The boy fell to his knees, but not because he wanted to submit to the enemy—his legs were giving out. Lying for so long under the influence of a sleeping potion was no different from drinking a mug of beer. He glared at the laughing healer, tears of hurt, anger, and fury glistening in his eyes. The prince realized how ridiculous he looked with his improvised club, going into battle against two Brotherhood masters, and this upset him even more.
Ned looked at Bordonard and didn't laugh. He stood up, walked two steps towards the prince, and asked sympathetically:
– How are you? Can you talk? Are you feeling okay?
"Are you kidding me? How do I feel if I'm wearing pee-soaked pants, my arms and legs are barely moving, and I can't do anything to smash your head in?"
"Boy," Imar interjected, "you're an educated man, a prince of the blood! Why are you acting like a street urchin? Instead of talking to people, finding out what they want from you, trying to negotiate, you insult them. After all, by listening, you could come to some kind of agreement. Don't you have the brains to understand that? By listening, you could find out why you were kidnapped, for example. And you call strangers such foul names, two of whom are several times your age, people who could kill you with a single click! I'm beginning to think you really are a fool, as we were told. And this fool is very different from that boy who almost fooled us, almost defeated us, despite our vast experience and abilities unavailable to many. So, stop being hysterical and let's talk! As for your pants—the body has its own needs, regardless of whether a person is asleep or not. And there's nothing shameful about it. No one wanted to make fun of you. Honestly, no one cared about you at all, even though you think you're the center of the universe. There's a bathtub over there in that room. Cold water comes out of the pipe if you open the valve. Sorry, we didn't have time to warm you up with hot water before you woke up. But you're a man, so it wouldn't be a tragedy for you to rinse off with cold water. I'll give you my pants now, a fresh shirt, we'll pour you some tea, give you something to eat, we'll sit and talk, okay?
"Okay," the prince said through gritted teeth.
"Well done! Well done! Oh, and by the way, the toilet's right there, in the bathroom, you turn on the water and flush. And there are no windows. If you're planning on running, it's best to do it after you wash your butt, otherwise you'll look ridiculous. And besides, you have nowhere to run. The palace has been captured."
"By whom?" the prince asked in surprise.
"You'll find out. Go wash yourself," Imar chuckled.
* * *
– Sit here. I hope you don't need to put away the forks and knives? Will you be a good boy? Promise?
"I don't promise!" the prince replied defiantly, adjusting the collar of the stranger's shirt.
"Well, at least it's fair. But I have to warn you: if you start acting up, I'll break your finger. Any finger. My choice. Or maybe even both. Senerad will fix it later, heal it, but only after two hours, so it can swell up properly, so it suffers. Do you need that? I don't think so. Sit down and be a smart boy. And you really are smart—you write treatises. What treatise did you write? What didn't you finish?"
"About the history of magic," the prince said reluctantly and wearily.
"Did you learn about the Shirduan organization in the library? Or did someone tell you? Silena, for example..."
"What does Silena have to do with this?!" the prince exploded, furious, his eyes flashing. "Don't touch her with your filthy paws! Murderers! Vile fanatics! You don't know her! You're not worth a fingernail!"
- Ooh... wow... and the boy's completely in love with the girl! Did you see what's going on, Ned? I wonder if they gave him a potion or if he just got that way himself? Sit down, boy... We know Silena inside and out. And her mother too. She, Silena, is my granddaughter. And her mother, of course, is my daughter.
Stunned, wide-eyed, bitten lip—the prince's face showed all the signs of mental turmoil. His eyes darted from one gloomy face to another, and then a protest followed:
"I don't believe it! I don't believe you! Shirduan's fighters can say whatever they want. You can't be trusted! She's a pure, innocent girl! And you're scoundrels!"
"Oh, my gods! I thought he was smarter than that. Ned, you should have just chopped his head off. I can't stand fools. Innocent, you say? You're going to learn a lot, things that will change your whole worldview. Get ready for a long story, boy. We have the whole night ahead, and we need to decide what to do with you. The easiest thing for us is to kill you. But we decided to talk to you. So, listen..."
