Rhianon-4. Secrets of the Celestials

Early on he rejoiced at the appearance of the irresistible knight. He flashed into the midst of battle, brought a moment’s victory, and disappeared, leaving behind a trail of misery and death. That’s how the devil comes, beckoning gold but causing only pain. But that knight was to Moren almost a god. He prayed for his new appearance. He dreamed of talking to him, of simply removing his helmet and looking into his eyes, of shaking his gauntlet-shrouded hand in a friendly way, without even fearing that one. Incredibly strong and hard, it would just crush his bones. Somehow he was sure that in the eyes of this ghost or demigod, whom he did not even know, he would be able to find all the wisdom of the world and understanding. The nameless warrior would give him answers to all his questions and become an associate. They will fight shoulder to shoulder. And God knows, it is not Manfred but this knight that Moren would have wished to see as his king.

Yes, what’s the matter with him. He is almost in love. How silly and frightening at the same time. Moren felt as if he had touched something forbidden, removed his helmet and armor from a body that must not be exposed. And there beneath the armor instead of flesh was a red-hot piece of steel, an imitation of the sun, scorching hot and ready to envelop you in a deadly embrace.

Moren awoke from his visions. All around him was the winter cold, the wind, the frost, the snow-covered forest, and the uncultivated virgin snow. No cottage nearby, no hut, no village, the nearest town many miles away, the country road long since marked by snowdrifts. He could freeze to death here. And he thinks of the sun, the glowing rays and the hot iron. In his tired, depressed mind the hammers of the Zwergs forge the armor of the deity and it glitters like the dawn. In his dreams this same deity, shining like the sun, comes to his bed, holds out his hand in his gauntlet, and bids Moren become his associate.

“Forever!” utters a beautiful harsh voice, the sound of which chills the blood and sends shivers down the spine. “Forever, my earthly brother, for my term of service to the god is eternal. There will be only battles, blood, and chopping, and no lost heaven. Are you ready to fight alongside me until the end of time?”

Oh, yes, he was ready.

“You are an angel, aren’t you? Or are you God himself? And are there really wings hidden under your cloak?” Moren asked in his dreams, and he awoke in a cold sweat, his fingers still reaching for the golden vision, though the tent before his bed was empty. No golden light, not even a candle burns in the cold, but he was sure that if he stretched his hand forward, he would surely get burned. He dreamed of touching the fire. In his dreams his hands reached out to remove the helmet from the head of the radiant warrior and even if he burned his fingers, even if his hands burned or shattered, he longed to see the face of his new commander and lord. He is sure that this face will be the answer to all his questions. It is in the warrior’s face, not in himself, that secrets lie hidden. This is why he never shows himself close to anyone except those he will pierce with his sword and never reveals his name to anyone. For with a name he must show his face.

Moren could almost see him in his dreams, even through his helmet. The face was more like a maiden’s, so stern and so luminous that it was almost impossible to make out the features. But somehow he was sure it resembled Rianon’s features in some way. Absurd, of course, but a dream is not reality. It could be full of absurdities. Dreams are by nature messy, but you have to be able to interpret them, and then everything comes together into a clear picture. But Moren was no expert at interpreting dreams, and he certainly couldn’t find a witch doctor here to interpret them for him. He could only surmise that the dream, which burned inside him, was momentous and fateful.

Now he dreamed of a banner adorned with the head of a golden dragon and of a warlord in shining armor.

“My earthly counterpart. Earthly, not heavenly,” the voice from the dream was still in his head, calm, commanding, and mesmerizing. He offered nothing and demanded nothing, but Moren was willing to follow him anywhere. He would even gladly give the unknown warrior his place at the head of the remaining troops. He was sure that the warrior-god would not lead him to certain death. The first time he disappeared and they began to lose, but if he returned, things could still be sorted out.

