Пожиратель младенцев
Как и обещано раньше, фанфик-на-фанфик по ОЭ по-английски. Для понимания, что происходит, стоит посмотреть изначальный фанфик (он все тот же, что и в прошлый раз, напоминаю, что основное АУ-допущение в нем состоит в том, что у Алвы есть две дочери, одной из которых не повезло или повезло угодить в отношения с Ричардом Окделлом): ficbook.net/readfic/11337221. Здесь идет отвилка от 32-й главы («Чужой не сладит...»), следующая глава не учитывается (т.к. фанфик-на-фанфик дописан раньше, чем она появилась). АУ-сеттинг, изменение событий, изменение характеров, оригинальные персонажи — все это в основном пришло из изначального фанфика.
Художественной и сюжетной ценности эта моя история почти не имеет, функция ее скорее психотерапевтическая: помочь мне справиться с треволнениями личной жизни (выместив все свои негативные переживания на ни в чем не повинных чужих персонажах и заставив их страдать в тексте). Ума не приложу, зачем здесь английский, но, похоже, на нем мне проще — не так неловко — прописывать всю эту слезливую сентиментальность (когда все трепещут, рыдают и обнимаются); на русском вроде как и стыдно, а так вроде как и мистер Грандисон.
Да, и должна предупредить, что английский тянет за собой в мир Кэртианы больше земных, даже, скажем точнее, британских реалий, так что не спотыкайтесь о мистеров и ярды. И еще предупреждаю, что тут не так корпела над языком, как в прошлом фике, могут быть ошибки/недочеты. Ах да, и профанация медицины, спишем на магию мира.
Краткое содержание: знаете, я просто помещу здесь код: 8.1.1AU—2/3.
В общем, proceed with care (а лучше, может, вообще не proceed): герои будут страдать и страдать, все по-своему, а потом будут вознаграждены (И при конце последней части Всегда наказан был порок, Добру достойный был венок); все каноничные события, характеры и ценности скомканы и отправлены в утиль в угоду моему желанию с ними позабавиться.
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***
“I’m very suspicious of Richard,” Aldo Racan told his lieutenant Udo Born. “Richard Oakdell, you know, not you brother, of course. I sense he may be unfaithful to our cause.”
“That is impossible, my liege,” Udo protested. “Richard is too simple, naïve as a child, and he hates the Raven with all his soul.”
“Oh yes, he’s got very perverted plans on his former lord’s family, but still, there is something strange in his behavior. And have you noticed his odd devotion to that plain silver bracelet he tries to hide? No, one can never be too vigilant. I think we’ll be better off without him, do you understand me, my friend?”
Udo understood. He could have disagreed with his suzerain, but it wasn’t the time and the place to argue, especially regarding the impending war. The task seemed quite easy and it took Udo less than an hour to accomplish it the following day. He lured Richard deep into the forest on the pretext of making a reconnaissance before the battle and, having knocked the boy out, pushed the body down the hill into an inconspicuous ravine nearby. His darkest self, in fact, for a moment considered humiliating his former ally further, but his natural decency protested against it, and he found a compromise: he ripped off all Richard’s clothes*, threw tree branches on top of the body to make it less recognizable and more difficult to find, and hid all the belongings in the bushes surrounding the clearing. Then he headed back to the camp, congratulating himself with keeping his hands clean: he hadn’t dealt the fatal blow, nor had he shot the boy down, leaving his fate to wild animals and forces of nature and even giving him a chance to survive.
Unluckily, when he returned, Robert Épinay was already at Aldo’s side. The man had always been too protective of his younger comrades and would need a special explanation.
“It’s over, my liege,” Udo reported and turned to Robert: “I mean, we’ve got into a clash with an enemy’s detachment, but they retreated. Oh, my liege, and, I fear, we’ve got losses: it’s young Duke Oakdell, I’m afraid. We got separated in the mêlée and I never saw him afterwards.”
“Oh gods,” Épinay’s sour face twisted into a concerned grimace. “We need to find the boy, don’t we? He might be wounded. By the way, I’ve not heard any shooting—”
“It was mostly a hand to hand combat,” Udo said, and Aldo added:
“Maybe later, Robert. Richard is not a small kid to wander off and get lost in the woods. Let’s wait for a while, no need to get worried.”
Saying that, Aldo met Udo’s gaze, and Udo read in his commander’s eyes: If you let it leak out, you are the next.
Several days went in preparations for the interaction with the enemy: no-one was certain if it would be a battle or negotiations, Aldo for some reason hoping for the latter and Udo expecting the former. Finally, news came that a large army was moving from the south—most definitely reinforcements from the rebellion-stricken regions of the province of Épinay; at the same time a missive was brought from the general of the Reservist army, confirming his readiness to have an official talk. Robert Épinay, loathing any treachery, declared he wouldn’t participate in it and was instead going to recover Richard’s body, for the boy’s horse had already returned, but its rider hadn’t been found. At that Robert left, fuming with outrage.
***
Duke Alva’s forces attacked the Pretender’s camp from the rear, while the Reservist general was keeping their chief distracted by the false negotiations. It had always been Alva’s favourite trick, always successful, but this time the victory was probably the most bloodless in all his career. A few weeks ago he’d received an order from the King commanding him to depart from the seashore, where he had been having a lot of fun, and march against the Pretender’s army, which had been slowly advancing towards the capital, leaving behind burned villages and rebellious towns. Someone had been providing the King’s headquarters with detailed information on the Pretender’s movements and plans, so it had been quite easy for Alva to choose the right tactics.
When it all was finished, Alva rode up to Aldo Racan, still looking unconquered and proud on his white horse with golden reins, and, pointing his gun at the man, pronounced mockingly:
“Surrender, mister Pretender. You are defeated. Tell your people to lay down their arms.”
Aldo was about to answer, but was suddenly interrupted: Robert Épinay rode out of the forest, a dirty bundle of dark red and black rugs in his arms.
“Aldo,” he said hesitantly, paying no attention to the scene, “I haven’t found Richard’s body: I’m afraid animals have already— oh, hello, Alva—”
In the middle of the bundle Alva saw a very familiar dagger hilt with a boar’s head.
“What animals, Épinay? What body?” he asked and shot. Aldo’s arms let go of the reins and he hung upside down, his feet tangled in the stirrups.
“The Pretender fell in the battle,” Alva declared. “Shackle everybody who looks like an officer and tie a lightning rod to this son of a bitch.”
One of the officers, with a typical Taliguish face, somehow evoking unpleasant recollections, cried out:
“My lord, have mercy! Please take into account I’ve rendered a good service to the kingdom: I’ve rid you of a state criminal, the traitor who’d tried to murder you, my lord!”
Another shot ended his miserable life. Born, Alva finally remembered, always this abominable crazy family, and said aloud:
“Give me these things, Épinay, you have no right to hold them, don’t lay your dirty hands on them.”
Oh my poor girl, he thought bitterly, how will she bear the news? Oh, my child wouldn’t commit suicide, but what if she loses her mind with grief? Madness runs in our blood, no wonder if—
He couldn’t however linger long on his family’s troubles, with all the army business to take care of, their march to the capital and his report to the King. The welcoming reception was very brief, the King promising to throw a pompous feast several weeks later and the Cardinal departing in the very beginning.
“We’ve caught Robert Épinay, Your Majesty, I’ll need him alive,” Alva said, when the King and himself were left alone after the reception and were sharing an official tête-à-tête in the royal study (why would he need this one alive, indeed… with one of the Lords of the Elements missing and another one deceased, their world was probably living out its last year, three persons of five left not enough to drag it through the coming Break of the Epochs). “And two Borns: I wouldn’t mind if you execute them in the most horrible manner.”
“Ah, this southern vindictiveness of yours, my friend,” the King sighed. “It’s been more than ten years since that unfortunate accident, time to let it pass.”
Alva believed it to be a rhetorical statement, answered nothing and, quickly bidding farewell to His Majesty, left for home. The yard of his mansion was cluttered up with carriages: he recognized the Cardinal’s ascetic equipage, the cart Barbra used for her social visits, and his family doctor’s two-wheeler.
On the staircase Alva caught a glimpse of the familiar white robe: the doctor was hurrying downstairs, pronouncing in passing his last instructions. Alva met him at the ground floor.
“Good evening, maître,” he greeted. “I’m always delighted to receive you in my house. How is it going?”
The doctor slowed down his pace, but didn’t stop, so Alva had to fall into step with him.
“Not fairly well, I’m afraid,” the maître said. “Four fractured ribs, a bad concussion and a particularly severe lung fever, which has of course been inevitable considering the patient’s long exposure to the cold and moisture, the gravity of injuries and several days without proper medical care, let alone— Ah, my lord duke, I would’ve liked to talk to you longer, but I’m really waited for in another house. We could discuss more when I visit you tomorrow.”
“What?!” Alva cried. “But what has happened to her?” he asked in a calmer tone, following the doctor to the doors and out into the yard, where the carriage had already been prepared and was ready to depart, and the gates were open.
