style="font-size:15px;"> The lock on the door was strong. Rebecca opened it with a key from a large bundle she carried with her. Behind the door, however, it was so luxurious that Brendan dismissed the notion of a dungeon. The silk-covered walls, the paintings on the ceilings, and the abundance of upholstered furniture created aristocratic comfort. The bed under a lush canopy was the size of an entire tent, and there were vases of flowers on the cherry wood tables. A tray of supper was already waiting here. He wondered who had brought it. Brendan did not notice the servants. They must have learned to sneak around like shadows. With Rebecca’s nervousness, it was no wonder they’d been trained that way.
Who would have thought that a wandering minstrel would be treated like a nobleman? Something’s not right after all. Either they suspected he wasn’t who he said he was. Or his uncle has sent out messengers with news that he’s wanted. He must be on his guard. Brendan locked the door with a latch and prepared in advance a rope from a torn sheet to escape through the window in case of capture. It was very high up here, but there were bushes of vines twisting below the tower. Their vines braided the window vault. It was a pity they were not so strong that they could be climbed down at once.
Brendan’s entire dinner consisted of fruit. Not a crust of bread. He wasn’t used to this kind of diet, but it was better than nothing. A pitcher of fine ale supplemented his diet. The ale was unaccustomedly strong. The first sip made him insufferably sleepy. Brendan hoped he might dream again about the blonde called Rashelina.
Prisoner’s Dream
The vines whispered something and reached out to choke him, like living snakes or dryad hands. Brendan now understood the warning of the whisper that hovered over the fields. The whispers might be a warning to the vines coming to life. They were whispering about his fate.
«Would he survive, would he not survive? Will he love – will he not love?»
Their whispering was like a little counting rhyme.
«Would the same thing happen to him that happened to everyone else? Or was he the only one who would make it?»
«He looked like a smart guy!»
Brendan fluttered his eyelids open sleepily. Could the vines really be whispering, zigzagging above his bed? He was dreaming! He’d have to be out of his mind to believe they were reaching out the window like living hands.
«Look! He’s got a handkerchief with the King’s crest on it!»
«He must have stolen it!»
The voices were still whispering, and the tip of the grapevine slid down his neck. Brendan pushed it away with his hand and sat down. When he had entered this bedroom, the vines had only hung around the high arched window, but now they lay imposingly across the rug and even draped a border around the bottom of the four-poster. What the devil is this? Or had he not looked carefully the first time?
To one of the vines was indeed clung his new handkerchief, with an Aluar’s crown embroidered in the corner. It was a gift from his uncle! He certainly hadn’t stolen it. But could one of the mischievous vines have stolen it right out of his pocket?
It’s worth a walk. There’s something wrong with this room. Perhaps insidious Rebecca had deliberately put him in a haunted tower. Everything is to be expected of that proud girl. Unlike the princess, she doesn’t like visitors. Perhaps that’s why the castle is so quiet and there are no servants to be seen at all. Rebecca has driven everyone out of here. But he can’t be handled that easily. He was used to his uncle’s mentoring, he would get used to Rebecca’s whims.
Brendan was sure the door was locked from the outside, but he was wrong. It gave way easily. He strode down the empty corridors of the castle. All the rooms looked uninhabitable, but luxurious. There was lots of feline molding all around. But the cats themselves were nowhere to be seen.
Brendan touched the gilded symbols embossed on the walls and columns. The patterns are amusing, as if a wizard had painted the marble with witchcraft symbols. It’s definitely an imitation of magical writings! It was well done. Even Ephigenia couldn’t do it. And it also glows in the dark!
His fingers ached to touch the murals and his eyes felt as if a sheath had been taken off his eyes. Brendan only now noticed the hideous, deep scratches on the furniture, the sculptures, and even the walls. They certainly weren’t cat’s claw’s prints. They were more like tiger’s or a cheetah’s. Or maybe they were something bigger. Suddenly the dreadful legends of woodland werewolves sprang to mind.
Brendan felt sick to his stomach. But why should he be so nervous? It was a field, not a wilderness. But in those fields he had encountered more evil creatures than he could count in hell, much less in the woods. What if one of those things got into the palace?
«Hey! Somebody! Help me!» A desperate voice came from somewhere on the lower floors. It was barely audible, but Brendan broke out in a cold sweat.
A trellis just caught his eye, completely torn apart by someone’s claws. And on the mantel screen he could see the furrows from five large claws.
«Where are you?» Brendan climbed down the stairs, trying to determine which side the voice was coming from.
«Go this way! Quick! It is before they come back!»
The voice was clearer now. How much anguish there was in it! It was as if the unfortunate man had been tortured.
Brendan had seen the executions of traitors and rebels in Aluar, but he had never heard such despair in anyone’s voice.
Trying to find the victim, he went deep into the cellars. It was damp and cold. Cobwebs laced the walls. Instead of the customary cellars with wine and food supplies, there were cells with bars. The floor was flooded. Clamps bolted to the walls where chains had been fastened. Where had he gone?! Maybe he should turn back, but Brendan heard another call for help. How could he not help? No good fellow would leave a man in trouble. And Brendan was very kindhearted. This time it was on his own head. Because the prisoner discovered in the dungeon was definitely insane.
At any rate, his eyes gleamed madly in his pale, feverish face. His neck was crushed by an iron collar from a chain embedded in the wall. That’s the kind they usually put on crazy people. Brendan would have turned back if he hadn’t noticed the deep scratches from the paws of an unknown animal on the prisoner’s body. The same scratches as on the walls upstairs!
«Who are you?» Brendan came up to the bars. «I’m from Aluar myself, and…»
«It doesn’t matter who you are! It doesn’t matter who I am! We’ve got to get out of here…»
If it hadn’t been for the bars separating them, the mad prisoner would have clung to Brendan’s collar.
«Come on, let’s go!»
«But how could we escape?» Brendan was taken aback. «Where are the keys to your um… fetters?»
It was as if the prisoner only now realized that he was shackled and frustrated.
«That’s right. You are the only one who can escape. Run to Aluar! Get help! Tell them it’s urgent! I’m the ambassador from there myself.»
«I never saw you there,» Brendan said, scrutinizing the pale face as if he did not recognize the