Of course, such thoughts might have come to him under the pressure of numerous messengers. Manfred sent them every week, later every day, he asked and even demanded that Moren think of a way to not only throw his remaining forces into battle, but to find the unknown warrior. Where to look Manfred did not say, but he promised that he would execute his commander-in-chief for not carrying out his orders.. Rumors have reached Moren that Manfred is already considered mad at court. He scurried about the throne room like a black raven, claiming that he could tame the deity and make it serve him. In the same way, one might claim to reach for a star in the sky and catch flames with one’s bare hands. The courtiers nodded smartly in the king’s face and chuckled behind his back. Many even regretted the fleeing princess Rhianon. Even if she had gone mad, she would have attracted people with her charms and wouldn’t have prevented her advisors from ruling for her. This would have been a place where court intrigues and parties of minions would have been free to snatch a piece of power by befriending the charming young queen. Conrad, on the other hand, was looked upon with either condescension or contempt. Even the prince’s friends ran off to play cards and wander the pubs, leaving him alone. They were tired of hearing him harp on about his runaway lover and his penchant for black magic. Many were also frightened by his complete unwillingness to think about the affairs of the country. No one thought of Princess Hildegard as a potential queen.

Because of her unattractiveness, she was forgotten. But she had her chances. This cunning black lady was capable of much. Moren remembered her scheming and her greedy look when she lured him once into the dark tower.

“You might fall down this steep staircase if you don’t accept my offer,” she hinted to him. He had forgotten her words then, but they came sharply to mind now. She had promised him her advisor’s place if he would help her take her father’s place. At the time he thought it was a game. One of Hildegard’s ladies-in-waiting might just be lurking behind the draperies and laughing at a successful joke. However, the game was repeated over and over again. Again and again the unassuming lady dressed in black lured the knights into the corner tower, offering them seats near the throne if they would help her occupy it. If not, they would wring their necks. In the beginning the threats were empty, but then some accidents did happen. Like a true gentleman, Moren kept quiet about the antics of the strange lady, and who would believe him. Who knows how many she had already lured or intimidated to her side? As he walked through the throne room, he caught the icy glances of her ladies-in-waiting. Even in their bright dresses and wreaths they looked like harpies, daring to leap. They chuckled nastily and joked behind the knights’ backs. And Hildegard, perpetually dressed in black, already looked like the queen-widow in their circle, or the black lady of death. Moren disliked her, but he had no intention of engaging in intrigue.

Of course, he himself, like many, would have preferred to see Rhianon, the rightful heiress and beautiful girl, as queen. But where is she? Does she know what is happening in her country? What if she is too far away from Loreth and has no idea that a rift is brewing at court? Now would be a good time for her to return. Manfred is mad, he can easily be overthrown and imprisoned, the courtiers will support her, Conrad cannot oppose her, and probably will not want to. He is naturally passive and easily sidelined. And the golden-haired princess is said to have a strong character and an unwavering will. Some have even predicted that she could fight with a sword in her hand, not just lead a weak-willed husband. But Moren was certain that if she took the throne, and if she rejected a foreign prince, she would choose the best of the knights of her land, the one who could truly defend herself and her power with his sword.

“Like you,” a mischievously mocking voice rang out, and then someone nearby laughed, lightly, mockingly, and at ease, as if it had become a pleasure to drive one to madness with jokes.

He turned around abruptly. There was no one around, only silver snowflakes trembling and flying from the branches of a lone fir tree. If someone unseen was talking to him, he would have to fit on this branch, right on the spruce needles or the snowflakes falling from them.

Moren shook his head wearily. He hadn’t rested or eaten properly in a long time, and no wonder his imagination was playing tricks on him.

It was better not to give in to black fantasies, but to think of something pleasant. What if Rhianon came back and really chose him as her husband? For that he need only find a nameless knight to help him. It turns out that he will win, and Moren will only be his right hand, but after all, the deity will not even marry a beautiful princess. He will give his reward to Moren, as his mortal companion.

“And then we’ll have to fight forever,” the voice from his dream repeated, but it was really just a playful imagination.