“Well, both young ladies are pretty shaken, of course, but nothing more. Now, if you’d excuse me, my lord duke, I have to go. Good evening, my lord, see you tomorrow.”
With these words the doctor, already seated in his carriage, took the reins and swiftly left.
What two young ladies did he mean? mused Alva. What happened to Gabrie in these blasted Galtares? Can it be that Barbra is also hurt?
He returned to the house and run upstairs, hoping he would find out the truth soon. Luckily indeed, he found Barbra in the small sitting room, crouching over a book, her whole figure radiating tiredness and sorrow.
“Padre?” she asked in surprise, upon seeing him. “Have you already returned? I thought—”.
“Where is Gabrie?” he interrupted, maybe too abruptly for his liking, but now he was in no mood to spare one of his daughter’s feelings, when the other one’s wellbeing was in question. Barbra looked at him plainly and shrugged.
“In Richard’s room, I suppose, where else could she be?”
Oh, his poor girl must have already received the news, probably adding a nervous breakdown on top of her injuries! Alva rushed to the room and was already going to yank the door open, when he heard a conversation. Gabriella’s voice—it was uncharacteristically sad and teary, even trembling, but definitely didn’t sound like a weak voice of someone suffering from wounds and illness—his daughter’s voice pleaded:
“I’ve been thinking about the holy communion, Your Eminence, but— Maybe you could just marry us here and now, on the spot, instead?”
“Oh my child, why should I do it?” the Cardinal’s voice replied. “I understand the doctor hasn’t been very optimistic in his prognosis, but why would such a young girl as you wish to become a widow? And even if I agreed to fulfill your desire, I cannot marry you two without the consent of your parents, and, moreover, when one of the parties, as it says, is not in his sound mind and judgement.”
“But why not! We’re already engaged!” Gabriella exclaimed. Engaged?! What?! When?! Fortunately, Alva didn’t have much time to meditate upon the moral in the younger generation, because his daughter continued, tears more prominent in her voice: “Please, Your Eminence… You know, to be… united… until it’s too late—” Suddenly she stopped and gasped: “Oh, see! He’s not breathing again!”
Alva heard another girl’s muffled yelp, a splash of water, a rattle of a metal object rolling on the floor, a rustle of cloth, a creak of wood, and, having no patience to wait and listen any longer, he broke into the room, only to see his daughter giving a passionate mouth to mouth kiss to Richard’s corpse.
“Gabrie!” he cried, flabbergasted. “What the heck are you doing?! Stop it now!”
With a corner of his eye he spotted Richard’s sister Iris, pale as a ghost, trying to get a drop of water from an empty silver jug, and the Cardinal, sitting in an armchair near the wall, his arms folded in the most reverent manner.
“Padre!” his daughter yelled back, getting herself unstuck from the body. “Come, please do something! Help him! You are the physician here!”
Alva sat on the edge of the bed, making Gabrie shift aside, and took Richard’s hand. The pulse was there, too fast, too weak, and unsteady, but the heart was beating, and the breathing, as it seemed, had returned due to Gabrie’s ministrations: Richard was certainly not dead. While Alva was holding his wrist, the heart beat both slowed down and became stronger, unnatural, feverish tension leaving the muscles. Iris had finally managed to call a servant and ask for more water and some fresh towels and was now applying a cold compress to her brother’s bandaged forehead.
“Thank you,” said Gabriella in a small voice and rubbed her eyes. “I’m glad you’ve returned. How was the war? Have you won?”
“Oh yes”, Alva replied. “Twice. In the naval campaign and against the Pretender.”
“This is what I’ve tried to tell you today, my child, but you wouldn’t listen,” the Cardinal commented.
“Good,” she said, sniffed and in one swift movement clung to his chest, pressing her face against his jacket, and broke into sobs. He held her tightly with one arm, his other hand still on Richard’s wrist, struggling to find the right words of consolation for her: oh my precious little bird, please don’t despair, he would have said, be it anyone but Gabriella weeping in his embrace. Instead he teased:
“Richard is the last in his line of the Lords of the Rocks, have you forgotten? He cannot die until he sires a son. Do you want to tell me that you… that he… that you and he have already—”
“No!” she bolted upright and pushed him away, her sorrow replaced with indignation, fire glimmering through the tears in her eyes. “How could you imagine such a thing, padre! We never—”
“Nice to see your old self back, my little bird,” he held his hand up. “That was just a joke. Of course I would have killed the young gentleman myself had this happened. Speaking of which… By the way, you know, I’ve killed the men who had put Richard to this, both the Pretender himself and his adjutant who had murdered… had attempted the murder.”
“Hope the scoundrel suffered,” Gabriella said vengefully. “Hope you ripped him apart piece by piece.”
“Oh, unfortunately no, I was too quick. But you can fulfill your revenge by torturing to death his two brothers, who are in the royal dungeons at the moment. They are awaiting His Majesty’s decision, but I think I would be able to have a word on this matter.”
“Roque!” scolded the Cardinal. “We are a civilized country! No torturing to death, what are you suggesting? Well, my children, if I’m not needed anymore, I think I’m leaving.”
When the door closed after the Cardinal, both girls looked at Alva expectantly. What were they waiting for? He was not a magician nor a saint and certainly couldn’t create miracles with the snap of his fingers. Last time when Richard had been wounded it had been his own element, not Alva’s mystical powers that had helped the boy recover. As if in response to his thoughts Richard fidgeted on the bed, groaned and called out:
“Your Eminence… the report… please take it… it’s in the saddlebag… please, I haven’t lost it, it’s here—”
“Your Grace,” said Iris, while Gabrie rushed to calm Richard down and was now patting his arm and whispering soothing nonsense to him. “Your Grace, could you please take Richard’s hand again? I think this helps.”
“Ah yes,” Alva did as he was asked. Saddlebags, oh, certainly, he almost forgot! He rummaged in his pocket and took out Gabriella’s talisman: he had found it among Richard’s things he’d snatched from Épinay’s arms and kept it to return to his daughter; all other belongings had been packed to be delivered to Duchess Mirabella, may the Creator save her soul, and the clothes, torn and dirty, had been ordered to be burned. “Gabrie, I’ve got something for you.”
“Padre! Thanks the Departed!” she cried and, grabbing the talisman, quickly adjusted it around Richard’s neck. “I’ve grown so sick of this pain!”
Alva preferred not to get into the details and asked in a small-talk tone how Gabriella’s trip to Galtares had been.
“It was in summer!” she said in surprise. “I returned from there long ago, and I have some interesting news regarding our curse, padre, but maybe later.”
“So you didn’t stumble on Richard on your way back from Galtares, did you? How then was he found?”
“Well—”
***
Since his appearance at Aldo’s side Richard had been quite successful in playing a spy: he had been sabotaging all doings of the Pretender, hindering the whole campaign at every stage, and sending encrypted reports to the Cardinal, informing him of the advances of Aldo’s army. This, as he had hoped, would have allowed the capital to be ready and perhaps even prevented any war at all. He hadn’t realized how dangerous his games had been, until Udo Born, one of his alleged comrades, confronted him in a small clearing in the forest where they were waiting for a battle to start. The man approached, accused Richard of being a traitor and, before he could react, hit him hard on the back of the head.
The next thing Richard knew was pain. His head and chest hurt like they were on fire, he felt miserably sick, and, opening his eyes, he saw only darkness. It was night, cold and wet, and he was still in the forest, lying half on an uncomfortable bed of damp leaves and tree branches, half in a puddle of sticky mud. Richard shifted and tried to push himself up, but dizziness overcame him, his arms gave way, he fell back on the ground and lost consciousness again.
When he came to for the second time, he heard incoherent voices in the distance. He wanted to cry for help, but only groaned once, then again, longer and louder, and again, until the mysterious forest-walkers seemed to notice it: somebody shouted, and the sound of horse steps came closer, echo of the hooves muted by the moss. The horses stopped, people ran to him, cursing, giving abrupt commands, speaking to each other, but he was able to make out neither what they said nor who they were. A light weight was lifted from him, cold air sending shivers through his naked body; he was touched, seized by the shoulders, turned and covered again, pain piercing his ribcage and lungs. It was difficult to breathe, the world kept spinning round, and his eyes couldn’t focus. In a blur he saw trees and a piece of a clear sky above; then it all drifted away, and Gabriella’s beautiful face swam into his vision. Oh, was he already dead?
“Gabrie… Is that you? Are you my guide here?”
“Hush my love, please don’t speak, save your strength,” Gabriella’s pretty little hand was pressed to his lips. “We have to get you up and out of here. Can you walk? Just a few steps, to the horse.”
“Are you going to ride me to the Gardens of Dawn?”
“Wherever you say, darling, but let’s at first move and mount.”
