The palace didn't look particularly impressive—an ordinary, long, two-story building, built in an oval shape. The stucco decorations, the stone covered in beige plaster—nothing particularly special.
Inside, it was striking in its splendor. Zamar was not a poor country, as was immediately evident from the furnishings of the royal palace. Gleaming mahogany floors, walls covered in precious silk imported from a neighboring continent, gilding, stucco, and intricate furniture—everything that could capture the immature imagination of a provincial girl. And it was captivated.
Sanda didn't show it, but the palace's decor stunned her. It was as if someone had shoved it in her face, saying, "See what you'll get if you behave properly!" They placed Ned, a boy from a distant seaside village, on the scales, and on the other side—all of THIS—luxury, wealth, power. Which would outweigh the other? All she had to do was forget, banish this boy who had taken up residence in her heart. And Sanda would get everything she saw. Everything she desired. Could she forget Ned? And would she even want to?
That evening remained forever etched in her memory. The frowns of the ladies at the sight of her beautiful rival, the frank, lustful glances of the men vying with each other to invite her to dance—months of training had paid off, and Sanda twirled effortlessly, selflessly, enjoying the beautiful music, the dance, and her magnificent partners.
After a long period of seclusion, it was as if the gates to a wonderful life had been opened before her.
Helga Brogan watched her daughter closely, then, smiling, quietly whispered to her sister standing next to her:
– You're getting the hang of it, don't you think?
"That's good," she nodded contentedly, "let her get a taste of real life. And then she won't be able to give it up. You couldn't, after all, could you?"
"I couldn't," the woman grimaced, looking for the captain of the guard, Yubar, with whom she had spent the night, "so many years in the wilderness... without balls, without..."
"It's okay. You'll make up for it," Entana chuckled. "Back to your little officer? Make sure there are no problems. He has a whole regiment of people like you."
"I'm the best!" Helga declared proudly, and slowly, like a lioness stalking her prey, she approached the officer, who was conversing with a beauty who graciously allowed Yubar to touch her pink ears. He whispered something, leaning toward the lady, and she, having listened graciously to the gentleman, laughed coyly, blushing and covering her mouth with her precious fan.
Entana watched her sister leave, then glanced back at the flushed, beautiful Sanda, whose waist was encircled by the arm of one of the young gentlemen present, and then turned her gaze to the queen seated on the throne. The sovereign gazed thoughtfully at the swirling couples, then gave a command to a lady-in-waiting standing nearby, who motioned to a cupbearer standing a little further away with a tray and crystal glasses. The man bowed and handed the queen a glass of red wine diluted with clear well water. The woman took a sip, choked slightly—apparently the wine was too cold—set the glass down, and cleared her throat for a moment, blushing and teary-eyed. Then she calmed down and returned her gaze to the dancing couples, occasionally calling the lady-in-waiting over and saying something to her—apparently inquiring about the guests.
Seeing Sanda, she raised her eyebrows in surprise, and when the maid of honor told her who this girl was, she said something sharply and frowned, looking with hatred at the carefree bastard.
Entana grew restless – enough, she had to take the girl away. Otherwise… well, who knows what else would happen. Anything could happen. They'd made their mark, made a name for themselves, declared their intentions, and that was it – time to go home.
Entana gave a sign to Helga, and she grabbed Sanda and tore her from the tenacious embrace of one of the scions of an ancient noble family, leading her behind a tall oak door.
Ten minutes later they were already driving along the city's pavement, again surrounded by a dense crowd of guards.
Entana smiled contentedly, satisfied with the effect produced by Sanda's appearance at the ball, and Helga remembered her partner, the captain, with whom she had arranged a date that night.
Sanda sat with her eyes closed, the beautiful music playing in the vast hall echoing in her ears, drowning out all thoughts except one: how wonderful it was! And how she longed for it all to continue again and again.
* * *
The queen died during the night. She suddenly fell ill, and the guard, who had been working hard on her young body half the night, didn't immediately notice that his partner had turned blue and foam had formed at her lips. By the time the white mage was summoned to the queen's corpse, it was already too late.
However, it had been too late several hours ago. The ancient poison, whose composition was now known to very few, was sure-fire, and there were no antidotes known to the royal physicians. Only a mage could save the woman, but only if treatment began before the foaming appeared, indicating imminent and inevitable death.
The cupbearer was never found. His body had been successfully devoured by sea fish, and the remains of his flesh had been plucked by scavenging crabs. He was never able to use the gold he had received; it was returned to those who had orchestrated the murder.