Moren knew that he’d painted a far-reaching plan for himself, and that he had no hope of fulfilling it. He ruffled his curly blond hair with his hand. He’d lost his hat a long time ago, and he was afraid to put his helmet on because of the cold. The hard iron would just freeze to his skin, leave scars on his cheeks. He’d seen knights this had happened to before. They became disfigured. And he would have liked to present himself to Rhianon in a better light. He was said to be rather handsome, but there were so many handsome and noble young men at court. And there were always so many knights fighting at tournaments, even over the princess’s shawl or scarf. He wanted to win at least such a tournament to touch her hand holding out the scarf for once, but he failed. Once he was badly wounded and lay in oblivion for a couple of days. It seemed to be during that period that he began to have visions. He had strange dreams. He saw dark creatures pressing against his chest to drink blood from his wound and ripping off the bandage.

“You could be like us, but you won’t,” they hummed, driving him almost insane.

When he recovered from his wound it was springtime, the May fair had begun, and he walked to the fortuneteller’s tent to ask her if his feelings could become mutual, but he did not have to go in to the fortuneteller. A dry hand caught him still at the entrance to the tent. The fearful fortuneteller merely glanced at the lines of his palm and whispered in a squeaky voice that he would never get what he wanted unless he died. It was more like a mockery. Now every time he looked at the colorful ribbons and tents of the fairgrounds he remembered that occasion. The fortuneteller’s voice reminded him of the vile squeaking of his dreams. Now he thought that her words might not have been true. The wretched old woman might have laughed at him. The knight had just recovered from his wounds and was looking for someone in the crowd, a perfect target for impertinent jokes. You could tell he was in love.

That day, after all, he had seen Rhianon. She rode by on a raven stallion, escorted by her retinue, and didn’t even look in his direction. But her mere sight was already like a sunrise. Perhaps now in these thickets and snowy heaths he would meet her and she would let him bring victory to her feet. They will return to Loretta together and she will let him take his place beside her.

Moren shook his head stubbornly. He felt it could not be, and he hoped anyway. Sometimes the most impossible things happen, after all.

Just now, someone was chuckling over the empty snow-covered field and calling to him from the far blackening forest. Moren thought he was going crazy, but what if that wasn’t it at all. In his dreams Rhianon was still returning to the throne, laying a crown on his head, and the treacherous Hildegard retreated into the background for the sake of decency and pretended to share in everyone’s merriment. If he had been Rhianon’s protector, he would have banished the black ogre, for she had squinted too enviously at the princess. She was jealous of Rhianon’s beauty and charm.

Moren didn’t even notice how something in the surrounding atmosphere changed dramatically. It seemed to get a little warmer. He put his hand to his forehead and found droplets of sweat streaming down his skin. Was he hot? The sweat kept streaming and burning his eyes, as if the moisture were red-hot.

“What are you looking for here?” A creeping voice asked from somewhere inside his mind.

“Him,” Moren realized he had opened his mouth and said it out loud. How simple-minded. He was not supposed to tell anyone, or even the emptiness itself, about his plans. It’s a precautionary measure. But on the other hand, how will he find that knight if no one tells him where to look. Even though Manfred’s order to look for him made no sense, Moren did not ride through the wastelands and valleys because he was following orders. He was looking for someone he wanted to find himself.

His horse could hardly walk, and there was something rustling and hissing in the melting snow beneath his hooves. Melting? Moren looked down in astonishment, right under his horse’s feet. Could it really be the end of winter already? But it was only the beginning of February. It had been the worst month of his life. Perhaps he would not live to see March and the first snowdrops. All his troops would not live to see them.

Moren suddenly felt the nearness of fire, as if someone had made a fire right in the snow. After so many weeks of cold, the warmth should have felt pleasant to him, but instead it felt like it burned. It wasn’t even heat, it was intense heat.

Moren struggled to get off the stubborn horse. The animal would not go any farther. Moren had to walk on his own through the melting snow. Sometimes his feet got stuck in hollows and drifts. In some places the snow did not melt after all. The young man noticed a hard crust of ice over a frozen stream, and to his left, clumps of bluish snowdrops nestled right in the melted snow. He took his glove off his hand and wiped the sweat from his forehead once more. The liquid really burned. Maybe his own sweat or tears could scorch his skin. The unbearably bright glow ahead blinded and burned his eyes. He felt his eyeballs tingle and tears as hot as sweat collect inside his eyelids. What is this obsession?