* * *
How long did the story last? An hour and a half? Two? More? No one timed it. But when Imar finished telling his story, the prince was crushed, simply devastated by the information he'd received.
Who is he now? An outcast, cut off not only from the throne but also from all sources of income. The prince regularly received his allowance from the palace office and had no idea how to earn it.
It was a given that he would ascend the throne, and... and now comes the fun part – he would engage in scientific research! Leaving the reins of government to his future wife...
Did he truly believe that Silena had been sent to him by the powerful Brotherhood? It's unknown. At least, he pretended to believe it. And in this whole story, after Silena's betrayal, one fact upset him most: the impending destruction of the magnificent, the finest royal library in the land. According to him, it was a true pearl of wisdom, containing knowledge accumulated over thousands of years.
Ned himself was worried about this. What could he say to the prince's accusations of savagery and ignorance? Only what he'd told the mages in Agar: human life was more precious. And he wasn't going to send soldiers to their deaths to save the library.
It seemed to Ned that the prince had finally believed the plot against the heir to the throne—no matter how otherworldly he might be, palace intrigues had been ingrained in his soul forever, passed down through his blood from his father and mother. Everything in the described scheme was logical and well-thought-out, so… Bordonar's fate was unenviable.
And the question immediately arose: were these very same kidnappers his saviors? After all, if everything had gone as planned, he would likely have lost his head soon after. After sleeping with a forty-year-old woman...
The thought that he'd almost been married to some "granny," making a fool of himself, left Bordonar utterly despondent. He was, after all, vain and dreamed of becoming famous for centuries. Not through exploits on the battlefield or accomplishments in politics or business, but through scientific discoveries, becoming one of the pillars of the country's scientific thought.
"So, what do you want us to do with you?" Imar asked wearily, turning away from the table and looking out the window. It was pitch-black outside, the dark moon had long since dominated the sky, and the red one was sinking toward the horizon, ready to disappear before dawn into the halls of the gods that illuminated the world at night. Only a few hours remained until morning, and they needed at least a couple of hours of sleep—tomorrow… or rather, today would be a difficult day.
"I don't know," the prince said, confused. "Yes, it's easier for you to kill me. But… I don't know what argument to make in my defense, how to convince you that I should live. I really want to see what happens next? To travel the world, to see how people live on other continents… That's why I didn't want to rule the country. It's the most boring thing! Let the women do that, but I… there are so many much more interesting things."
"You'll have a chance to travel," Ned said, smiling involuntarily. "I'm leaving soon and I can't leave you here. I need to either kill you or take you with me. What do you choose?"
"What a stupid question!" the prince snorted. "Did you think I'd say 'I choose death'? Do I really look like an idiot? I take it you're going in search of an antidote to the kaldrana? To the Ards, in the north?"
"Why the Ards? Why go north for an antidote?" Ned asked, surprised. "Perhaps I have other business up north! Hmm... why did you say north? Why the Ards? What, they have an antidote for Kaldrana?"
Ned's sleep vanished. The blood rushed to his face—did the boy really know where to get an antidote?
"Well, why not? If anyone knows about this potion, it's the Ardians, and no one else among the peoples we know, that's for sure. And don't you know? The dragons survived in the north, in the cold seas. Here they were all wiped out—true, and it was a different subspecies, or rather, a different people, because dragons are intelligent. But over there..."
"It's getting worse!" Imar snapped. "Are dragons intelligent? These flying lizards? Are you crazy?"
"No, I haven't!" the boy snorted. "If you're ignorant on the matter, then listen to someone who does, someone who has studied the subject. Dragons are one of the few magical creatures alive in this world. They were hunted to extinction on our continent—for their beautiful scales, for the poison used to make caldrana, for their musk glands, needed to produce the most expensive and long-lasting incense. But the northern peoples preserved the dragons. They live on the edge of the ice, near the Ards, and even, according to unconfirmed rumors, trade goods with them. So there you have it! And you're the one who's 'crazy'! Who else is crazy? I'm telling you, I'm writing a treatise on magic, and dragons occupy a special place in it, an entire chapter.