The king was still alive. He had been reduced to a rotting piece of flesh, but somehow he lived on, on the remnants of his previously robust health.
His son was also alive. He continued reading his books. About what? No one knew. The prince was a very secretive man.
The capital was plunged into anxious anticipation of cataclysms that would shake the country and possibly plunge it into civil war. Mercenaries were flocking to the estates of noblemen, recruits were being recruited from their lands—everyone was preparing for war. The Isfirians, who had only recently threatened the capital, were already forgotten, all being supplanted by a single thought: who would rule Zamar?
* * *
The first thing Ned saw were temples! The bright glare of the sun reflecting off the temple domes blinded even those beyond the city walls. The main one, in the center, was the Temple of the Creator. Its golden dome, like half an egg, towered above the others like a mountain rises above a plain. It was immediately clear who the chief god was here.
The city gates were closed—seeing the approaching army, the observers gave the signal, and the gates immediately dropped, sealing the entrance. As the army approached and Zamar flags became visible, the panic that had erupted at the sight of the army subsided, the gates were raised, and the Corps, accompanied by heavy cavalry, slowly entered the city, clogging the streets and completely paralyzing traffic.
However, there wasn't much movement. Rumors of an approaching army—probably from Isfira—spread through every street and house with lightning speed, and the residents wisely hid, like toads scurrying under a warm, dark snag to avoid being eaten by a hungry bird.
The mages' wagons entered the city behind the command. Heverad rode ahead, atop a black stallion that danced beneath him like a madman.
Heverad couldn't stand this equine idiot, but this fool was handsome and indispensable when it came to making a grand entrance before the admiring townspeople. Heverad had dragged him all the way from the base, certain that he would have to ride like this, victorious, before the admiring gaze of the townspeople.
Well, no one is free from vanity. Especially an officer. The cries of "Glory! Victor!" are the best music in the world for him. After all, tomorrow he might not even hear those cries, stranded somewhere on the battlefield with his head severed. So why not savor this rare moment of triumph when you return victorious?
So thought Ned, sitting next to the army driver and watching the proceedings. Soon a noisy crowd surrounded the marching infantrymen. They were pelted with cheap candies and fruit, some even tossed freshly baked pies, and one of them hit the driver square in the face, covering it with hot filling. He cursed loudly, accompanied by the boisterous laughter of two brothers, both adorned with the marks of women's kisses. They walked alongside the wagon and groped every beautiful woman they came across.
Ned thought with a grin that both brothers were guaranteed dates for at least a month in advance. Alas, no one was waiting for him in the capital. Ned desperately wanted to go to the military camp, to the Base, find Sanda, hug her, and twirl his wife around until he could collapse somewhere under a bush, on the grass, and…
Putting aside his erotic fantasies, Ned concentrated on avoiding something like a poisoned dart flying toward him from the crowd. Just in case, he hid in the wagon, out of sight. It was logical and the only right thing to do. You never know…
It's a truly disgusting feeling to have to shy away from every bush and be wary of every stranger. Even familiar ones, though. Shatriyas can disguise themselves as anyone.
Since the last attack, he hadn't been touched, there had been no attempts on his life. But that meant nothing—Ned knew it. Yuragor's memory, dissolved in his brain, was retrieving the necessary information with increasing certainty. And the black mage remembered: the main law of Shirduan—no one dares go unpunished for harming the sect. And Ned had killed several of its members. And it didn't matter that he was simply defending his own life. The main thing was that he had killed.
The city was enormous. Ned had never been to a city like this. What had he ever seen in his life? Provincial towns with sparse populations and a provincial way of life, a quiet backwater. The capital was bustling, noisy, racing somewhere like mad. Hundreds of ships were moored in the port—large and small, of every design and color imaginable. They were clearly visible from the Upper City, where the army barracks were located.
These barracks could accommodate not just eight thousand fighters of Heverad's army, but much, much more. Ned concluded that in ancient times, Zamara's army had been much larger. These barracks could accommodate at least a hundred thousand men.
Some of the barracks were in disrepair—no one was maintaining them. The roofs had collapsed, the walls were crumbling in the rain—a sad picture. But the main barracks were in good working order, quite comfortable, and reminiscent of the Base barracks—showers, mess halls, toilets—everything as it should be.
The first thing to do was get the barracks in order. But first, ensure order in the city. The corps had been in worse conditions; a windswept tent was certainly worse than a barracks, even if it wasn't as comfortable as the Base barracks, so it could wait.