A man helped him up. That one looked vaguely familiar, but utterly disgusting, and Richard thought that the Maze had maybe provided him with two guides, the right one in the shape of his beloved and the evil one having taken the form of this repulsive human being. He must have said this aloud, because the man pulled an insulted mien and muttered that he was in fact a very good guide, an excellent one he was, anyone could confirm it if asked. Richard wondered if he was really dead: perhaps, after all, it wouldn’t hurt so much if he was, or would if it was his afterlife trial.
The following journey came to Richard in brief flashes of awareness. He was riding on a horse, someone—maybe Gabriella—supporting him from the back; next moment he was in an inn, sprawled across a large wooden bed; then he was lying in a wagon, a sort of soft mattress under him, which however couldn’t save him from jolting on every pothole on the road. He even managed to hear Gabriella’s voice whisper “Poor head” and feel a light kiss brush the top of his hair, before darkness finally claimed him.
***
The last report from Richard had been received by the Cardinal over a week ago, and Gabriella had been getting more and more worried every day. She would definitely have felt if something really horrible had happened, but still dozens of less horrible dangers awaited Richard at any step of his mission. Furthermore, nothing particular had been known about the actual situation in the Pretender’s host… so, all things considered, Gabriella decided to make a small sortie herself. The legend she’d invented for her family was that she was going on a leisure trip within the Ring, just an innocent vacation to distract herself and relax. Oh no, she won’t be alone and didn’t need any escort, thank you. Oh yes, that’s a nice picnic blanket, Barb, she’d surely use it at the very first stop (Barb had really packed for her a cute, soft and fluffy woolen picnic blanket, with red and white check pattern).
And no, she wasn’t alone. Her company was notorious Raymond Saligan: a slum nobleman, half marauder and half souteneur, and—by some mysterious reason—her father’s loyal aide and almost one of his best friends. The man knew all secret passages in and out of the city and in the countryside and had his ways with the criminals of all nearby towns, so he had been Gabriella’s first choice. He’d eagerly agreed to help his boss’s heir, and they set off on their journey.
They had already advanced as far as to the town of Lay. No sign of the Pretender’s army was visible, though locals occasionally spoke of the war to come. They stopped in an inn on the outskirts of the town (a room they rented contained only one bed, “a very wide one, gentlemen, you’ll easily fit in there, both of you”, but Saligan had no prejudices about sleeping on the floor) and were going to spend the late afternoon and evening in investigations and inquiries. They were ready to depart into the town, when Gabriella’s head exploded with a sudden bolt of pain, quickly followed by another one, in her chest, that made her double over.
“What’s it, m’selle?” Saligan asked in concern.
“Not a mademoiselle for you,” groaned Gabriella through the blinding agony. “I’m a boy!”
“As you say, m’selle. Shouldn’t you go lie down?”
“N-no… We have… have to… Ugh, wait—”
The pain gradually receded to a dull throbbing, allowing her to think straighter. It’s all my fault, she thought. It was my plan, after all; my and the Cardinal’s. Oh how I’ve wronged you, my love, please be alive when we find you. Saligan regarded her with a strange expression on his face, but was silent. She collected herself, wiped her eyes and said:
“We have to find out where the Pretender’s forces stay and if there has been any battle just now, and then go, quickly, and—”
“But what’s the matter?”
“It’s Richard, Richard Oakdell, you know, my father’s squire,” she forced herself to explain. “I feel when he’s in danger. Now please let’s already move!”
The town poorest citizens proved to be the best source of information: Gabriella soon got overwhelmed by the wave of contradictory rumours, but Saligan’s experience let him easily extract the truth. By the night they had become sure that the Pretender’s army was camping at the far side of the forest and that a small clash had occurred in the afternoon between his forces and the town’s garrison, no casualties however ensuing in the latter. Both parties were now waiting for the reinforcements, a gossip circulating that the Pretender was about to run negotiations with one of the Taliguish generals. Gabriella longed to rush into the forest immediately, armed with a torch aflame, but Saligan convinced her of the foolishness of such action. Their search expedition was therefore postponed till the early morning and started at dawn, Gabriella having not slept at all. The deeper they proceeded in the forest the more her pain intensified and the more anxious she got. Suddenly a barely audible noise, soft, almost indistinguishable sound of somebody groaning reached her ears. She halted her horse.
“Wait! Have you heard this? Listen!”
They listened; another weak groan, just a little louder, came.
“Over there,” Saligan pointed his finger in the direction of a small ravine hidden behind the trees. They rode through the grove, dismounted on a clearing and ran to the ravine. Gabrie stopped at the very edge and peered down, while Saligan in one jump got to the bottom and called:
“Don’t look, m’selle! Turn your eyes away! Nothing pleasant here to look at!”
Still she stared, even more intently. A human body lay there, unmoving, lifeless, covered with scattered tree branches, dry leaves and dirt, its naked skin a bright contrast to black colours of the forest ground. With a desperate wail Gabriella jumped down too, kneeled and took Richard’s head in her hands; and, suddenly aware of his eyes open, of his lips voicelessly moving, she nearly fainted with relief.
“Do you have a spare jacket in your bag, m’selle?” Saligan’s question reached her mind through the haze. She pulled Richard’s head onto her lap and, her eyes never leaving his face, absentmindedly fumbled in her over-the-shoulder bag.
It turned out all Richard’s things had gone missing: the assaulters had either stolen his belongings or disposed of them. Saligan had no clothes of his own to share, and Gabrie’s spare shirts were too tight for Richard, so they were ripped into straps and used as bandages for his chest and head; the only piece of cloth suitable to be worn was Barbra’s picnic blanket, so they wrapped Richard in it, making him look like one of those northern Nadorish highlanders he’d used to speak of so much. Then they managed to urge Richard up on his feet, take him out of the ravine and help him on the horseback. Their ride to the inn mirrored two their trips cherished in her memory: this time it was Richard who was sitting in front, slumping over the horse’s neck; and herself who was hugging him from behind, supporting his back and feeling the heat radiating from his body (oh bad, was he already feverish?). The reversal of their roles didn’t bother her anyway, as she had been long used to a boy’s attire and manners (though Richard wouldn’t have liked to be called a damsel in distress), but what made her worried sick was that Richard grew more and more irresponsive and was deeply unconscious when they arrived to the inn. Carrying him to the previously-rented room, placing him on that wonderfully wide bed (“it would accommodate all three of you, gentlemen, if you’re not too fussy”) took all her attention, so she merely missed the moment when he stopped breathing. Oh no! We have just saved you! You cannot die like that, under my very eyes!
“I’d give him a revival kiss,” said Saligan thoughtfully and waved in the air a piece of cloth, all filthy, hardened and crumpled like a ball, “but better to do it through a handkerchief: who knows what he’s had in his mouth, I ain’t gonna get infected.”
“What kiss, Raymond? Is he a princess for you, are we in a fairy-tale?” she cried and, seeing him stretch and smoothen his handkerchief, quickly added: “No-no-no, please take mine, it’s clean, only a little perfumed!”
Saligan’s method helped, and Richard even got lucid enough to swallow a couple of gulps of water, only to return to his senseless state several minutes later. It was decided they should get him home at the utmost possible speed rather than try to tend to him in this gods-forsaken town, and, while Saligan was running their errands, hiring a wagon, horses, a driver, buying pillows, mattresses, blankets, and cloaks, organizing their short departure, Gabriella lowered herself on the floor next to the bed and, taking Richard’s hand, wept silently. She was strong and brave, always ready to jump into action, never afraid of obstacles, a perpetuum mobile of a human, an energetic, vigorous agent in their couple, but now she felt like a scared little girl, confused and helpless. Oh my love, please be safe. Oh my love— Horror grasping her guts, she recalled her meeting with the Left-handed: I’ll help your father, but everything has its price. It’s your love I want, your love, my girl, and nothing more. Was it Richard he’d meant? Was it Richard’s very life she had to pay with?!
When they finally got home (Gabriella didn’t want to remember their ride in the wagon, her horse entrusted to Saligan’s care; those long endless hours of fear, despair, panic, grief, all melted into one sphere of darkness collapsing onto her), Richard’s state had worsened a lot, his health having rapidly deteriorated: he was actually barely alive. A note was immediately (straight after the doctor had been called for) sent to Iris, informing her that her brother had returned and her visit would be welcomed—Gabrie had no nerve to mention that her friend’s brother had been found gravely injured, was now lying in the mansion unconscious, feverish, delirious, struggling for breath, probably dying, and perhaps wouldn’t even recognize his sister.
Iris, with Barbra, who had sensed something wrong in the tone of the note, in tow, arrived soon after the doctor had departed having dictated a foot-long list of prescriptions (cold water, steaming water, ice, compresses, ointments, clean sheets, a light shirt, fresh air, pain-relievers, fever-reducing mixtures, calming draughts, chicken broth, barley tea, and something also for your nerves, young lady) and leaving Gabriella even more disoriented and insecure than before. Gabrie was combing Richard’s beautiful freshly-washed hair, arranging it in lovely locks above the bandage on both sides of his handsome face, its features pitifully distorted by his illness; she was careful to avoid painful bumps on his head: the large one, from the hit, had been treated and tightly bandaged, while the others, from the fall, had been proclaimed less dangerous and were now hidden under the hair. Iris knocked, waited, entered and froze at the doorstep, taking in the picture before her: Richard’s thin frame on the bed, Gabriella leaning over him, a battery of bottles, phials and cups on the bedside table, and an engagement bracelet with sapphires clutched around his wrist, its pendant, glimmering with black gems, adorning Gabrie’s own hand.