“You have stepped into his territory,” the obliging voice explained. “You wanted to see the deity’s domain, didn’t you? Now look.”

From the blinding light and the hot tears Moren could no longer look. He could really make out a fire somewhere in the distance, the flames crackling and fluttering in the snow, but the heat wasn’t coming from it. Black creatures, remotely resembling fabulous leprechauns, danced around the fire. Catch one, and it will grant your every wish, lead you to great treasures, or tell you a magical secret. All you have to do is to hold it tightly in your hands and not let it out. Leprechaun will start beating and trying to trick you to escape, in any case, you don’t let him go, then the gold magic baby count in your pocket. Well, there, it turns out he still remembered the tales of his nannies and maids from his father’s old castle. He could catch one of the leprechauns, he could hold on to it despite all the tricks and even the bites of the tiny needle-tooth, only it wasn’t the gold he wanted. More precisely, his ultimate desire was somehow connected to the gold, but he didn’t understand how. He needed to find the nameless knight, the god who had appeared to him in his dreams in armor wrapped in the sun. Moren was even willing to catch the Leprechaun if only he could find the knight or say the magic words to summon him. How hard could he dodge now? Moren had already stretched his arm forward, but then someone grabbed him sharply by the shoulder.

“Don’t,” a sly voice said over his ear. “Don’t make a wish for something that is already written in your destiny.”

Moren wanted to turn around, or at least look at his hand, but the man would not let him. It seemed to him that his hand was held not by fingers but by claws, black claws like the ones that ate corpses on the battlefield, but he couldn’t see them clearly. He couldn’t even see them from the corner of his eye, only feel them.

Something scalding smelled on his shoulder. He winced and tried to break free, but then the intruding voice came again.

“I will take you to him,” he promised, “to your knight. You are destined to be together, I know it.”

“Who are you?” Moren found it hard to speak.

The soft laughter that echoed in his ears was more like a rustling noise.

“It doesn’t matter who I am. You will have him, in his full battle dress, with his shield painted with runes and his sword.”

“What does he want?” Moren himself did not remember how he had managed to formulate his question, but that was what worried him the most right now. What if the brilliant knight would not heed his request, and would not side with Loretta this time? What if they had to fight against each other instead of shoulder to shoulder? After all, that may be fate’s judgment. Perhaps these are idle fears, but what if they are true.

“It doesn’t matter what he wants. He himself often does not understand his own desires. His sword must be guided to serve the cause of justice. And justice is on your side now.”

Moren hesitated. He was not sure of the latter. What is justice in battle? They fought only to win, defending the interests of their homeland or the lords who hired them, without much thought as to who was right or wrong. And what principles could a warrior have who neither needed to be paid nor to defend his homeland? He could only fight on the side of the right. That is what they said about him. After all, he himself had no personal interest in anything. He has no homeland and needs no reward. It is likely that he is an elf knight of some magical kingdom, whom his suzerain sends into battle every time to uphold justice. So he has to cross an invisible line to throw into someone else’s battle, in which he himself seeks nothing: neither glory nor profit. His chivalry must surely come from a magical world.

“You’re almost right, my friend,” the slightly husky voice behind him became a little more gentle, even mellifluous. It was intoxicating, like a poison to the brain.

“Only wait,” he whispered, “I will bring you to your knight. You can even swear allegiance to him. You only have to follow me when I summon you.”

Moren reluctantly nodded. He could scarcely believe it would not be now, but the offer was clear. When the need arises, he will be summoned.

“But when would that happen?” He wanted to turn around, but he couldn’t. The claws weren’t releasing him right away. Now he could turn his head slightly and examine them.

“Soon,” was the same unequivocal answer.