Patrols of Heverad's army appeared in the city. These patrols answered only to him and no one else. Each patrol consisted of at least ten men-at-arms—either on foot or on horseback—and these warriors approached the task of maintaining order as if they were at war. Anyone caught in the act was dealt with immediately. Robbers and rioters were hacked to pieces, stabbed to death on the spot, without trial. And the city fell silent. The joy of the victors' return gave way to bewilderment and irritation—how could these soldiers dare dictate the city's course of action? For what reason? In a couple of places, in the port area and near the city market, riots broke out, but were suppressed brutally and swiftly. Heverad ordered the hanging of rioters caught with weapons in their hands, and the corpses, like the grisly fruits of some unknown tree, swung for a long time from poles near the market, demonstrating to everyone that the time for riots and freedom was over.
The queen was buried quickly and secretly in the family crypt. Only those who were required to register the death of the second-in-command in the kingdom, along with the priests of the temples established in the capital, were present at her funeral. There was no king, no prince, and no relatives of the queen—they were not allowed to attend the funeral by order of the king's advisor, Gyrsos of Amun, for security reasons, as it was said. True, no one understood whose safety was being sought—the relatives', or Gyrsos's, or... well, they were not allowed in, and that was that. This was perceived as an open declaration of war, and the Tivol family began preparing for military action. Around five thousand fighters had gathered under their wing. Gyrsos, not inferior to his rivals, had assembled around six thousand mercenaries. Moreover, the advisor had a trump card in the form of General Heverad, whom he had actually made a general and naturally believed that this skilled warrior, possessing the most effective army in the country, would support him, Amunsky.
Heverad, who had long since been given a full account of the city's situation by his trusted confidants, hesitated, waiting and pondering his next move. For now, he had no desire to get involved in political squabbles and refused to side with any of the aristocratic families. He found them all, essentially, unpleasant. He had never liked them, rightly considering them idlers, schemers, and windbags, unworthy of power. The only question was: who was worthy of this power?
The power crisis was unfolding, and everyone was waiting for one thing: the death of the king. The day of his death would be the day of clarity: who would take the throne?
Ned cared less than nothing about the situation in the city. He couldn't care less who took the throne. It's not that he didn't understand how important it was for the country, but... well, he wasn't interested, that's all. Not interested at all.
Five days after Ned returned to the city, General Heverad summoned him and ceremoniously pinned the Star of Courage, First Class, onto the boy's uniform in his office.
The six-pointed star was made of gold, and in the center a small diamond shone when the sun fell on it - the stone shimmered, played with the rays of the sun, and all this looked very beautiful, especially on the dark fabric of the Marine Corps uniform.
Yes, Ned was wearing his sergeant's uniform again, with one difference - he now had a mage's insignia on his shoulder, next to his sergeant's stripe.
For some reason, Ned expected the award ceremony to be solemn, pompous, with a drum roll. Perhaps that's what it would have been like—in peacetime. Now, when everything was tense, when the city streets were patrolled by squads of Corps soldiers, there was no time for ceremony. So Heverad explained to Ned, slightly apologetically, when congratulating him on the Star. For some reason, he assumed Ned was upset by such inattention to his award. And he compensated for this inattention with five hundred gold pieces, presented to Ned in addition to the Star.
Ned smiled to himself – the last thing he wanted was to attract attention. The newly-crowned Knight of the Order of Courage detested pomp and circumstance, and was simply delighted when the presentation ceremony was limited to a handshake in the general's office. He didn't really care about the order, though. What did he need it for? What would it do for him? Five hundred gold pieces, plus a necklace, and some money saved up during his service – that would be great. He could buy a decent house – if, of course, Ned wanted one. But he didn't yet. The barracks were both more comfortable and safer. Corps officers were not favored by the local population these days… and he had no desire to kill neighbors who would express their dislike with stones and sticks.
On the sixth day after arriving in the capital, Marine Corps Sergeant-Magician Ned the Black, holder of the Star of Courage, walked to the officer school, holding in his hand a case with a rolled-up letter of direction from General Heverad.
Ned couldn't refuse his assignment to the school—the contract he signed stipulated his complete subordination to the Corps command, including when assigned to training. This was specified in one of the clauses.
Did Ned want to train as an officer? Yes and no. No, because he didn't really want to devote his entire life to military service—he realized this only recently, after much reflection on his destiny. But what other alternative did he have? What could he become? A merchant? Definitely not. He had neither the desire to trade nor the capital with which to start a large business. Ned had no desire to become a small shopkeeper.