“Yes,” Gabrie said to forewarn Iris’s questions. “Yes, Richard’s been wounded and is very ill. And yes, I’m a girl. And yes, we’re engaged. I’ll take it off when the doctor visits next time, because he’s been very strict against foreign objects in a sickbed.”
“Oh Dickon,” Iris exhaled and darted to Richard’s side.
***
When Richard awoke next time, he felt odd, lightheaded and weak. The last thing he remembered clearly was him meeting Udo Born in the forest. All he had experienced after it were vivid, colourful, but inconsistent dreams, that shed no light on what had happened to him in reality: he’d dreamt of his parents, of his father advising him, his mother blessing him, his mother cursing him, both his parents hugging him; of Aldo winning, of Aldo losing, of the Cardinal praising him, of the Cardinal calling him a traitor; of ir Roque throwing him out of the house, of ir Roque giving him a Marshal’s sash; of himself being tortured to death, of himself being executed, drowned in a well, burned alive, cut into pieces, torn by horses; of Gabriella kissing him, Gabriella slapping him, Gabriella holding his hands, Gabriella in his bed, him eloping with Gabriella to the wilderness and living in the woods, him and Gabriella cuddling together; and of himself wandering in the Maze.
He opened his eyes and looked up and around: he was in his old room in Alva’s mansion, swimming in a dim morning light that came from the uncurtained, unshuttered window; his bed canopy had been taken away, and the poles lacking it seemed orphaned, the ceiling too close. He was half lying half sitting in the bed, resting upon a pile of pillows, covered with a warm blanket caringly tucked around him. Had Aldo conquered the capital and rewarded him with his archenemy’s mansion, as he had promised many times? With a shudder Richard recalled a drunken dialogue with his false monarch, when he had asked Aldo to give him, as a winner’s tribute, the Raven’s daughter to become his concubine (surely this would be Barbra, because Gabrie wouldn’t put an end to her masquerade, but that time he had been actually thinking about her and only her). Had Aldo’s efforts failed and was Richard now Alva’s prisoner? Had he been released on bail?
He turned his head and spotted a jug and a cup on the bedside table; realizing he was thirsty he stretched his arm and tried to take the cup, but it slipped from his clumsy fingers and fell on the floor, its clattering noise exploding the silence, water splashing all around. There came a gasp, a surprised exclamation, and a maid appeared, one of those long-lashed, rosy-cheeked Quennalish beauties who had always been present in the mansion. Wringing her arms in an excessive gesture of joy, she made no motion to pick up the cup and give him some drink, but twittered instead:
“Oh dor, you’re finally awake! Please wait, I’ll bring somebody!”
She sprang out of the room, calling loudly: “Soberano! Soberanita! Soberanita!”—and in what seemed a few seconds the door opened again, and in flew Gabriella, dressed in a long nightshirt, her hair made into a loose braid. She looked at him as if considering if she should throw herself on top of him or burst at first into tears, and then dropped onto the bed near him, grabbed both his hands and pressed to her face.
“Oh thanks whoever is in charge of you, my love!” she whispered, printing a kiss on each of his palms. “You really gave us such a scare, it’s been nearly two weeks! Ten days, to be exact, in the house, and a couple more on the road. Please forgive me I wasn’t here for you when you first opened your eyes, but the maître insisted we all should get proper sleep every night unless we want to fall sick ourselves—”
“We all—who’s that?” Richard asked, astonished how coarse his voice sounded.
“That’s me, padre and Iris. Dickon, you’re alive! The doctor said you would eventually wake up, soon, maybe even yesterday evening, but your poor heart didn’t take it well when your fever suddenly went down, and— Oh, sorry, I’m not quite myself, but I’ve been so, so, so very worried! Back in Galtares, you know, that man, the Left-handed, not the real one, b-but Rinaldi, my ancestral cousin, that is— he said he’d be taking my love away, as a price for his f-favour, a-and I thought, I th-thought, I—” her last phrases came out in ragged breaths, her voice cracking into sobs. Richard shifted, his chest immediately protesting, and put an arm around her shoulder.
“Gabrie, I’m here, not going anywhere. It’s okay. Please don’t cry.”
“Yes, yes,” she said, calming down at once. “I’m not crying. Please tell me, maybe you want me to sing to you, or read to you, or just talk? Or maybe eat or drink?”
“Um, to drink at first,” Richard decided. “The cup is on the floor, and I’m afraid I can’t reach it. And then to talk, and you tell me everything from the very beginning, deal? We’ve got plenty of time.”
He heard at first the amazing story of Gabrie’s adventures in Galtares, her meeting with the Departed and the Left-handed, and then learned all mundane news in one scoop: that Alva had been victorious twice, that the rebellion had failed, Aldo was dead and Robert in prison, and that himself had been stripped of all accusations and was now regarded as a war hero.
A new week dragged on. Richard was slowly recovering under Gabriella’s vigilant guard and Iris’s tender care: too slowly for his liking but at a more than average rate according to both the doctor’s and Alva’s words. Even the most innocent exercise and entertainment prohibited (more sleep, more rest, no visits, no guests, no overexerting yourself, no agitation; yes, you may walk as far as to the library, but what would you do there, young man?—no reading, no writing; yes, you may come down for the dinner, but no heavy, fried, spicy food, and no wine), he was growing genuinely bored: he longed to make just a few steps outdoors, to enjoy fresh air in the gardens, but he wasn’t allowed even a balcony on the same floor, not to mention the terrace downstairs, because the autumn weather kept being cold, rainy, windy and dull, as dull as his confinement to his chambers; as dull as constant pain in his body.
His involuntary imprisonment unexpectedly ended one day, when Alva entered his room fiddling with a paper scroll in his fingers.
“Hope you’re already fit enough to walk more than several yards, young gentleman,” Alva said, unfolding the paper, “because His Majesty wants you to be present at the palace reception tonight. I think it’ll deal with the matter of your so-called secret service.”
“Tell your bloody tyrant of a king to stick his order up where the sun doesn’t shine!” Gabrie exclaimed. “Richard is hardly in any condition to rise from the bed, let alone attend a royal reception! It’s been only a week since he awoke! It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say he was on the verge of death!”
She had all rights to be worried: the fever had been raging in him for ten days, the inner fire having nearly consumed his life; and he still wasn’t feeling exactly well at the moment, his injuries far from healed, his strength far from its peak.
“Of course I’ll go, Your Grace,” Richard replied. “Thank you for the tidings.”
“Well, if you get worse after this escapade, I’ll strangle you all, and the maître will approve of me,” Gabriella promised menacingly.
The experience proved not as fatiguing as expected. Richard drove to the palace and back in a carriage: his horse had been found in the Pretender’s camp and returned to the stables of Alva’s mansion, but no-one was going to allow him even a short ride. In the palace he let Gabrie lead him up the staircase, but managed to escape her care and enter the throne room unsupported, though she kept a close distance, and all others present who were well informed about his predicament—Iris, Barbra, and even Valentine—formed something of a circle of honour around him. It wasn’t so difficult to stand still while necessary speeches were being pronounced and formalities carried out, but when the King finally called his name and ordered him to approach, the room tilted, and his attention dissipated: Richard came up to the throne, knelt, bowed his still aching head, and heard the King’s first words:
“Also we would like to thank Duke Oakdell who was of great help for us in the enemy’s army and suffered grievously at the hands—”
The rest of the event went in a blur. Richard vaguely remembered himself answering and thanking the King and then Gabrie’s hands pulling him up and conducting him to the far corner of the room.
“Since when have you grown so overprotective of your father’s squire, Marquis?” one of the ladies-in-waiting asked. “Not that there is anything bad here, of course no! It’s really sweet to see such devotion between friends nowadays.”
Richard swayed a little, feeling small beads of sweat form on his temples, blackness already clouding the edges of his vision. Gabriella clutched his elbow tighter and hissed through her teeth:
“Go sit down, Richard! Don’t wait until you faint!”
When he sat on a chair at the wall, Iris pushed a glass into his palm.
“Water,” she commented. “Drink it. Have you understood what His Majesty said?”
“Not exactly, I’m afraid.”
“Dickon, he’s giving us a house! A mansion, a palazzo almost, as large as Duke Alva’s, as a prize for your service!”
A mansion indeed: that was certainly a curious twist of fate.
The end.
