fantasies, but to think of something pleasant. What if Rhianon came back and really chose him as her husband? For that he need only find a nameless knight to help him. It turns out that he will win, and Moren will only be his right hand, but after all, the deity will not even marry a beautiful princess. He will give his reward to Moren, as his mortal companion.
“And then we’ll have to fight forever,” the voice from his dream repeated, but it was really just a playful imagination.
Moren knew that he’d painted a far-reaching plan for himself, and that he had no hope of fulfilling it. He ruffled his curly blond hair with his hand. He’d lost his hat a long time ago, and he was afraid to put his helmet on because of the cold. The hard iron would just freeze to his skin, leave scars on his cheeks. He’d seen knights this had happened to before. They became disfigured. And he would have liked to present himself to Rhianon in a better light. He was said to be rather handsome, but there were so many handsome and noble young men at court. And there were always so many knights fighting at tournaments, even over the princess’s shawl or scarf. He wanted to win at least such a tournament to touch her hand holding out the scarf for once, but he failed. Once he was badly wounded and lay in oblivion for a couple of days. It seemed to be during that period that he began to have visions. He had strange dreams. He saw dark creatures pressing against his chest to drink blood from his wound and ripping off the bandage.
“You could be like us, but you won’t,” they hummed, driving him almost insane.
When he recovered from his wound it was springtime, the May fair had begun, and he walked to the fortuneteller’s tent to ask her if his feelings could become mutual, but he did not have to go in to the fortuneteller. A dry hand caught him still at the entrance to the tent. The fearful fortuneteller merely glanced at the lines of his palm and whispered in a squeaky voice that he would never get what he wanted unless he died. It was more like a mockery. Now every time he looked at the colorful ribbons and tents of the fairgrounds he remembered that occasion. The fortuneteller’s voice reminded him of the vile squeaking of his dreams. Now he thought that her words might not have been true. The wretched old woman might have laughed at him. The knight had just recovered from his wounds and was looking for someone in the crowd, a perfect target for impertinent jokes. You could tell he was in love.
That day, after all, he had seen Rhianon. She rode by on a raven stallion, escorted by her retinue, and didn’t even look in his direction. But her mere sight was already like a sunrise. Perhaps now in these thickets and snowy heaths he would meet her and she would let him bring victory to her feet. They will return to Loretta together and she will let him take his place beside her.
Moren shook his head stubbornly. He felt it could not be, and he hoped anyway. Sometimes the most impossible things happen, after all.
Just now, someone was chuckling over the empty snow-covered field and calling to him from the far blackening forest. Moren thought he was going crazy, but what if that wasn’t it at all. In his dreams Rhianon was still returning to the throne, laying a crown on his head, and the treacherous Hildegard retreated into the background for the sake of decency and pretended to share in everyone’s merriment. If he had been Rhianon’s protector, he would have banished the black ogre, for she had squinted too enviously at the princess. She was jealous of Rhianon’s beauty and charm.
Moren didn’t even notice how something in the surrounding atmosphere changed dramatically. It seemed to get a little warmer. He put his hand to his forehead and found droplets of sweat streaming down his skin. Was he hot? The sweat kept streaming and burning his eyes, as if the moisture were red-hot.
“What are you looking for here?” A creeping voice asked from somewhere inside his mind.
“Him,” Moren realized he had opened his mouth and said it out loud. How simple-minded. He was not supposed to tell anyone, or even the emptiness itself, about his plans. It’s a precautionary measure. But on the other hand, how will he find that knight if no one tells him where to look. Even though Manfred’s order to look for him made no sense, Moren did not ride through the wastelands and valleys because he was following orders. He was looking for someone he wanted to find himself.
His horse could hardly walk, and there was something rustling and hissing in the melting snow beneath his hooves. Melting? Moren looked down in astonishment, right under his horse’s feet. Could it really be the end of winter already? But it was only the beginning of February. It had been the worst month of his life. Perhaps he would not live to see March and the first snowdrops. All his troops would not live to see them.
Moren suddenly felt the nearness of fire, as if someone had made a fire right in the snow. After so many weeks of cold, the warmth should have felt pleasant to him, but instead it felt like it burned. It wasn’t even heat, it was intense heat.
Moren struggled to get off the stubborn horse. The animal would not go any farther. Moren had to walk on his own through the melting snow. Sometimes his feet got stuck in hollows and drifts. In some places the snow did not melt after all. The young man noticed a hard crust of ice over a frozen stream, and to his left, clumps of bluish snowdrops nestled right in the melted snow. He took his glove off his hand and wiped the sweat from his forehead once more. The liquid really burned. Maybe his own sweat or tears could scorch his skin. The unbearably bright glow ahead blinded and burned his eyes. He felt his eyeballs tingle and tears as hot as sweat collect inside his eyelids. What is this obsession?
“You have stepped into his territory,” the obliging voice explained. “You wanted to see the deity’s domain, didn’t you? Now look.”
From the blinding light and the hot tears Moren could no longer look. He could really make out a fire somewhere in the distance, the flames crackling and fluttering in the snow, but the heat wasn’t coming from it. Black creatures, remotely resembling fabulous leprechauns, danced around the fire. Catch one, and it will grant your every wish, lead you to great treasures, or tell you a magical secret. All you have to do is to hold it tightly in your hands and not let it out. Leprechaun will start beating and trying to trick you to escape, in any case, you don’t let him go, then the gold magic baby count in your pocket. Well, there, it turns out he still remembered the tales of his nannies and maids from his father’s old castle. He could catch one of the leprechauns, he could hold on to it despite all the tricks and even the bites of the tiny needle-tooth, only it wasn’t the gold he wanted. More precisely, his ultimate desire was somehow connected to the gold, but he didn’t understand how. He needed to find the nameless knight, the god who had appeared to him in his dreams in armor wrapped in the sun. Moren was even willing to catch the Leprechaun if only he could find the knight or say the magic words to summon him. How hard could he dodge now? Moren had already stretched his arm forward, but then someone grabbed him sharply by the shoulder.
“Don’t,” a sly voice said over his ear. “Don’t make a wish for something that is already written in your destiny.”
Moren wanted to turn around, or at least look at his hand, but the man would not let him. It seemed to him that his hand was held not by fingers but by claws, black claws like the ones that ate corpses on the battlefield, but he couldn’t see them clearly. He couldn’t even see them from the corner of his eye, only feel them.
Something scalding smelled on his shoulder. He winced and tried to break free, but then the intruding voice came again.
“I will take you to him,” he promised, “to your knight. You are destined to be together, I know it.”
“Who are you?” Moren found it hard to speak.
The soft laughter that echoed in his ears was more like a rustling noise.
“It doesn’t matter who I am. You will have him, in his full battle dress, with his shield painted with runes and his sword.”
“What does he want?” Moren himself did not remember how he had managed to formulate his question, but that was what worried him the most right now. What if the brilliant knight would not heed his request, and would not side with Loretta