"I don't understand how people managed to kill such creatures—dragons fly so high! Arrows can't pierce their scales, they only scratch them. They're as tall as a house! A dragon can take a man in one bite! And how can humans, these little gnats, kill such giants?" Ned raised his eyebrows and traced a line with his finger across the tabletop.
"They can," Bordonar explained with a sigh. "I've read about how it was done. They look for a dragon's nesting site—the place where it laid its eggs or where the little dragonets were left. And then... they take a huge, powerful crossbow, often more than one, and strike as it approaches. The main thing is to damage its wing so it can't fly away. And then it's a matter of technique. There are many ways... The profession of dragon hunter was very difficult and dangerous; hunters often died from missing their targets. Either the dragon spotted them in time, or the huge crossbow arrow didn't kill the dragon outright, and then it tore apart its attackers, burning them with its flames, which could melt rock. But the results of the hunt could also be astounding—the person could provide for themselves and their descendants, living as they wished. Dragon body parts are VERY valuable..."
* * *
"Get up, Ned!" Someone lightly touched his shoulder, and the sergeant shot out of bed as if he'd been thrown into the air by a spell. He'd been wide awake.
Imar stood before him. He was as serious as ever:
"Get dressed. It's already dawn. We need to go to the agara. They're supposed to gather at dawn, if you remember."
"I remember, oddly enough," Ned muttered, regretfully recalling the vivid images of his dreams. He'd long noticed that if you were suddenly awakened in the middle of a dream, the images were easily remembered, but if you woke up yourself, the dream would flee, lost in the dark recesses of the brain. Sometimes, however, these escaped dreams would suddenly be recalled in the middle of the day and seem like a warning. In such cases, it's said that the god of sleep thus warns a person of impending troubles. However, this is an empty superstition. If trouble is destined to visit a person, it will come into their life, despite all precautions.
Ned performed a few exercises to dispel sleep and energize his body, sipped some warm herbal tea that had been sitting on the hot hearth overnight and still warm, popped a slice of smoked meat and a flatbread into his mouth, and, shivering from the morning freshness, stepped out onto the porch of the healer's house. The sun hadn't yet broken the horizon, but its life-giving rays had already tinted the night clouds, hurrying to follow the darkness, fearing that the sun's hot hands would evaporate their fluffy bodies.
"So, are you ready for great things?" Imar asked, standing next to her, fresh as a morning flower, covered in dew.
Ned looked at his comrade with displeasure and muttered, trying to hold back a yawn:
"You look like you've been sleeping all night, and for a week before that. How do you stay so alert? I feel terrible, I want to kill someone for waking me up so early!"
"As for 'killing'—you'll definitely get that chance today," Imar chuckled. "As for staying energetic—I know how to conserve my strength, save it, while you scatter it in all directions, generously and thoughtlessly. And also—you're growing, your body is growing and requires increased nutrition and plenty of sleep. After all, children grow in their sleep... And besides, I took a tincture that boosts energy and dispels sleep," the old man chuckled.
"That's where you should have started," Ned grinned, too. "Otherwise: 'I know how to save... You're throwing things away... You're all children...'"
"No, what did you expect? That I'd reveal old man's secrets? I'm supposed to look wise and insightful, unlike you young chatterboxes and braggarts! Come on, my hope, Zamara!"
"Oh, come on!" Ned snorted. "What kind of 'Zamara's hope' am I?! What nonsense are you talking? I just want to survive and settle down with my beloved wife in the quiet estate Heverad promised me. Raise flowers and children, sit with Tiraz in the evenings under the grapes and discuss the art of vine cultivation and the tactics of blocking the 'Swallow Falls from the Sky' attack. I don't need anything else, honestly."
Imar fell silent, and they descended the steps, accompanied by Senerad's grumbling, forced to lock the door behind them so early in the morning, and walked along the stone pavement. Suddenly, Imar said:
- It's unlikely that you'll succeed.
"Unlikely what?" Ned asked, preoccupied with thoughts of the upcoming battle and having completely forgotten what they had been talking about a minute ago.
"It's unlikely you'll be able to live peacefully somewhere on the sidelines, detached from politics, from the life of the country, from state affairs. It's too late. Now everyone knows who you are. And what you can do. And they'll try to win you over to their side. And if you don't want to go over to their side, they'll do everything to harm you. They'll cut down your vineyard, burn your house, attack your friends. And once again you'll have to fight back, seek revenge, pacify, and mete out justice."