Douglas felt as if he were on the coals of a red-hot fryer. It was as if he was being fried. Not even the pitchforks of hell could be as unstable as his present position in the yard. He kept waiting for Manfred to change his anger for mercy, but the king wanted only one thing: a nameless warrior. He even forbade his personal wizard to enter the council chamber or the throne room until the answer was found: where to find the invincible knight and how to lure him to himself. The king was obsessed with the idea of ruling someone who could not be ruled. And Douglas was sensible enough to hint to the furious monarch that one cannot tame the element of fire. You can only burn against it, but not shackle it. And that must have been what Manfred wanted. Not only did he plan to catch the wind, he also wanted to hold it in his hands and gain obedience from it.

Douglas, too, was setting up nets for the stars at the top of his tower. He fastened them to the very parapet and read spells, but so far the catch was little encouraging. He dreamed of catching spirits in his nets that would serve him, untamed black souls with diabolical powers, or even glittering faeries. He needed all kinds of servants. It could even be said that while the king slept, his court wizard gathered his own little army of nixes, leprechauns, gnomes, brownies, house spirits, and other evil spirits around him. He could capture them in the attics or the castle’s dark labyrinths, by the riverside, in the undergrowths, or in the meadows. All he had to know was the right spells to keep them subdued, and of course he had the skill and dexterity to catch them. Douglas knew how to do all this and had done it many times before. He already had his own cohort of petty servants, the mischievous ones who had been naughty in the castle kitchens, who had stolen courtiers’ things and harassed his ears. They all obeyed him and followed his orders. All of them he caught. That he could do. But most of all he dreamed of the stars.

It was the stars that he hadn’t seen yet. And yet he had already prepared a cage in which to keep them, and made plans for their use. Other wizards dreamed of a tame dragon, a pack of griffins, or a horde of goblins, but he dreamed of shooting and capturing stars. To him they were more important than anything else. Manfred, though he did not know what his court sorcerer did, also dreamed of a star in his own way. Douglas even chuckled contemptuously. Could a tiny rodent defeat a large lion? The comparison was almost apt, except the situation was more acute. That very lion was about to lunge at them all and crush everything here. Douglas feared more for Loretta’s towers than for his own skin. He himself could slip away like a chimney, quickly stowing his luggage in a chest and leading away the hordes of spirits that would accompany a wandering wizard, but take care of himself. Escape is easy when you are nimble, elusive, and can become invisible; it is only hard to leave this surrounding splendor to fend for itself. Even if Loretta’s days were numbered, Douglas did not like to think of losing his luxurious quarters. To him, a cozy and well-appointed tower was a luxury item. He had never had one at home. His family did not like him, nor were they eager to do anything for him, and for that he repaid them all. True, the main thing was taking out potential rivals. Now he was alone with his magical talent. He sincerely hoped that the ghosts of his executed brothers would not bother him. They had made no attempt so far, and he himself had thoughtfully inscribed protective symbols on the door, windows, and threshold. He could not see them at once, but they served their purpose. No unwanted guests could penetrate his shelter, neither spirits nor mortals. Anyone who crossed its threshold without the owner’s invitation would feel so uncomfortable inside the tower that they would have to leave. In this way, Douglas protected himself from all uninvited visitors, even from the king’s guards if such showed up.

Though if they decided to arrest him and send him to the stake, he would know it beforehand. For one thing, he had plenty of his own invisible spies scattered around the castle and even the city below to gather gossip and bring it to his master. Secondly, he could make out sounds from miles around if he wanted to, he just had to gather his strength, whisper a few magical phrases or drink an invigorating elixir, then close his eyelids and listen. A cacophony of sounds, conversations, monologues and dialogues, arguments, quarrels, debates, love confessions and songs would reach his ears so quickly that it would be hard to choose and separate the right one. But he could catch one necessary dialogue out of a thousand and learn of danger or conspiracy. He was very concerned about his own position in the castle, for it was very precarious. Of course, he had managed to gain Conrad’s support, but the boy was too weak. If he had any influence over his father, he was wasting all his energies on allocating more and more funds and soldiers to track down the fugitive. Every fighter was now essential to the war. It was said that the knights were dying like flies out there. Something terrible had settled on the battlefield. Manfred even wanted to send his personal enchanter there, but Douglas, with some help from the prince, was able to dissuade him.