statue in the glow of a flame that was already blazing over the mountains in the sky.
«Would you have any mortal follow my fate? Better that one of the most beautiful of mortals should die than that thousands should be burned alive? Wouldn’t you?»
Arnaud didn’t know what to say. He had to agree, but suddenly he remembered the tower, and the reflection of the candles in the golden curls and the sound of her enchanting music. Maybe it was better to let thousands perish, and let the angel’s voice singing of love remain in eternity. But it was too late to change his mind. Flames were already erupting over the valley, turning the previously blooming terrain into a steaming inferno. Madeel was gone, and the dragons were in flight.
Escape from Fate
Winning again! The dice fell again for luck. And this was not the first dozen times it had come out. Superior points had fallen regularly since she’d sat down at the gaming table, as if someone had cast a spell on the dice. As long as none of the partners accused her of cheating, because she was not cheating at all, she was just incredibly, amazingly lucky. Rhianon pulled her beret down over her forehead to hide the strands of golden hair that fell out of the bun. No one should doubt that she was just a cheeky, pretty boy, a page or a gamekeeper who’d escaped from her lord for the evening to try his luck at the first pub and have a drink. It is only a pity she had a face too delicate and girlishly beautiful for a boy. She must not be recognized. She will never come back. When she is missed the noble lady must disappear, leaving only the young man, who travels light and wins unusually often.
One of the players slammed his fist on the table in frustration. He had already lost all his money. A mountain of copper change was growing on the table in front of Rhianon, a few gold coins even jingled under her hands. It was all her winnings.
It was another game of luck. The players dispersed, some outraged, others lamenting their bad luck, but that the boy was a cheat was out of the question, for everyone was taking turns rolling the same dice, and he had done nothing to ensure that only he was lucky. The last partner, muttering something about the newcomer’s luck, also moved to another table, and Rhianon collected her winnings. Her long, slender hands dipped into the copper and gold. Treasures like a dragon’s. They would come in handy on her journey.
She should have trimmed her hair so she wouldn’t fear the beret was about to fall from her head and her curls would scatter down her back. It was as if someone was watching her all the time, trying to denounce the girl in her, but who? She looked around the tavern in vain for more than the first time. All the customers were occupied only with themselves and their drinks. No one was watching her. So where did this feeling of someone staring intently at her, trying to remember all her features, and the flame of the candle on the table was already trembling with the close breath of the watcher.
Someone was looking at her through the window of the tavern. It seemed so to her, and she flinched. What is this stalking mania, can’t someone be watching her so long and so intently while remaining unnoticed.
But someone’s silhouette outside the window did loom. Someone with a hood pulled down over his face, a vagabond or a monk. Rhianon would have turned away if suddenly a thin, pale hand had not pressed against the glass. It was too white and long, with elongated fingers and almost translucent skin. A non-human hand!
What strange thoughts? Rhianon would have shaken her head to drive them away if she hadn’t feared her beret might fly off. Whoever was watching her was already in the tavern. She could feel it with every pore of her skin, though no one present could be suspected. Did the feeling deceive her. Everyone seemed preoccupied only with their own business. Still, she looked around every corner, even the chandelier and the stove with the burning coals. It seemed as if someone’s gaze could be on her from anywhere, even from places where no human being was standing. It was especially from these places. Someone was staring, as if from a void, and the feeling made her uncomfortable. Rhianon shuddered. She would have to get out of the tavern and take a walk. Maybe it was because it was too stuffy in here. Her horse was just growling anxiously outside the door to the stable. It was far away, but she heard it and rushed over there. Fresh air wafted in her face, and the thought that someone might be watching her sitting right on the swinging chandelier under the ceiling or perched almost in the mouth of a glowing oven seemed absurd. Was it Imagination? No, her fantasies had dried up since the council sentenced the heiress to the harsh reality that the country, of which she was to be the sole ruler, would never be hers alone. Or it was not yet. Rhianon was used to insisting on her own, only now it was pointless. She had to wait it out, had to stall until she was of age, until she was free.
Her groomed, white horse stood out sharply among the inconspicuous, brown-haired stallions and geldings. We must change him later, or pass ourselves off as a royal messenger. Only that one could have an outfit and a horse of such value. There is no need to arouse anyone’s suspicions now. They must be looking for her by now. They should search the castle first, all cellars, wells, ponds, and houses in the city. It would be wonderful if no one could place the young page at the head of an expensive thoroughbred and the missing princess. But her pursuers might be too cautious, so they would have to be clever at hiding.
Rhianon put a finger to her lips, calling for silence. She should have taken the horse by the bridle, stroked it, patted its withers, calmed it down in general by usual methods, but she was used to doing otherwise. The animals understood her, and she didn’t need physical force to subdue them, just a faint mental contact, a subtle sign «obey me», and it worked. One gesture, one thought, and the beasts understood her in a way humans never would.
Someone clapped their hands, but the clapping sounded not in the night, but in her brain.
«You’re gorgeous!»
No one said it, no one breathed in her ear. Just a whiff of wind touched her cheek. The strange thing was that this wind was only felt for one moment, and then the calm of the night closed over the windless space again. It was cold, but there was no draught. Her head felt like it was on fire, maybe from the feeling of her own daring and boldness. She would never have dared to run away before, but now she could smell the freedom. She did what she had to do.
The horse was worried, spinning his ears, and not at all because it was the first time he had been so far from the castle stables. He was feeling something. Rhiannon touched him with her hand and felt him tremble.
He may not have had enough hay today, and he may have been cold in the wind, but she could sense that his behavior was not one of resentment over a bad life. Rhianon recognized that expression in the animal’s eyes. He was afraid. She ran her fingers over his fur and wondered if he looked as numb as humans do when they’re startled, but she could feel the shivers inside him.
The girl backed away. Something flapped behind her, an enormous wing, it seemed, but no bird’s presence was felt nearby. There was no flight, no long cry, only the flap of a wing and the soft contact with the coat that covered her back. The wounds on her shoulder blades immediately began to ache. Rhianon shivered from the cold and the pain. She should go back to the warm tavern, warm herself by the fire, drink a cup of something hot and dismiss the thought that there was someone lurking in the hearth, bold, laughing, watching her. No one’s eyes were watching her from an empty space, and it was time to accept that.
Still, she wanted to check out what was behind the horse’s back. What was the animal so afraid of? Rhianon looked around, in the distance is nothing but wasteland, and in front of her an old abandoned village cemetery. It was all overgrown with sod, and only now and then she could see the tombstones, lit by the moon. It was not a cross or a tombstone, but something else in the dreary landscape. It looked more like a monument, except that
