Blow! Another blow! A plaintive moan… A kick in the side – something crunched. A rib?
She stood up, catching her breath, and sat down at the table, looking at the beaten creature squirming on the floor, dripping bloody drool.
"You beast! You're a beast! Why didn't I have a miscarriage? I thought, 'Nothing good will come of this idiot'—and yet, I was right a hundred times over, and yet I left you! How much smarter and more decent are my other children than you, beast! Maybe I should just rip your head off, huh? Why don't I rip your head off, tell me? Why shouldn't I do it? Give me at least one reason!"
"Because Bordonar is in love with me," Silena replied, her voice unexpectedly sober and without a hint of fear. "And you need power. With my help, you keep him in check. Without me, there will be no throne. And you can't change horses in midstream!"
"Are you sure?" Great Atrok grinned maliciously, her mouth twisted into a wry smile. "I'll blow your head off, and the demon with him, with Bordonar! I'll find a way to take power. For example, I'll marry one of my men to Sanda. Or I'll make a deal with the general, give him the girl back, and I'll be in power. Openly, not secretly. And you—into the grave."
"You won't do this," Silena turned pale, "I'm your daughter, haven't you forgotten?"
"If I'd forgotten, you'd be lying there without a head right now. And I'm still talking to you. Who was in on the conspiracy? Well? Who?! I'll give you ten seconds!"
- Sidur, Asad, Makran and their people.
"Bring them here! Just be careful, don't let them use their weapons—tie them up, stun them."
The man next to Great Atrok nodded and quietly slipped out of the room.
Silence fell. Silena, her broken nose sobbing, stared at the floor. Her mother sat in a chair across from her, wondering what to do. For the first time in years, the woman was overcome with despair—the same as when Imar had uncovered her plot. Back then, she'd lain here on the floor, snot-sniffling blood, wishing it would all be over. And she knew she had no chance of survival. She was to blame for what had happened today—there had been a precedent, a conspiracy against her father, but she hadn't been punished for it. Or maybe her father was to blame? He hadn't brought himself to kill his daughter, even though the law required it. And now the result—a daughter again, and once again she had rebelled against her family! And what now? If she was killed, the beautiful operation to seize power would be wasted like a puff of powder. She'd planned this takeover for so many years, waited, and now what? However, if Silena climbs to the highest rung of power, will she really listen to her mother? If Silena were obedient to the Great Atroc, like all ordinary Atrocs, she would do everything she was told without question. But after what happened, her mother didn't trust her daughter even with a copper coin. What else could she do? Nothing. She must continue down the same path. Destroy those who supported Silena, cut off her support. Then the girl would be alone. And under fire. At the slightest provocation, she could easily blow off her head. If there was any trace of maternal love left in her soul, Silena had burned it away completely.
When Great Atrok was told what had happened in the tavern, when she pieced together all the facts, it became clear to her – a conspiracy. And at the head of it – her daughter. No one else could free Ned, not a single person. And that they were trying to use him as a mindless arrow – that was obvious to anyone even slightly experienced in intrigue. And so the repressions began…
"They've arrived! Should I bring them in?" The man at the door was dressed in the garb of a shatriya, only his eyes were visible, glinting in the light of the lanterns and torches.
"No. I've changed my mind. Take them to the next room, strip them, tie them to the wall, and prepare them for interrogation. Start without me, I'll be back later. Write down the names and send the men out to capture them immediately. We're in for a long, hard night. Get some drinks and food ready—we'll get to work."
"It shall be done, Great Atrok!" the man slapped his chest with his palm, saluting his mistress, and the door slammed shut.
She froze for a couple of minutes, then stood up and walked to the door. Silena turned her head and asked hoarsely, with bloody lips:
- Untie me! My hands hurt!
"Lie here for a while. So you'll remember how to raise your hand against your mistress. Next time will be your last. Actually, I haven't decided yet—maybe this time will be your last!"
The mother pushed the door open and stepped out into the hallway, nodding to the guard, "Close it!" Then she went into the next room.
Atrok disliked torture; it brought her no aesthetic satisfaction, but what could she do if it was unavoidable? Today, she would have to employ the full arsenal of torture arts to squeeze information out of the rebels. She felt sorry for these people—now they would die in agony, and all because of a little bitch with big ambitions!
She gritted her teeth in frustration—to deprive her of so many fighters, and on the eve of the Great Fight for Power! What a beast, what a bastard!
But there was no time for lamentation—it was time to work. And so she stepped into the stifling atmosphere of the cell, where the conspirators—three low-ranking Atrocs: two men and one woman—were already crucified on the wall like exotic fruits. Some of Shirduan's finest fighters...