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* Я не утрирую: это почти буквальная цитата из канона, в которой Удо Борн, в свою очередь, почти буквально следует за лирическим героем Бальмонта: «Удо содрал с юноши все, вплоть до рубашки, приладил какие то палки…»
______________________________
Художественной и сюжетной ценности эта моя история почти не имеет, функция ее скорее психотерапевтическая: помочь мне справиться с треволнениями личной жизни (выместив все свои негативные переживания на ни в чем не повинных чужих персонажах и заставив их страдать в тексте). Ума не приложу, зачем здесь английский, но, похоже, на нем мне проще — не так неловко — прописывать всю эту слезливую сентиментальность (когда все трепещут, рыдают и обнимаются); на русском вроде как и стыдно, а так вроде как и мистер Грандисон.
Да, и должна предупредить, что английский тянет за собой в мир Кэртианы больше земных, даже, скажем точнее, британских реалий, так что не спотыкайтесь о мистеров и ярды. И еще предупреждаю, что тут не так корпела над языком, как в прошлом фике, могут быть ошибки/недочеты. Ах да, и профанация медицины, спишем на магию мира.
Краткое содержание: знаете, я просто помещу здесь код: 8.1.1AU—2/3.
В общем, proceed with care (а лучше, может, вообще не proceed): герои будут страдать и страдать, все по-своему, а потом будут вознаграждены (И при конце последней части Всегда наказан был порок, Добру достойный был венок); все каноничные события, характеры и ценности скомканы и отправлены в утиль в угоду моему желанию с ними позабавиться.
On the ravines and potholes
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***
…or is it going to be a case of crisp sheets, a soothing hand,
and a businesslike figure in white pulling open the curtains
on a bright new day? Is it all over, with nothing worse to look forward
to now than weak tea, nourishing gruel, short, strengthening walks in the garden
and possibly a brief platonic love affair with a ministering angel…
Terry Pratchett, Guards! Guards!
and a businesslike figure in white pulling open the curtains
on a bright new day? Is it all over, with nothing worse to look forward
to now than weak tea, nourishing gruel, short, strengthening walks in the garden
and possibly a brief platonic love affair with a ministering angel…
Terry Pratchett, Guards! Guards!
***
“I’m very suspicious of Richard,” Aldo Racan told his lieutenant Udo Born. “Richard Oakdell, you know, not you brother, of course. I sense he may be unfaithful to our cause.”
“That is impossible, my liege,” Udo protested. “Richard is too simple, naïve as a child, and he hates the Raven with all his soul.”
“Oh yes, he’s got very perverted plans on his former lord’s family, but still, there is something strange in his behavior. And have you noticed his odd devotion to that plain silver bracelet he tries to hide? No, one can never be too vigilant. I think we’ll be better off without him, do you understand me, my friend?”
Udo understood. He could have disagreed with his suzerain, but it wasn’t the time and the place to argue, especially regarding the impending war. The task seemed quite easy and it took Udo less than an hour to accomplish it the following day. He lured Richard deep into the forest on the pretext of making a reconnaissance before the battle and, having knocked the boy out, pushed the body down the hill into an inconspicuous ravine nearby. His darkest self, in fact, for a moment considered humiliating his former ally further, but his natural decency protested against it, and he found a compromise: he ripped off all Richard’s clothes*, threw tree branches on top of the body to make it less recognizable and more difficult to find, and hid all the belongings in the bushes surrounding the clearing. Then he headed back to the camp, congratulating himself with keeping his hands clean: he hadn’t dealt the fatal blow, nor had he shot the boy down, leaving his fate to wild animals and forces of nature and even giving him a chance to survive.
Unluckily, when he returned, Robert Épinay was already at Aldo’s side. The man had always been too protective of his younger comrades and would need a special explanation.
“It’s over, my liege,” Udo reported and turned to Robert: “I mean, we’ve got into a clash with an enemy’s detachment, but they retreated. Oh, my liege, and, I fear, we’ve got losses: it’s young Duke Oakdell, I’m afraid. We got separated in the mêlée and I never saw him afterwards.”
“Oh gods,” Épinay’s sour face twisted into a concerned grimace. “We need to find the boy, don’t we? He might be wounded. By the way, I’ve not heard any shooting—”
“It was mostly a hand to hand combat,” Udo said, and Aldo added:
“Maybe later, Robert. Richard is not a small kid to wander off and get lost in the woods. Let’s wait for a while, no need to get worried.”
Saying that, Aldo met Udo’s gaze, and Udo read in his commander’s eyes: If you let it leak out, you are the next.
Several days went in preparations for the interaction with the enemy: no-one was certain if it would be a battle or negotiations, Aldo for some reason hoping for the latter and Udo expecting the former. Finally, news came that a large army was moving from the south—most definitely reinforcements from the rebellion-stricken regions of the province of Épinay; at the same time a missive was brought from the general of the Reservist army, confirming his readiness to have an official talk. Robert Épinay, loathing any treachery, declared he wouldn’t participate in it and was instead going to recover Richard’s body, for the boy’s horse had already returned, but its rider hadn’t been found. At that Robert left, fuming with outrage.
***
Duke Alva’s forces attacked the Pretender’s camp from the rear, while the Reservist general was keeping their chief distracted by the false negotiations. It had always been Alva’s favourite trick, always successful, but this time the victory was probably the most bloodless in all his career. A few weeks ago he’d received an order from the King commanding him to depart from the seashore, where he had been having a lot of fun, and march against the Pretender’s army, which had been slowly advancing towards the capital, leaving behind burned villages and rebellious towns. Someone had been providing the King’s headquarters with detailed information on the Pretender’s movements and plans, so it had been quite easy for Alva to choose the right tactics.
When it all was finished, Alva rode up to Aldo Racan, still looking unconquered and proud on his white horse with golden reins, and, pointing his gun at the man, pronounced mockingly:
“Surrender, mister Pretender. You are defeated. Tell your people to lay down their arms.”
Aldo was about to answer, but was suddenly interrupted: Robert Épinay rode out of the forest, a dirty bundle of dark red and black rugs in his arms.
“Aldo,” he said hesitantly, paying no attention to the scene, “I haven’t found Richard’s body: I’m afraid animals have already— oh, hello, Alva—”
In the middle of the bundle Alva saw a very familiar dagger hilt with a boar’s head.
“What animals, Épinay? What body?” he asked and shot. Aldo’s arms let go of the reins and he hung upside down, his feet tangled in the stirrups.
“The Pretender fell in the battle,” Alva declared. “Shackle everybody who looks like an officer and tie a lightning rod to this son of a bitch.”
One of the officers, with a typical Taliguish face, somehow evoking unpleasant recollections, cried out:
“My lord, have mercy! Please take into account I’ve rendered a good service to the kingdom: I’ve rid you of a state criminal, the traitor who’d tried to murder you, my lord!”
Another shot ended his miserable life. Born, Alva finally remembered, always this abominable crazy family, and said aloud:
“Give me these things, Épinay, you have no right to hold them, don’t lay your dirty hands on them.”
Oh my poor girl, he thought bitterly, how will she bear the news? Oh, my child wouldn’t commit suicide, but what if she loses her mind with grief? Madness runs in our blood, no wonder if—
He couldn’t however linger long on his family’s troubles, with all the army business to take care of, their march to the capital and his report to the King. The welcoming reception was very brief, the King promising to throw a pompous feast several weeks later and the Cardinal departing in the very beginning.
“We’ve caught Robert Épinay, Your Majesty, I’ll need him alive,” Alva said, when the King and himself were left alone after the reception and were sharing an official tête-à-tête in the royal study (why would he need this one alive, indeed… with one of the Lords of the Elements missing and another one deceased, their world was probably living out its last year, three persons of five left not enough to drag it through the coming Break of the Epochs). “And two Borns: I wouldn’t mind if you execute them in the most horrible manner.”
“Ah, this southern vindictiveness of yours, my friend,” the King sighed. “It’s been more than ten years since that unfortunate accident, time to let it pass.”
Alva believed it to be a rhetorical statement, answered nothing and, quickly bidding farewell to His Majesty, left for home. The yard of his mansion was cluttered up with carriages: he recognized the Cardinal’s ascetic equipage, the cart Barbra used for her social visits, and his family doctor’s two-wheeler.
On the staircase Alva caught a glimpse of the familiar white robe: the doctor was hurrying downstairs, pronouncing in passing his last instructions. Alva met him at the ground floor.
“Good evening, maître,” he greeted. “I’m always delighted to receive you in my house. How is it going?”
The doctor slowed down his pace, but didn’t stop, so Alva had to fall into step with him.
“Not fairly well, I’m afraid,” the maître said. “Four fractured ribs, a bad concussion and a particularly severe lung fever, which has of course been inevitable considering the patient’s long exposure to the cold and moisture, the gravity of injuries and several days without proper medical care, let alone— Ah, my lord duke, I would’ve liked to talk to you longer, but I’m really waited for in another house. We could discuss more when I visit you tomorrow.”
“What?!” Alva cried. “But what has happened to her?” he asked in a calmer tone, following the doctor to the doors and out into the yard, where the carriage had already been prepared and was ready to depart, and the gates were open.