Why? Perhaps Yuragor's memory had something to do with it, leaving its mark on him—if he was going to trade, it was whole ships and wagons, not mere penny-worth of goods. Yuragor wasn't up to the task.
A mercenary? How is the life of a mercenary different from that of an officer in the royal army? Only that officers are paid on time, while a mercenary might not receive it—if their employer is greedy and dishonest, which was often the case. Mercenaries don't live long, that's a proven fact. So what else could he do but become an officer?
The Corps took on the cost of Ned's education at the officer school. It wasn't just a matter of course—they had to sign a contract, obligating him to serve in the Corps for five years in addition to his previous contract. A year of training cost three thousand gold pieces. Three years of training. A huge sum by the standards of ordinary people. It's no wonder that only the children of very wealthy parents could become officers. That is, the children of aristocrats and wealthy merchants.
As Ned learned, officers' academy taught them everything an officer needed to know—military tactics, strategy, historical battles, the use of various weapons, and, in addition, general education subjects like mathematics, writing, geography, and much, much of what's taught in regular, non-military schools.
It was believed that an officer must be well-rounded, otherwise he would not be able to properly command the unit assigned to him. Upon graduation, officers, newly minted lieutenants, were assigned wherever the school's command directed them, or wherever their parents or relatives had scouted out a cushy position for their offspring.
Service in the palace guard was considered the most cushy job. This regiment provided protection for the palace and almost never saw actual combat. Balls, duty in the palace corridors, affairs with high-born ladies (and maids), duels, and drinking—that's what the guardsmen did.
Ned felt a little uneasy. Going into this snake pit wearing a mage's badge... unsettling. It was Heverad's idea. He'd laughingly declared that he wanted to tease the society of snobby arrogants and asked only one thing: don't kill anyone, if possible. No—that was all right, if it was a duel, and according to all the rules... sort of. But there was one thing: there were no ordinary people like Ned at the School. Ned was the exception to the rule. And since the cadets were children of respectable families, that meant these guys had numerous relatives, well-born, rich, and very touchy. What if they were offended that some lowly lout had chopped off their offspring's head? They'd start hiring assassins, and stir up some kind of mess... no, better be careful. And how must Ned have felt after such words? And even without the words, he knew it wouldn't be easy for him.
Again and again, Ned had the strange sensation of being caught in some kind of current, a turbulent one, carrying him somewhere he didn't want to go. The murky water dragged and swirled him like a small piece of wood, sometimes immersing him completely, sometimes letting him breathe, surfacing… but where would the quiet haven be? When would Ned finally find peace? And, sighing, Ned told himself – never. Apparently never.
Heverad refused to allow Ned to go on leave to see his wife, saying he couldn't let him go at such a time. All he could do was write a letter to Sanda and send it by mail. Which is what Ned did. In the letter, he asked Sanda to come to the capital, described the changes in his life, and how he longed to see her and how much he missed her. Of course, he couldn't write much, and he didn't intend to. Why would she need it? The details of army life...
He still hadn't figured out his feelings for his wife. The heat of love had passed, leaving behind a sober view of what had happened, bolstered by Yuragor's life experience. And from the perspective of that experience, Sanda was downright dangerous—with her unpredictability, her ability to get her man into trouble—just remember Ned's forced marriage.
Now he understood a lot, but... he was young, he wanted a woman, and Sanda was magnificent both in appearance and in bed, so he didn't care that she was flighty and unpredictable. His body demanded its own... but he wasn't averse to grabbing someone else's. And there was more than enough of this stranger! Ned wasn't deprived of female attention. Every day when he went out, one of the ladies would inevitably speak to him, the girls would giggle, coyly covering their mouths with their fans, and the men, their escorts, would cast a nasty glance at their rival, and only the sight of two swords stuck in their belts kept them from immediately settling their differences.
The funniest thing was, Ned made no effort to seduce these women. Well, that's just the way it was—tall, handsome, with chiseled, regular features, broad shoulders, especially emphasized by his fitted uniform—how could a woman not fall in love with him, seeing in this sergeant a true man, a true Man with a capital M. Compared to him, many gentlemen, with their affected manners and powdered cheeks, looked like sick perverts...
Ned had to fight to resist temptation—in the four times he left the military compound for the city streets, he received five invitations to dates, written in a round, feminine hand. They were usually delivered by a messenger boy, expecting a copper coin for his service.
These invitations now sat in Ned's nightstand, and sometimes he couldn't resist taking them out and sniffing them, inhaling the scent of the incense with which the paper had been soaked. After sniffing them like this, he had some very interesting dreams...