* * *
"Come on, give me these... yeah, standard amulets. Not the best, I tell you. Why use ebony here when silver would be better? And this one looks hasty, clumsy. They're rubbish, not amulets. Where did you pick these up? During the attack? Okay, I see. Now we'll pick out a better one and charge it up. And you'll have peace of mind—no demon will ever hang you."
"What if we attach them all to him? Charge all the amulets and attach them?" Amela watched curiously as her grandfather sorted through the bundle of amulets, choosing the right one.
"It won't work. They won't work well. It's a common misconception among beginners—to slap on more amulets and think the protection will be stronger. Nothing of the sort. They interfere with each other. Better one powerful one than several weak ones. That's the rule."
Imar tore himself away from contemplating the objects lying on the table in front of him and looked at Ned, who was thoughtfully tracing some monograms with his finger on the polished tabletop:
"What's wrong with your magic? Has it started to recover?"
"No," Ned said thoughtfully, without interrupting his "highly artistic" occupation. A puddle of spilled brew transformed into eyes, then a face, and then into a strange beast with horns.
"And you don't feel anything at all? At least there's been some progress? If you recovered, it would solve a lot of problems..."
"You think if I recovered, I could hide this fact from you? You can see the aura—look at it. What are we talking about?"
"That's why I'm asking," Imar retorted calmly, pulling a silver medallion in the shape of a frivolous heart from the pile. The kind a bride usually gives to a groom setting off on a long journey. "Did you know your aura has strengthened, glowing more intensely, and has dark blue veins?"
"Really? Hmm... to be honest, I don't feel anything. Everything is still the same. Well, yeah, I don't get nauseous anymore when I try to cast a spell. But... nothing works."
"It will work. I'm sure it will," Senerad said cheerfully, eavesdropping on the conversation. "My method is working, and even faster than I thought. You must be a very powerful mage, that's why the magic is starting to work faster. Just a couple more months, and you'll be great!"
"A couple of them!" Ned almost groaned. "I have to go to the palace tomorrow, and I can't do anything!"
"Well, what can you do now? You can't jump higher than the roof. Everything is gradual. It's okay... Imar will be with you, so everything's fine with magic."
"Why Imar? What for?" Ned was surprised. "Are you really going to come with me? Why would you risk it? No need. And besides, you've already… well, I'll go alone."
"Why didn't you finish?" the old man chuckled. "I'm old, I can stop you, right? Fool! I'm the Great Atroc, even if I'm a former one. I'm the best! It's you who can stop me, not me. Boy!"
"I didn't mean to offend you," Ned stammered. "Well, yes... you're an old man now. It's not your place to be running around at night. You need to sleep at night."
"Youth, youth... and foolishness," said Imar, looking wryly from under his thick white eyebrows. "Without me, your chances are so slim they're nil. Do you know where the entrances to the palace are? Do you know how to get to them underground, through the cave passages? Do you have magic to cast an illusion, if necessary? Then why are you talking nonsense?"
"As for magic, who's stopping me from making an illusion amulet?" Ned shrugged. "By the way, it might come in handy. I mean the eye-catching amulet."
"What do you mean?" Amela asked, eagerly interested. "Like a diverter? Grandpa never told us! And it's not in the books!"
"Yes. You weren't looking hard enough," Imar said reluctantly. "In special books. They're not in plain sight."
"You hid them from us? Why?" Amela pursed her lips in resentment.
- You don't need this yet... At that moment there was no need.
"He means," Ned chuckled, "that if you found information about eye-warding spells and amulets, you wouldn't have been able to resist and would have tried to cast one. And even though he gave you a magic-blocking potion, the magic could still get through, you'd have made an amulet, and... You could steal, you could commit all sorts of mischief, and no one would notice. Incidentally, eye-warding amulets are a great secret among the Shirduan warriors. Ordinary mages know nothing of such spells or the existence of eye-warding amulets.
"Exactly. I haven't heard of such things," Senerad nodded. "I know almost all the spells, but I've never heard of such things until now."
"Grandpa, how could you not trust us?" Amela shook her head reproachfully. "Would I have rushed off to the market to steal wallets? How shameful!"
"Stop it!" Imar said sternly. "This is no joke! Anything concerning the Shirduan organization is no joke! This is one of the most guarded secrets, the very foundation of Shirduan magic! And you were children, you could have started babbling! And all this could have reached the Brotherhood's fighters. I don't know how they would have reacted. At the very least, your aunt would have come to me and started scolding me for the poor way I've raised her children and niece! These spells are only unlocked for Atrocs after they've risen in status. After tests. If it weren't for these spells, the Brotherhood would have had a very, very hard time doing what they do..."