“Well, both young ladies are pretty shaken, of course, but nothing more. Now, if you’d excuse me, my lord duke, I have to go. Good evening, my lord, see you tomorrow.”
With these words the doctor, already seated in his carriage, took the reins and swiftly left.
What two young ladies did he mean? mused Alva. What happened to Gabrie in these blasted Galtares? Can it be that Barbra is also hurt?
He returned to the house and run upstairs, hoping he would find out the truth soon. Luckily indeed, he found Barbra in the small sitting room, crouching over a book, her whole figure radiating tiredness and sorrow.
“Padre?” she asked in surprise, upon seeing him. “Have you already returned? I thought—”.
“Where is Gabrie?” he interrupted, maybe too abruptly for his liking, but now he was in no mood to spare one of his daughter’s feelings, when the other one’s wellbeing was in question. Barbra looked at him plainly and shrugged.
“In Richard’s room, I suppose, where else could she be?”
Oh, his poor girl must have already received the news, probably adding a nervous breakdown on top of her injuries! Alva rushed to the room and was already going to yank the door open, when he heard a conversation. Gabriella’s voice—it was uncharacteristically sad and teary, even trembling, but definitely didn’t sound like a weak voice of someone suffering from wounds and illness—his daughter’s voice pleaded:
“I’ve been thinking about the holy communion, Your Eminence, but— Maybe you could just marry us here and now, on the spot, instead?”
“Oh my child, why should I do it?” the Cardinal’s voice replied. “I understand the doctor hasn’t been very optimistic in his prognosis, but why would such a young girl as you wish to become a widow? And even if I agreed to fulfill your desire, I cannot marry you two without the consent of your parents, and, moreover, when one of the parties, as it says, is not in his sound mind and judgement.”
“But why not! We’re already engaged!” Gabriella exclaimed. Engaged?! What?! When?! Fortunately, Alva didn’t have much time to meditate upon the moral in the younger generation, because his daughter continued, tears more prominent in her voice: “Please, Your Eminence… You know, to be… united… until it’s too late—” Suddenly she stopped and gasped: “Oh, see! He’s not breathing again!”
Alva heard another girl’s muffled yelp, a splash of water, a rattle of a metal object rolling on the floor, a rustle of cloth, a creak of wood, and, having no patience to wait and listen any longer, he broke into the room, only to see his daughter giving a passionate mouth to mouth kiss to Richard’s corpse.
“Gabrie!” he cried, flabbergasted. “What the heck are you doing?! Stop it now!”
With a corner of his eye he spotted Richard’s sister Iris, pale as a ghost, trying to get a drop of water from an empty silver jug, and the Cardinal, sitting in an armchair near the wall, his arms folded in the most reverent manner.
“Padre!” his daughter yelled back, getting herself unstuck from the body. “Come, please do something! Help him! You are the physician here!”
Alva sat on the edge of the bed, making Gabrie shift aside, and took Richard’s hand. The pulse was there, too fast, too weak, and unsteady, but the heart was beating, and the breathing, as it seemed, had returned due to Gabrie’s ministrations: Richard was certainly not dead. While Alva was holding his wrist, the heart beat both slowed down and became stronger, unnatural, feverish tension leaving the muscles. Iris had finally managed to call a servant and ask for more water and some fresh towels and was now applying a cold compress to her brother’s bandaged forehead.
“Thank you,” said Gabriella in a small voice and rubbed her eyes. “I’m glad you’ve returned. How was the war? Have you won?”
“Oh yes”, Alva replied. “Twice. In the naval campaign and against the Pretender.”
“This is what I’ve tried to tell you today, my child, but you wouldn’t listen,” the Cardinal commented.
“Good,” she said, sniffed and in one swift movement clung to his chest, pressing her face against his jacket, and broke into sobs. He held her tightly with one arm, his other hand still on Richard’s wrist, struggling to find the right words of consolation for her: oh my precious little bird, please don’t despair, he would have said, be it anyone but Gabriella weeping in his embrace. Instead he teased:
“Richard is the last in his line of the Lords of the Rocks, have you forgotten? He cannot die until he sires a son. Do you want to tell me that you… that he… that you and he have already—”
“No!” she bolted upright and pushed him away, her sorrow replaced with indignation, fire glimmering through the tears in her eyes. “How could you imagine such a thing, padre! We never—”
“Nice to see your old self back, my little bird,” he held his hand up. “That was just a joke. Of course I would have killed the young gentleman myself had this happened. Speaking of which… By the way, you know, I’ve killed the men who had put Richard to this, both the Pretender himself and his adjutant who had murdered… had attempted the murder.”
“Hope the scoundrel suffered,” Gabriella said vengefully. “Hope you ripped him apart piece by piece.”
“Oh, unfortunately no, I was too quick. But you can fulfill your revenge by torturing to death his two brothers, who are in the royal dungeons at the moment. They are awaiting His Majesty’s decision, but I think I would be able to have a word on this matter.”
“Roque!” scolded the Cardinal. “We are a civilized country! No torturing to death, what are you suggesting? Well, my children, if I’m not needed anymore, I think I’m leaving.”
When the door closed after the Cardinal, both girls looked at Alva expectantly. What were they waiting for? He was not a magician nor a saint and certainly couldn’t create miracles with the snap of his fingers. Last time when Richard had been wounded it had been his own element, not Alva’s mystical powers that had helped the boy recover. As if in response to his thoughts Richard fidgeted on the bed, groaned and called out:
“Your Eminence… the report… please take it… it’s in the saddlebag… please, I haven’t lost it, it’s here—”
“Your Grace,” said Iris, while Gabrie rushed to calm Richard down and was now patting his arm and whispering soothing nonsense to him. “Your Grace, could you please take Richard’s hand again? I think this helps.”
“Ah yes,” Alva did as he was asked. Saddlebags, oh, certainly, he almost forgot! He rummaged in his pocket and took out Gabriella’s talisman: he had found it among Richard’s things he’d snatched from Épinay’s arms and kept it to return to his daughter; all other belongings had been packed to be delivered to Duchess Mirabella, may the Creator save her soul, and the clothes, torn and dirty, had been ordered to be burned. “Gabrie, I’ve got something for you.”
“Padre! Thanks the Departed!” she cried and, grabbing the talisman, quickly adjusted it around Richard’s neck. “I’ve grown so sick of this pain!”
Alva preferred not to get into the details and asked in a small-talk tone how Gabriella’s trip to Galtares had been.
“It was in summer!” she said in surprise. “I returned from there long ago, and I have some interesting news regarding our curse, padre, but maybe later.”
“So you didn’t stumble on Richard on your way back from Galtares, did you? How then was he found?”
“Well—”
***
Since his appearance at Aldo’s side Richard had been quite successful in playing a spy: he had been sabotaging all doings of the Pretender, hindering the whole campaign at every stage, and sending encrypted reports to the Cardinal, informing him of the advances of Aldo’s army. This, as he had hoped, would have allowed the capital to be ready and perhaps even prevented any war at all. He hadn’t realized how dangerous his games had been, until Udo Born, one of his alleged comrades, confronted him in a small clearing in the forest where they were waiting for a battle to start. The man approached, accused Richard of being a traitor and, before he could react, hit him hard on the back of the head.
The next thing Richard knew was pain. His head and chest hurt like they were on fire, he felt miserably sick, and, opening his eyes, he saw only darkness. It was night, cold and wet, and he was still in the forest, lying half on an uncomfortable bed of damp leaves and tree branches, half in a puddle of sticky mud. Richard shifted and tried to push himself up, but dizziness overcame him, his arms gave way, he fell back on the ground and lost consciousness again.
When he came to for the second time, he heard incoherent voices in the distance. He wanted to cry for help, but only groaned once, then again, longer and louder, and again, until the mysterious forest-walkers seemed to notice it: somebody shouted, and the sound of horse steps came closer, echo of the hooves muted by the moss. The horses stopped, people ran to him, cursing, giving abrupt commands, speaking to each other, but he was able to make out neither what they said nor who they were. A light weight was lifted from him, cold air sending shivers through his naked body; he was touched, seized by the shoulders, turned and covered again, pain piercing his ribcage and lungs. It was difficult to breathe, the world kept spinning round, and his eyes couldn’t focus. In a blur he saw trees and a piece of a clear sky above; then it all drifted away, and Gabriella’s beautiful face swam into his vision. Oh, was he already dead?
“Gabrie… Is that you? Are you my guide here?”
“Hush my love, please don’t speak, save your strength,” Gabriella’s pretty little hand was pressed to his lips. “We have to get you up and out of here. Can you walk? Just a few steps, to the horse.”
“Are you going to ride me to the Gardens of Dawn?”
“Wherever you say, darling, but let’s at first move and mount.”
