sighed, expecting to fill her lungs with the black miasma of sickness, but the air was fresh. She noticed the admiration that flashed in his eyes for a moment. The golden curls streaming from beneath his gray hood seemed almost white. His eyebrows and eyelashes were silver in the bright daylight, and he himself would have seemed almost translucent had it not been for the ulcers in his shimmering skin. For one more moment he looked at her. Just a moment, but sometimes one look meant more than a physical connection. If they had been in the same bed together, she would not have felt closer to him than she did now. He truly admired her, far more than an ordinary mortal queen, even more than the one who had once long ago led him into that first heavenly battle.
Rhianon wanted to say something, or at least address him mentally with words of appreciation, but her lips would not listen. Consciousness, too, seemed for a moment to be shackled. But the angel was in control of himself. He knew he had to go. There was a moment of perfect understanding between them, and then he suddenly put his ulcerous hand to his chest, to the very place where people’s hearts beat. But he had no heart, only a lump of worms, not muscle. Rhianon shuddered at the thought of what his chest might be filled with. What did he want to show her with it? Could he feel toward her what Madael felt? The leper’s hand froze motionless at her heart, and then the angel slowly bowed to her. It was to her, not to the king. Rhianon clutched at the armrests of the throne. She watched as the majestic gray figure bowed before her, the bumps of hidden wings curving on his back, the silky curls sliding downward peeking out from beneath the hood. How angels are like girls after all, for all their masculinity. Rhianon was captivated by the combination. Everyone in the room shuddered with fear, while she watched with admiration how beautifully the long angelic lashes curved over the festering skin, how proportionate and regular the firm lines of the lips, how exquisitely the long girlish strands slid over the flat man’s chest. He is an angel, as is Madael, beyond a doubt. He would be as handsome as Madael if it were not for his imperfections. Na could have been with him, as she was with Madeel, if it had been safe. But she was a little afraid of his sores and despised herself for her fear. She must have caught her slight squeamishness, so he hurried away. His bow, however, will long be remembered by all.
His footsteps were still in the darkened doorway, and there was already an astonished and enthusiastic whisper in the hall.
«It was death itself – death bowed to the queen.»
Rhianon listened to this in half an ear. It wasn’t that she wasn’t interested in what was being said, but she was much more fascinated by other things. She wanted to catch the faint sound of his wings and the unimportant words in the distance:
«If you need me, just call.»
Would he keep his promise? Grave worms crawled across the floor where he stood. They died before they could crawl an inch or two, and if he’d wanted them to, they would have crawled into every inch of the throne room. Rhianon waited in vain for another sign from him, another confirmation of his promise. Instead, the spirit’s unsolicited words came to mind: dear, not all men give up their vows so easily. Yes, not all men do. She looked reluctantly at Ferdinand. The gossip that death had bowed to the queen was no longer too preoccupying. She was glad to hear that she was already being called queen.
«So you must be queen after all,» the spirit whispered playfully behind her back. Rhianon ignored his remark and smiled smugly. Perhaps someday she would be able to control him as well, but for now it was time to think about the great things. Was Vinor really better than Loretta? Could she replace one with the other? Queen of Vinor! However, one kingdom is not enough. It would be much more convenient to become queen of Vinor and have Loretta for that as well. She was quite willing to do that.
Queen of Vinor
«I sense something is not right,» Arnaud looked out to sea. He could hear the voices of the faeries in the sound of the surf. They merged with the melody of his harp and almost overlapped it. But the strings still twitched softly, as if they were the strings of his soul. He no longer had a soul, only a body. And that was almost immortal.
He glanced at Madael, leaning indifferently on his sword. The Angel stared blankly at the bloodied blade, and it was unclear which was more coldly glistening, the polished steel, or his blue eyes. Not long ago they had been blue. At the sight of them, Arnaud sighed involuntarily. His master was changing. And it was not for the better.
«He has become even more soulless than then in the war in heaven,» his conscience whispered to him, as well as his soul deeply buried between the harp strings, but Arnaud brushed the intrusive voices aside. He had long ago grown accustomed to ignore them.
The lord’s eyes, after all, are even more suited to the cold color of steel than the blue of the sky. The blade of his sword, by the way, quickly absorbed the blood he’d spilled and turned as blue as his eyes. He’d spilled a lot of blood today, but the sword needed more. It was forged that way. His blade was eternally hungry for blood, for bloodshed. An ocean of blood could be spilled, and it would not rest. As long as there was a shred of flesh on earth, it would seek it out to slay it. The devil’s weapon is indestructible, and only his strong arm can restrain such a sword. Madael, playing with it, handled it, and another angel would not have been able to. And after that, isn’t he the strongest. Arnaud looked almost with admiration at the winged figure in the purple cloak. For a moment he even forgot that his master was also his rival. Only he didn’t know it himself. He has no idea. He’s too self-assured to see that some insignificant insect has a claim on his property.
Except now someone else was claiming it. Arnaud bit his lips bloody in excitement. He could feel it. And he was panicking. It was as if his heart was being ripped out of him, though there was none left in his chest. The trickle of blood running down his lips suddenly became a living worm, which he swept away and crushed.
Though the harp strings were almost silenced, his conscience still pricked him. He should have been grateful to fate. The lowly degenerate had become a servant of the highest lord there could be. He enjoyed serving Madael. Of course, over the days and especially the nights, he had seen many disgusting scenes. Wars, massacres, attacks, the dismemberment of corpses, and the bloody feasts that followed… It would have turned the stomach of a mortal being inside out by now. But Arnaud felt nothing but stony emptiness inside his body. Perhaps there was nothing left inside him. The ritual he had performed was intended to do just that. Only this time the consequences were unexpected. He was changing, but not the way he should have. The change in him would have startled everyone but Madael. He was, as always, terrifyingly calm and completely unconcerned. He had nothing to be sorry about. He had already lost everything.
Arnaud looked at him, and then squinted painfully. It felt as if he was looking at the melting sun from a short distance away. His eyes were about to melt from the sight, too. But perhaps it would be worth it. His new master was incredibly, indescribably handsome. You could fall in love with him, even knowing who he was. Only Arnaud didn’t have to worry about himself. He could not fear that feeling for the fallen angel would enslave him. It was just that he knew the counterpart… a copy of the devil lived in the mortal world. And unless he was wrong, she was going to marry a mortal king.
«She betrayed,» Arnaud’s own voice seemed foreign and distant. Even the sound of the surf was closer to his throat than those words.
Madael turned toward him, brushed a disobedient strand from his face with his thin fingers. In an instant, more bloody scenes flashed across his eyes than Arnaud had seen in all the nights they’d been together on the battlefields. The angel was marching forward with his sword, leading companies of demons to carnage, while the wretched Harper was crouching behind him, thanking fate that his body was immune to spears and arrows. Otherwise he himself would already be dead