"Can they be dispelled? Is it possible to find out if someone is hiding under a spell of distraction?" Amela interrupted him. "Oh, sorry, Grandpa... Go on."
"Thank you for allowing me," Imar replied calmly. "It can be dispelled; there's a spell for that. But you have to know someone's here. You can't just stand there and constantly shout a dispel spell. Besides, the sight-difference spell prevents you from walking through walls. Once you lock the door, that's it. They won't get in until they have the key, or destroy the lock with another spell. Or they can just force it open."
- And how does this spell work?
"Someone looks at you and doesn't see you. Their eye doesn't lock onto you. Or, if someone uses a spell and breaks into your house, you get the feeling there's someone in the room, but you turn your head—and there's no one there. That's how this spell works."
"How do you turn on the amulet? The warding one? And how long does it last?"
"About an hour. So, Ned, you'll have an hour to get in and do everything. And leave. And also—the radius of the circle within which you're invisible is thirty paces. Anyone further away will see you, as if there was no spell! But you know that. I keep forgetting..."
– How about making several amulets? And let him turn them on. Why not several?
"I don't know," Imar admitted honestly. "Magic is such a thing that no one understands it yet. We're stupid animals who know: if you do this and that, this and that will happen. Nothing more. All the spells we know were developed through experimentation, by experimental mages. And by the way, magical science has been stagnating for a long time. No one wants to experiment, no one wants to develop new spells."
"Why, Grandpa?" Isa asked eagerly. "Why don't they want to? It's so interesting!"
"And it's dangerous. Your research could produce unpredictable results. Moreover, experimentation is prohibited in large cities. If you want to experiment, go to a secluded place, live in a cave somewhere, and proceed at your own risk."
- Why is that? Why were they driven into the desert?
"The last experimenter, after whom the mages made this decision, destroyed an entire city. Dazil. Forty thousand people lived there. All that remained was a crater filled with water. Lake Dazil."
"Phew! Wow! That must have been a fine spell," Amela breathed, her eyes shining. "Wait! How did you know he did it? If only one crater remained?"
"After some powerful spell is cast, remnants of the aura of the caster hang in the air above this place for a while. With sufficient skill, knowledge, and magical power, you can strengthen these remnants and identify the caster. A magical aura is strictly individual and unique. It's possible to counterfeit it, but difficult. At least, I haven't heard of such cases, though I've heard rumors of it. An aura can be hidden, suppressed—if you know how. But changing it is practically impossible. So, they figured out who did all this. After that incident, they banned experiments in populated areas. And now think about it: you, knowing that these experiments are mortally dangerous, have to go to a deserted place, deprived of comfort and human contact. Will you do that? Without the certainty that you'll get the desired result, after sitting in a cave for several years.
"Then what's the point? So he found a new spell, so what? Why would he need it?" Harald asked, polishing the blade of his sword. "And what good is a spell after such torment? Who needs it? To keep a name in memory?"
"And that's not bad," Senerad interjected. "May I, Imar, allow me? I'll explain. Well, firstly, the experimenter's name will live on for centuries. And secondly, and most importantly, for a new, effective spell, the agara mages will pay him so much money that he'll live comfortably for the rest of his life! I've heard how much they've paid for a new spell—sums starting at a hundred thousand gold! What do you think, is the game worth the burnt oil of a lantern?"
"What do you mean by 'useful'?" What if the mages decide it's not useful?
"It's useful—either for combat, or healing, or affecting natural phenomena. The same illusion spell—there are some really, really funny ones. Want me to show you? Let me remember… I used to love to impress girls with it. It seems like nothing special, but they just melt away and flop into bed, like they've been cut down..."
Amela snorted indignantly, and the boys laughed joyfully, putting down the swords that they had been melancholically sharpening while sitting on the sofa.
Ned smiled—he knew. Imar knew what they were talking about, too, but he shook his head reproachfully.
Senerad began to chant a spell, making complex hand gestures, and suddenly the room was transformed: a starry sky appeared above, and in the soft light coming from nowhere, a multitude of sparkling butterflies appeared - they were huge, more than two palms in size.