A man helped him up. That one looked vaguely familiar, but utterly disgusting, and Richard thought that the Maze had maybe provided him with two guides, the right one in the shape of his beloved and the evil one having taken the form of this repulsive human being. He must have said this aloud, because the man pulled an insulted mien and muttered that he was in fact a very good guide, an excellent one he was, anyone could confirm it if asked. Richard wondered if he was really dead: perhaps, after all, it wouldn’t hurt so much if he was, or would if it was his afterlife trial.
The following journey came to Richard in brief flashes of awareness. He was riding on a horse, someone—maybe Gabriella—supporting him from the back; next moment he was in an inn, sprawled across a large wooden bed; then he was lying in a wagon, a sort of soft mattress under him, which however couldn’t save him from jolting on every pothole on the road. He even managed to hear Gabriella’s voice whisper “Poor head” and feel a light kiss brush the top of his hair, before darkness finally claimed him.
***
The last report from Richard had been received by the Cardinal over a week ago, and Gabriella had been getting more and more worried every day. She would definitely have felt if something really horrible had happened, but still dozens of less horrible dangers awaited Richard at any step of his mission. Furthermore, nothing particular had been known about the actual situation in the Pretender’s host… so, all things considered, Gabriella decided to make a small sortie herself. The legend she’d invented for her family was that she was going on a leisure trip within the Ring, just an innocent vacation to distract herself and relax. Oh no, she won’t be alone and didn’t need any escort, thank you. Oh yes, that’s a nice picnic blanket, Barb, she’d surely use it at the very first stop (Barb had really packed for her a cute, soft and fluffy woolen picnic blanket, with red and white check pattern).
And no, she wasn’t alone. Her company was notorious Raymond Saligan: a slum nobleman, half marauder and half souteneur, and—by some mysterious reason—her father’s loyal aide and almost one of his best friends. The man knew all secret passages in and out of the city and in the countryside and had his ways with the criminals of all nearby towns, so he had been Gabriella’s first choice. He’d eagerly agreed to help his boss’s heir, and they set off on their journey.
They had already advanced as far as to the town of Lay. No sign of the Pretender’s army was visible, though locals occasionally spoke of the war to come. They stopped in an inn on the outskirts of the town (a room they rented contained only one bed, “a very wide one, gentlemen, you’ll easily fit in there, both of you”, but Saligan had no prejudices about sleeping on the floor) and were going to spend the late afternoon and evening in investigations and inquiries. They were ready to depart into the town, when Gabriella’s head exploded with a sudden bolt of pain, quickly followed by another one, in her chest, that made her double over.
“What’s it, m’selle?” Saligan asked in concern.
“Not a mademoiselle for you,” groaned Gabriella through the blinding agony. “I’m a boy!”
“As you say, m’selle. Shouldn’t you go lie down?”
“N-no… We have… have to… Ugh, wait—”
The pain gradually receded to a dull throbbing, allowing her to think straighter. It’s all my fault, she thought. It was my plan, after all; my and the Cardinal’s. Oh how I’ve wronged you, my love, please be alive when we find you. Saligan regarded her with a strange expression on his face, but was silent. She collected herself, wiped her eyes and said:
“We have to find out where the Pretender’s forces stay and if there has been any battle just now, and then go, quickly, and—”
“But what’s the matter?”
“It’s Richard, Richard Oakdell, you know, my father’s squire,” she forced herself to explain. “I feel when he’s in danger. Now please let’s already move!”
The town poorest citizens proved to be the best source of information: Gabriella soon got overwhelmed by the wave of contradictory rumours, but Saligan’s experience let him easily extract the truth. By the night they had become sure that the Pretender’s army was camping at the far side of the forest and that a small clash had occurred in the afternoon between his forces and the town’s garrison, no casualties however ensuing in the latter. Both parties were now waiting for the reinforcements, a gossip circulating that the Pretender was about to run negotiations with one of the Taliguish generals. Gabriella longed to rush into the forest immediately, armed with a torch aflame, but Saligan convinced her of the foolishness of such action. Their search expedition was therefore postponed till the early morning and started at dawn, Gabriella having not slept at all. The deeper they proceeded in the forest the more her pain intensified and the more anxious she got. Suddenly a barely audible noise, soft, almost indistinguishable sound of somebody groaning reached her ears. She halted her horse.
“Wait! Have you heard this? Listen!”
They listened; another weak groan, just a little louder, came.
“Over there,” Saligan pointed his finger in the direction of a small ravine hidden behind the trees. They rode through the grove, dismounted on a clearing and ran to the ravine. Gabrie stopped at the very edge and peered down, while Saligan in one jump got to the bottom and called:
“Don’t look, m’selle! Turn your eyes away! Nothing pleasant here to look at!”
Still she stared, even more intently. A human body lay there, unmoving, lifeless, covered with scattered tree branches, dry leaves and dirt, its naked skin a bright contrast to black colours of the forest ground. With a desperate wail Gabriella jumped down too, kneeled and took Richard’s head in her hands; and, suddenly aware of his eyes open, of his lips voicelessly moving, she nearly fainted with relief.
“Do you have a spare jacket in your bag, m’selle?” Saligan’s question reached her mind through the haze. She pulled Richard’s head onto her lap and, her eyes never leaving his face, absentmindedly fumbled in her over-the-shoulder bag.
It turned out all Richard’s things had gone missing: the assaulters had either stolen his belongings or disposed of them. Saligan had no clothes of his own to share, and Gabrie’s spare shirts were too tight for Richard, so they were ripped into straps and used as bandages for his chest and head; the only piece of cloth suitable to be worn was Barbra’s picnic blanket, so they wrapped Richard in it, making him look like one of those northern Nadorish highlanders he’d used to speak of so much. Then they managed to urge Richard up on his feet, take him out of the ravine and help him on the horseback. Their ride to the inn mirrored two their trips cherished in her memory: this time it was Richard who was sitting in front, slumping over the horse’s neck; and herself who was hugging him from behind, supporting his back and feeling the heat radiating from his body (oh bad, was he already feverish?). The reversal of their roles didn’t bother her anyway, as she had been long used to a boy’s attire and manners (though Richard wouldn’t have liked to be called a damsel in distress), but what made her worried sick was that Richard grew more and more irresponsive and was deeply unconscious when they arrived to the inn. Carrying him to the previously-rented room, placing him on that wonderfully wide bed (“it would accommodate all three of you, gentlemen, if you’re not too fussy”) took all her attention, so she merely missed the moment when he stopped breathing. Oh no! We have just saved you! You cannot die like that, under my very eyes!
“I’d give him a revival kiss,” said Saligan thoughtfully and waved in the air a piece of cloth, all filthy, hardened and crumpled like a ball, “but better to do it through a handkerchief: who knows what he’s had in his mouth, I ain’t gonna get infected.”
“What kiss, Raymond? Is he a princess for you, are we in a fairy-tale?” she cried and, seeing him stretch and smoothen his handkerchief, quickly added: “No-no-no, please take mine, it’s clean, only a little perfumed!”
Saligan’s method helped, and Richard even got lucid enough to swallow a couple of gulps of water, only to return to his senseless state several minutes later. It was decided they should get him home at the utmost possible speed rather than try to tend to him in this gods-forsaken town, and, while Saligan was running their errands, hiring a wagon, horses, a driver, buying pillows, mattresses, blankets, and cloaks, organizing their short departure, Gabriella lowered herself on the floor next to the bed and, taking Richard’s hand, wept silently. She was strong and brave, always ready to jump into action, never afraid of obstacles, a perpetuum mobile of a human, an energetic, vigorous agent in their couple, but now she felt like a scared little girl, confused and helpless. Oh my love, please be safe. Oh my love— Horror grasping her guts, she recalled her meeting with the Left-handed: I’ll help your father, but everything has its price. It’s your love I want, your love, my girl, and nothing more. Was it Richard he’d meant? Was it Richard’s very life she had to pay with?!
When they finally got home (Gabriella didn’t want to remember their ride in the wagon, her horse entrusted to Saligan’s care; those long endless hours of fear, despair, panic, grief, all melted into one sphere of darkness collapsing onto her), Richard’s state had worsened a lot, his health having rapidly deteriorated: he was actually barely alive. A note was immediately (straight after the doctor had been called for) sent to Iris, informing her that her brother had returned and her visit would be welcomed—Gabrie had no nerve to mention that her friend’s brother had been found gravely injured, was now lying in the mansion unconscious, feverish, delirious, struggling for breath, probably dying, and perhaps wouldn’t even recognize his sister.
Iris, with Barbra, who had sensed something wrong in the tone of the note, in tow, arrived soon after the doctor had departed having dictated a foot-long list of prescriptions (cold water, steaming water, ice, compresses, ointments, clean sheets, a light shirt, fresh air, pain-relievers, fever-reducing mixtures, calming draughts, chicken broth, barley tea, and something also for your nerves, young lady) and leaving Gabriella even more disoriented and insecure than before. Gabrie was combing Richard’s beautiful freshly-washed hair, arranging it in lovely locks above the bandage on both sides of his handsome face, its features pitifully distorted by his illness; she was careful to avoid painful bumps on his head: the large one, from the hit, had been treated and tightly bandaged, while the others, from the fall, had been proclaimed less dangerous and were now hidden under the hair. Iris knocked, waited, entered and froze at the doorstep, taking in the picture before her: Richard’s thin frame on the bed, Gabriella leaning over him, a battery of bottles, phials and cups on the bedside table, and an engagement bracelet with sapphires clutched around his wrist, its pendant, glimmering with black gems, adorning Gabrie’s own hand.