And now the group of three ladies and two gentlemen turned their attention to the tall sergeant. The two girls, judging by their attire—merchant's wives—giggled, looking the young man up and down, and whispered something in each other's ears.
Ned sighed and, casting aside his wild thoughts, turned right, toward the three-story building of the Officers' School, adorned with winged figures of strange beasts. Ned immediately recognized the School, as General Heverad had described it. A high stone porch, a stone staircase worn by thousands of feet, a square in front of the building where carriages could be accommodated for those who came to visit the cadets. Sometimes, several dozen carriages were accommodated on the square.
There was no one in sight at the entrance, no guards, no sentries. Ned ran easily up the stairs, grabbed the long oak handle, set in copper that glowed like pure gold in the sun, and paused, gathering his strength. Then he pulled the massive door, and it swung open surprisingly easily, despite being twice his height.
Stepping over the thick copper-clad threshold, Ned found himself in the vestibule. It smelled of something elusive, something Ned had rarely encountered. It was like stepping into a very old library or a bookstore—the smell of dust, ancient tomes, the scent of centuries, the scent of knowledge concentrated in one place.
A young man in a lieutenant's uniform sits at a table near the entrance, glaring menacingly at Ned. No, not a lieutenant—the stripe on his shoulder proclaims him a cadet, just a cadet. However—he has enough pride for two lieutenants—he looks at Ned as if he were a louse and remains silent, apparently waiting for this obtuse commoner to reveal the purpose of his visit. It wouldn't be proper for him, a true, well-born nobleman, to be the first to speak to the common people.
It was all plainly written on his smug face, and Ned chuckled—you don't need magical skill to read the minds of such idiots. Then the cadet noticed the mage's stripe on the alien's shoulder, below the sergeant's stripes, and his eyes nearly bulged. He stared at the symbol as if he'd seen King Zamar running on all fours and barking like a dog. The effect would have been the same.
Ned got tired of looking at this cadet and calmly said:
– I need to introduce myself to the school principal. Where can I find him?
"What?" the cadet bleated inappropriately, and, apparently recovering from the shock, he began to cough. Then he added, "Take the stairs to the second floor, on the right, the third door with the sign: 'Head of the School, Colonel Tirgor.'"
Ned nodded silently, and only when he had already started to climb the stone stairs did the cadet belatedly shout after him:
– Hey, who are you? Why are you here? Do you have permission to visit the School?
Ned didn't turn around, and the guy who jumped out from behind the table looked after him in surprise and shook his head in bewilderment:
"What a time we live in! Commoners strolling around the School as if they were at home! And wearing wizard's stripes, too! Dad was right – the School is degenerating. The Kingdom is degenerating."
The boy sat back down at the table and began to watch the hourglass, counting down the time until the end of yet another class. The upturned glass flask still had half the sand left, so the bell on the table wouldn't fill the silence of the school with its desperate but pleasant ringing anytime soon. This silver bell was at least five hundred years old—so the teachers said. However, perhaps they were lying. How could the bell have lasted so long? Unless it was magic—then, of course...
Preoccupied with these thoughts, the cadet fell into a half-sleep, where his eyes were open but his brain was still asleep. All cadets learn this art to endure the desperate tedium of classes. Especially if he'd had a good time the night before and his mind was empty and dreary, like a parade ground ravaged by stray cats.
A hangover doesn't encourage active study, and there are at least three or four such hangovers a week. What better time to have fun than during cadet life? Once you graduate, the grind begins. Drills, service—somewhere in a backwater town, unless Dad tries his best to get you into the palace guards. But you never hear him trying. More talk than anything about how his son should serve in a real army, not among these shabby-dressed slackers. And that he, Dad, served honorably, rose to the rank of colonel, earned two medals, and wishes the same for his son. True, he forgot to mention that he lost two fingers on his right hand in the process.
So what is a guy with a mage's badge doing here? A future cadet? Then his fate is unenviable. They'll hound him. They'll definitely hound him. Mages are very, very much out of favor among the School's cadets. From their very first classes, they were always taught that magic is a useless skill, bestowed by demons, completely worthless, of no use to real officers who solve problems with the force of arms and their own leadership talent. And mages, these effeminate creatures, mostly commoners and boors, deserve a sound beating. There were many jokes among the officers about mages, who were always portrayed in a ridiculous light in such stories. And here, in such an establishment, a mage appears! And a future cadet at that! Incomprehensible. But a fact remains...