"Is this a prediction?" Ned asked warily. "I knew a fortune teller once, she told me... True, it all came true. But it's good that I realized it at the right moment, remembered, otherwise it would have been a disaster."
"Consider it a prophecy," the old man replied without a smile, "or so you might call it. It's really my experience, combined with my wisdom and knowledge of people. And you yourself know I'm right. If you search your soul, you'll understand that this is exactly how it is. You know it even better than I do. Your destiny is to rise to the top. To be a leader. No cottages, no vineyards, no quiet life. That's how it is..."
Ned remained silent, and they continued walking in silence.
When they approached the agara building, they saw a crowd of mages standing there—at least two hundred. They were chattering like a flock of birds at a garbage dump, but upon seeing Ned, they fell silent, as if crushed by a dusty sack, and began to examine the troublemaker, Ned the Black.
Some looked at them with hostility, some with kindness, some with calm indifference, but everyone could not hide their curiosity - what would this young man do, who had suddenly burst into their lives?
Zaragor emerged from the crowd, recognizable by his scarlet robe and the enormous medallion around his neck that symbolized his authority among the mages. The head of the agara approached Ned, and it was clear that Zaragor was trying to be as respectful and considerate as possible with this dangerous young man. For some reason, this amused Imar, and he snorted, coughed to hide his laughter, then straightened up again, his face flushed with the effort.
"Mr. War Council Representative! The mage squad is ready for battle! Composition: forty black mages and one hundred and sixty white mages. All the most powerful mages. We didn't take the rest—there was no point. Too many would only get in the way. These are enough to level a couple of good-sized mountains. And this palace—that's nothing! The main objective is not to destroy the entire city. Besides, there aren't any more black mages. They've all been rounded up," Zaragor chuckled.
"Very well, Master Mage, thank you," Ned replied, glancing angrily at his older companion.
He raised his eyebrows guiltily, as if to say, "Well, I couldn't help myself! What's wrong now... it's my fault!"—and Ned focused again on the head of the agara.
"How are the mages feeling?" he asked quietly, glancing at the crowd.
"Anything," Zaragor answered evasively, lowering his eyes. "If you're asking whether they staged a rebellion, no, they didn't. And they won't. But they can do mischief. We didn't take those who were categorically against unification with the state into the squad. Here, only those who support the idea of unification, or those who don't care about it, have been ordered—so they must go. It's clear that if a hostile mage hits the Arrow, he could disrupt the harmony of the system, and the results will be unpredictable."
"Good. Then form a squad and move toward the palace square. Wait! The chief of the guard is running."
"Mr. Representative! We've been ordered to escort a detachment of mages to the location!" The city guard colonel gasped, sweat pouring down his plump face. "We're at your disposal until you release us! This is an order from the military council! I await your instructions!"
"Cordon off the mage squad," Ned commanded sternly, "don't let anyone near them. Make sure nothing happens to them. And... don't let anyone out of line. Carry out the order!"
"Convoy?" Zaragor grinned wryly. "Well, I understand. And I don't judge. We'll have to learn to cooperate and trust each other."
"It's good that you understand," Ned said thoughtfully, looking at Zaragor with a fixed gaze, and it seemed to Zaragor that the fires of the Underworld flared in the demonologist's eyes. Zaragor involuntarily shuddered and, turning, hurried toward the nervous mages, who were surrounded by a regiment of guards.
"You're becoming popular in the country, don't you think?" Imar chuckled. "To strike such fear into a mage... to command a colonel as if it were a piece of cake—what did I tell you about rising?"
"I don't know what's happening to me," Ned admitted sullenly. "Yuragor is becoming more and more ingrained in my brain. He and I are already inseparable. I don't know whose thoughts come to me—his or mine. I'm talking to myself in my head: I seem to respond to his words, and then I realize I'm talking entirely to myself. What's happening to me, Imar? Am I going crazy?"
"I think you're just coming to your senses!" the old atroc smiled into his lush beard.