“Yes,” Gabrie said to forewarn Iris’s questions. “Yes, Richard’s been wounded and is very ill. And yes, I’m a girl. And yes, we’re engaged. I’ll take it off when the doctor visits next time, because he’s been very strict against foreign objects in a sickbed.”
“Oh Dickon,” Iris exhaled and darted to Richard’s side.
***
When Richard awoke next time, he felt odd, lightheaded and weak. The last thing he remembered clearly was him meeting Udo Born in the forest. All he had experienced after it were vivid, colourful, but inconsistent dreams, that shed no light on what had happened to him in reality: he’d dreamt of his parents, of his father advising him, his mother blessing him, his mother cursing him, both his parents hugging him; of Aldo winning, of Aldo losing, of the Cardinal praising him, of the Cardinal calling him a traitor; of ir Roque throwing him out of the house, of ir Roque giving him a Marshal’s sash; of himself being tortured to death, of himself being executed, drowned in a well, burned alive, cut into pieces, torn by horses; of Gabriella kissing him, Gabriella slapping him, Gabriella holding his hands, Gabriella in his bed, him eloping with Gabriella to the wilderness and living in the woods, him and Gabriella cuddling together; and of himself wandering in the Maze.
He opened his eyes and looked up and around: he was in his old room in Alva’s mansion, swimming in a dim morning light that came from the uncurtained, unshuttered window; his bed canopy had been taken away, and the poles lacking it seemed orphaned, the ceiling too close. He was half lying half sitting in the bed, resting upon a pile of pillows, covered with a warm blanket caringly tucked around him. Had Aldo conquered the capital and rewarded him with his archenemy’s mansion, as he had promised many times? With a shudder Richard recalled a drunken dialogue with his false monarch, when he had asked Aldo to give him, as a winner’s tribute, the Raven’s daughter to become his concubine (surely this would be Barbra, because Gabrie wouldn’t put an end to her masquerade, but that time he had been actually thinking about her and only her). Had Aldo’s efforts failed and was Richard now Alva’s prisoner? Had he been released on bail?
He turned his head and spotted a jug and a cup on the bedside table; realizing he was thirsty he stretched his arm and tried to take the cup, but it slipped from his clumsy fingers and fell on the floor, its clattering noise exploding the silence, water splashing all around. There came a gasp, a surprised exclamation, and a maid appeared, one of those long-lashed, rosy-cheeked Quennalish beauties who had always been present in the mansion. Wringing her arms in an excessive gesture of joy, she made no motion to pick up the cup and give him some drink, but twittered instead:
“Oh dor, you’re finally awake! Please wait, I’ll bring somebody!”
She sprang out of the room, calling loudly: “Soberano! Soberanita! Soberanita!”—and in what seemed a few seconds the door opened again, and in flew Gabriella, dressed in a long nightshirt, her hair made into a loose braid. She looked at him as if considering if she should throw herself on top of him or burst at first into tears, and then dropped onto the bed near him, grabbed both his hands and pressed to her face.
“Oh thanks whoever is in charge of you, my love!” she whispered, printing a kiss on each of his palms. “You really gave us such a scare, it’s been nearly two weeks! Ten days, to be exact, in the house, and a couple more on the road. Please forgive me I wasn’t here for you when you first opened your eyes, but the maître insisted we all should get proper sleep every night unless we want to fall sick ourselves—”
“We all—who’s that?” Richard asked, astonished how coarse his voice sounded.
“That’s me, padre and Iris. Dickon, you’re alive! The doctor said you would eventually wake up, soon, maybe even yesterday evening, but your poor heart didn’t take it well when your fever suddenly went down, and— Oh, sorry, I’m not quite myself, but I’ve been so, so, so very worried! Back in Galtares, you know, that man, the Left-handed, not the real one, b-but Rinaldi, my ancestral cousin, that is— he said he’d be taking my love away, as a price for his f-favour, a-and I thought, I th-thought, I—” her last phrases came out in ragged breaths, her voice cracking into sobs. Richard shifted, his chest immediately protesting, and put an arm around her shoulder.
“Gabrie, I’m here, not going anywhere. It’s okay. Please don’t cry.”
“Yes, yes,” she said, calming down at once. “I’m not crying. Please tell me, maybe you want me to sing to you, or read to you, or just talk? Or maybe eat or drink?”
“Um, to drink at first,” Richard decided. “The cup is on the floor, and I’m afraid I can’t reach it. And then to talk, and you tell me everything from the very beginning, deal? We’ve got plenty of time.”
He heard at first the amazing story of Gabrie’s adventures in Galtares, her meeting with the Departed and the Left-handed, and then learned all mundane news in one scoop: that Alva had been victorious twice, that the rebellion had failed, Aldo was dead and Robert in prison, and that himself had been stripped of all accusations and was now regarded as a war hero.
A new week dragged on. Richard was slowly recovering under Gabriella’s vigilant guard and Iris’s tender care: too slowly for his liking but at a more than average rate according to both the doctor’s and Alva’s words. Even the most innocent exercise and entertainment prohibited (more sleep, more rest, no visits, no guests, no overexerting yourself, no agitation; yes, you may walk as far as to the library, but what would you do there, young man?—no reading, no writing; yes, you may come down for the dinner, but no heavy, fried, spicy food, and no wine), he was growing genuinely bored: he longed to make just a few steps outdoors, to enjoy fresh air in the gardens, but he wasn’t allowed even a balcony on the same floor, not to mention the terrace downstairs, because the autumn weather kept being cold, rainy, windy and dull, as dull as his confinement to his chambers; as dull as constant pain in his body.
His involuntary imprisonment unexpectedly ended one day, when Alva entered his room fiddling with a paper scroll in his fingers.
“Hope you’re already fit enough to walk more than several yards, young gentleman,” Alva said, unfolding the paper, “because His Majesty wants you to be present at the palace reception tonight. I think it’ll deal with the matter of your so-called secret service.”
“Tell your bloody tyrant of a king to stick his order up where the sun doesn’t shine!” Gabrie exclaimed. “Richard is hardly in any condition to rise from the bed, let alone attend a royal reception! It’s been only a week since he awoke! It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say he was on the verge of death!”
She had all rights to be worried: the fever had been raging in him for ten days, the inner fire having nearly consumed his life; and he still wasn’t feeling exactly well at the moment, his injuries far from healed, his strength far from its peak.
“Of course I’ll go, Your Grace,” Richard replied. “Thank you for the tidings.”
“Well, if you get worse after this escapade, I’ll strangle you all, and the maître will approve of me,” Gabriella promised menacingly.
The experience proved not as fatiguing as expected. Richard drove to the palace and back in a carriage: his horse had been found in the Pretender’s camp and returned to the stables of Alva’s mansion, but no-one was going to allow him even a short ride. In the palace he let Gabrie lead him up the staircase, but managed to escape her care and enter the throne room unsupported, though she kept a close distance, and all others present who were well informed about his predicament—Iris, Barbra, and even Valentine—formed something of a circle of honour around him. It wasn’t so difficult to stand still while necessary speeches were being pronounced and formalities carried out, but when the King finally called his name and ordered him to approach, the room tilted, and his attention dissipated: Richard came up to the throne, knelt, bowed his still aching head, and heard the King’s first words:
“Also we would like to thank Duke Oakdell who was of great help for us in the enemy’s army and suffered grievously at the hands—”
The rest of the event went in a blur. Richard vaguely remembered himself answering and thanking the King and then Gabrie’s hands pulling him up and conducting him to the far corner of the room.
“Since when have you grown so overprotective of your father’s squire, Marquis?” one of the ladies-in-waiting asked. “Not that there is anything bad here, of course no! It’s really sweet to see such devotion between friends nowadays.”
Richard swayed a little, feeling small beads of sweat form on his temples, blackness already clouding the edges of his vision. Gabriella clutched his elbow tighter and hissed through her teeth:
“Go sit down, Richard! Don’t wait until you faint!”
When he sat on a chair at the wall, Iris pushed a glass into his palm.
“Water,” she commented. “Drink it. Have you understood what His Majesty said?”
“Not exactly, I’m afraid.”
“Dickon, he’s giving us a house! A mansion, a palazzo almost, as large as Duke Alva’s, as a prize for your service!”
A mansion indeed: that was certainly a curious twist of fate.
The end.
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* Я не утрирую: это почти буквальная цитата из канона, в которой Удо Борн, в свою очередь, почти буквально следует за лирическим героем Бальмонта: «Удо содрал с юноши все, вплоть до рубашки, приладил какие то палки…»
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