Suddenly, the observers saw – these weren't butterflies! These were people – men and women, with rainbow wings slung from their backs! The tiny figures began to dance in the air, fluttering and curling in tight embraces. The music was mesmerizing, quiet, yet penetrating to the very heart, evoking… evoking a rush of blood where it needed to be. And Ned longingly recalled Sanda, her body… her embrace, her velvety skin… and the couples continued to swirl, and if you looked closely, you could see that the creatures were naked, and they weren't just dancing, but…
"Enough!" Imar's voice broke into the obsession. "We've just had a look, and that's enough! You're too young to watch such atrocities."
The old man destroyed the illusion with a few words, and the evening twilight, receding near the oil lanterns, reigned in the room again.
"You're a powerful mage, my friend Senerad," Imar remarked respectfully. "I don't remember such a high-quality and skillful Butterfly illusion. And such a long one."
"It is what it is," Senerad nodded. "In principle, I could have taken a worthy place in the agar of mages, but... fate decreed otherwise. I chased money, easy money, got caught up in intrigue, and this is the result. Over ten years in a backwater village as a village healer. Oh well, when Ned takes the place befitting his art, I'll be there. In the new agar of demonologists. I'll be his advisor. He won't forget the old healer; he won't let him starve, right, Ned?"
"Hmm... I won't forget, of course," Ned replied, slightly confused, still under the spell of the beautiful illusion. It was one thing to KNOW what it was like to look at Yuragor's memories, but quite another to actually see it with your own eyes. And it was wonderful! And exciting...
"Wow! Wow!" the boys began to babble. "It's clear why girls rush straight to bed! Bug, you didn't just get the urge—"
"Hey, hey!" Imar barked menacingly, his eyes shining with laughter. "Observe some decorum! In front of a girl, in front of adults! Now, stop it!"
"And what about us?.. We're okay," Isa shrugged and asked sarcastically, "Why are you standing there frozen like a statue? Are you choosing a bed partner? Ouch! You idiot! What are you fighting about?! Aaah! Grandpa, grandpa! She attacked me! Insect, you'll tear off my ear… aaah! Ear! Ear! You idiot, it's going to swell up now! What a vicious little bugger, what a snake!"
"You shouldn't have teased her," Imar chuckled, watching Amela torment Isa. "Alright, leave him alone. And you think about what you're saying. Or I'll add to it. Okay, calm down. Thank Mr. Senerad for demonstrating his magnificent skill. This spell is called 'Butterflies,' and who invented it is unknown. It comes from the depths of time. It's one of the means for increasing male potency. However, it works on women too... quite well."
"Not bad," Senerad remarked sarcastically, laughing joyfully and hooting like a forest bird. Imar echoed him, clearly remembering something from his youth.
Ned's memory swam with more prosaic images—the amusements of the Northern Ispas, usually group gatherings, under this spell. And these amusements weren't always bloodless. Sometimes Ned began to think that it wasn't for nothing that the Northern Ispas ceased to exist. There was a certain natural justice to it. A society founded on Evil shouldn't exist. The Southern Ispas, for all its similarities, was less an organization of Evil than a commercial enterprise, pursuing power and money. And in this respect, it was no different from its legal counterparts. The Northern Ispas, like other destroyed Ispas, had a discernible ideological component—the cult of a goddess named Death, placed at the forefront of ideology, and, as a consequence, irrational cruelty. There was plenty of cruelty in the Southern Ispas, but it was different. Of course, it is possible that over the course of hundreds of years, the Southern Ispas simply degenerated into a commercial organization of murderers and underground intriguers, but most likely the foundations of this ideology were laid precisely then, at the time when the Southern committed the Great Betrayal, remaining the only Ispas.
"Everyone. Calm down! Let's now decide on a plan for tomorrow," Imar commanded. "I propose we begin the operation at midnight. By the time we reach the palace, it will be around two in the morning—the deadest hour. We'll get up and..."
"Wait!" Amela interrupted. "Tell me, Grandfather, and you, Ned. Has it ever occurred to you that the prince might actually be a decent man? That he's innocent of being born into this family and becoming a hostage to circumstances? That he doesn't actually want to die? Why are you deciding his fate like gods?"
Imar froze like a statue, seemingly extinguished. Ned looked down at the tabletop—he'd had these same thoughts more than once. And he couldn't find an answer, except one: "It's what's best for me, so I'll do it!" And Amelie had no answer.
"Shut up and don't bother me, you boor!" Harald growled. "Don't bother Grandpa! Grandpa, talk, don't pay attention to the fool."
"So, by two o'clock in the morning we will reach the entrance to the palace, the underground entrance," Imar continued as if nothing had happened, and the conspirators began to make further plans.