight black tresses, covered by a smoky veil, will burn so quickly. No one would even have time to help her. Pour a whole bucket of water on her, the fire would be unstoppable. Hildegard’s crisp brocade outfit would be such good food for the flames. Even better than brushwood or dry wood. Hildegard was on fire. The thought was so tempting and at the same time Rhianon held back for some reason.

Every time she wanted to take out the ministers, someone seemed to whisper to her, «Don’t, something terrible will happen to them anyway.» She thought she recognized Setius’s voice.

«They are doomed… doomed…» those words echoed in her brain every time she glanced at Angus or Clotter, or all the councilors at once. It was as if someone had whispered it to her, but not Orpheus.

«Aren’t you going to visit the forbidden towers? Or would you rather have Ingot bring you the manuscripts from them itself?»

«I don’t need it anymore,» Orpheus’ question didn’t excite her at all, though she would have been worried before.

«Oh yes, you think you know everything,» he pointed to his sides.

«Yes, I do!» Rhianon took the comb herself and ran it through her hair. Maybe she thought she saw a puffy-looking dwarf curl up beside the great trellis. That could have been just a shadow reflected by the mirror. How would Fate manage to sneak into the castle? And why is it? He had already gotten his revenge on her. The pendant she held in her hands simply dissolved. Rhianon still regretted it. It wasn’t even that it was magical. She loved beautiful things, and the pendant was capable of taking on various fanciful shapes. She was hurt that it was gone. And it was all Fate’s fault. If she’d really seen him under her feet now, she’d have thrown a hairbrush at him. The heavy handle, instructed by mother-of-pearl and carnelian, would have hurt him on the top of his head. Better yet, a snuff-box or casket would have been thrown at him. She could only hope he would not steal it.

But he was nowhere to be found. Rhianon looked at the carpet, then back at the mirror, but she saw that the lid of the snuffbox, strewn with emeralds, had been lifted. Before Rhianon could be startled by some inexplicable power, a leprechaun was crawling out of the empty, velvet-covered interior.

«Ah, there you are, little one,» she nodded graciously in response to his bow. It seemed to be the same leprechaun she’d noticed before. She had no reason to catch him to lead her to the treasure, so he followed her himself. But a peasant boy who discovered such a tiny lord in his field would have been delighted. Everyone knows that a captured leprechaun is able to point out the place where the gold is buried. The main thing before that is not to give in to trickery and not to let the little creature out.

She had plenty of gold. What was left in Loretta’s treasury was enough for a life without poverty. And Vinor is much richer. And Ferdinand was always eager to share his wealth with her. There was also a talent given by Madael. She became able to see the places where treasure is buried. The glitter of gold beneath the earth beckoned her, like the glow of Dennitsa’s beauty. Even in Loretta Rhianon had seen such places where ancient treasures lay buried under paving stones, in someone’s garden, or even in a field. They were probably cursed, but that did not worry Rhianon. All gold is cursed, if you count who it came from. Cursed and blessed all at once. And so was he.

She hastily banished her thoughts of Madael and looked at the leprechaun. He was just clutching a tiny hat with a feather to his narrow chest, waiting for something.

«I hope they didn’t send you from the School of Witchcraft? Do they want to watch me?»

«I just realized that my place is with you.»

The thin voice, which to human ears would have been no louder than a mosquito’s squeak, was clearly audible to Rhianon.

«Then stay,» she graciously allowed him. She already had a dragon, a harpy, a monkey, and a parrot in her tiny menagerie, so why not have the leprechaun join them. Oh, yes, she’d also forgotten about the personal spirit that followed her around. Now, if this went on, she’d have her own circus, and even without Loretta, she wouldn’t have to worry about making a living.

Staying without Loretta? Why did the thought suddenly cross her mind? The assumption was like a knell. It hurt for a moment.

When the door to the room opened silently, Rhianon jumped frightened. It wasn’t that she was afraid of danger, it was just that she wasn’t used to anyone entering her room without knocking. Hildegard, however, did not seem accustomed to etiquette.

She did not even curtsy, just walked in and looked at Rhianon, long and intently. At her approach, the leprechaun immediately slipped back into the snuffbox. Orpheus was lurking somewhere behind the curtain. Perhaps he was making faces at his guest. Rhianon could not turn around and check, she was staring just as intently at Hildegard. The black and purple silhouette was like a magnet, attracting and holding her gaze captive.

«I could burn you,» she warned.

«But you won’t,» Hildegard reached for her face, the black bouffant sleeve barely visible against the darkness, and the pale, narrow hand at the end of the black cuff seemed to flutter through the air like a firefly.

«You’re very pretty,» Hildegard said, not daring to touch Rhianon’s skin, though she clearly wanted to.

She already had the ivory-handled hairbrush in her hands. Before Rhianon could see it, the object was gone from the table. However, she was no longer surprised by such small tricks. She could make the studs fly out of the box and stab her rival, but for once it would have been unnecessary. Hildegard clearly felt terribly uncomfortable here herself.

«My hair will be styled by a maid or a chambermaid,» Rhianon almost mentioned that her tiny faeries could do a much more elaborate hairstyle in no time.

«I’ll do it better,» Hildegard said smugly.

Rhianon reluctantly nodded. Her unwelcome nocturnal guest was as dark as a shadow herself. The sleeves and ruffles of a cambric shirt flickered at the neckline of the sleeves did nothing to soften that impression. Her face against the jet-black hair looked like a white mask. As soon as Rhianon had taken her place on the dressing table, Hildegard began to brush her hair, gently and carefully. She was afraid to touch the curls with her hair, only gently ran the brush through it. But the luster of the golden curls below her waist clearly delighted her.

«You’re a queen now, you must impress everyone with your clothes and your hair,» Hildegard whispered. «You are more important than our coat of arms; your attire is like the emblem of our treasury, it should show courtiers and ambassadors how rich and powerful we are. And your hair should have some ruby threads woven into it.»

«No, not rubies,» Rhianon reminded herself of her earlier aversion to the color of fire and all its reminders. Her fear of flames was now a thing of the past. She did not seek to contain the fire; rather, she stirred it up. But no gifts from Hildegard she wanted to accept.

«I have enough jewelry. You’re very kind, but I’ll choose for myself.»

«I will.»

Now the brush glided through her hair in complete silence. A moment more, and Hildegard’s fingers touched her curls just as gently. Only fairies touched her like that. Rhianon closed her eyelids and remembered the touch of the green-eyed Phyllis. Or Flotus. Or maybe it was Chloe. Touching them was like dipping into a sea of flowers. All her fairy friends were bright or ghostly, but equally exhilarating. At the first caress she was immediately reminded of them, but there was only a dark shadow behind her.

Rhianon opened her eyes and saw Hildegard’s reflection in the mirror behind her. Her lips, lined with something purple, curved mockingly. Her headband slid down to the side, revealing stiff black curls. She might have been beautiful, or even attractive, if it hadn’t been for that deep black tone that surrounded her like an aura. Rhianon thought with a chuckle that Hildegard would have made an excellent match for the dark burnt creatures that nested in the tower of Madael. She looked so much like them, and she must have been close to them in spirit. If it weren’t for her matte pale skin, the resemblance would probably be complete.