Андрей Смирнов

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THE MAD GROVE
(Story One)
In ancient times, when gods descended to earth, and people were equal to gods, among other demons and spirits of elements, there was one who bore the name Mjaonel. Once, he could have joined the pantheon of deities and become one of the lesser gods, but he neglected this opportunity, for he did not want to be a lesser one. He became a powerful mage and lived in seclusion for a long time, perfecting his craft. Like many other deities who refused bliss - those who descended to earth before him and those who descended much later - following the Paths of Power, he discovered one day that his Power was not whole. The spells he cast, he borrowed from wind and flame, from the noise of the sea waves and the silence of the mountains, read scriptures in the paths of clouds, and in the signs that soaring birds drew in the sky. Borrowed - and that's it, but Mjaonel himself was not a source of magic, could not create anything that had not previously existed in this world, on earth, in hell or under the heavens, could not connect what was not connected, or separate what constituted a single whole. Realizing this, he spent another thousand years refining his art and continuing to seek in the world of elemental forces a path that would lead him to the power he craved. But he searched - and did not find this path.
Meanwhile, observing the flow of Power in his secluded dwelling, he could see that the existing world was not enclosed in the number of elements originally brought into it. Strange creatures and strange forces appeared as if from nowhere and found their place under the sun's rays or under the cover of darkness, or even under the glow of the black sun, illuminating the boundaries of the Lower Worlds. The unprecedented became manifest, and then an inseparable, natural part of the universe, and the impossible intertwined with the impossible. Flowers of fire, yarn of sea waves, glass earth, and winds whose shining wings sting like sharpened blades... The world filled with wonders - and Mjaonel could only use the power of these wonders but could not create new ones.
And so, one day, as he explored the essence of fire, disassembling the flame into components - heat and the ever-changing form, his servants informed him that a traveler had wandered into his lands - severely wounded, in need of immediate help. Mjaonel ordered to bring the stranger to his spell chambers, armed himself with magical instruments - a knife for air, a bowl for water, a massive seal for earth, and a short stick for fire. Soon the doors swung open, and four of his strongest servants carried the foreigner on their shoulders. Leaving him in the center of the spell circle, they stepped away, and Mjaonel, looking closely, shuddered, for he recognized his face. The visitor was equal to Mjaonel in origin - one of those who had left the heavens and settled on earth in their time. His name was Rafag. Although he was unconscious and slowly dying from a terrible wound in his chest, Mjaonel had no doubt that he would soon be able to get him back on his feet and ask what had brought his fellow to such a sad state.
He cut off the pain with a knife, then with the power of the bowl sealed the blood so that it no longer flowed from Rafag's body. With the water from the bowl, he cleansed the wound and breathed new life into the dying man's chest with his staff. He closed the wound with a seal, joining its edges.
Setting the tools aside, Mjaonel noticed that his guest had regained consciousness. He also realized that Rafag recognized him and was trying to say something, but since he was still too weak, Mjaonel had to lean in to hear him.
"It won't help," whispered the one who had once been a bodiless spirit, and now was dying because the flesh he was confined to was dying. "The old magic is powerless against those who followed us... Look for yourself."
And glancing at Rafag's chest, Mjaonel saw how the edges of the wound were slowly but inevitably spreading, showing the futility of his efforts.
"Who did this?" asked Mjaonel.
"He calls himself the Name Giver. He's insane."
"What did you fight about?"
Rafag laughed bitterly.
"There was no real reason. I was too proud, and he wanted to teach me a lesson."
"Where can I find the Name Giver?"
"Don't look for him. Your magic will be as powerless against him as mine was. Our time is over. The masters of the celestial spheres are calling us back."
"We'll see," said Mjaonel, for he believed words born of despair as little as those spoken in the intoxication of joy.
However, days went by and he still could not heal Rafag. After seven days, no longer able to resist death, he left his bloodless shell and departed from the world below the heavens. Mjaonel carried his body to the funeral pyre and set out on his journey that very day.
Besides the cloak, which at the owner's wish could make him invisible, weightless, and invulnerable, and the walking staff, which seemed to every mage a mighty thing filled with Power - but in reality was not - Mjaonel took nothing with him.
He wandered the roads for a long time, led only by the immortal, noticing and memorizing the changes that had taken place in the world. From afar, he saw many amazing places: a castle atop a mountain, surrounded by a force that combined both flame and darkness; a palace rising from the sea's depths, made of foam, water, and crystal; a huge temple with a golden roof, floating above the bustling city. And then one day, he entered the shade of a dark forest and walked through it for six days until he met a youth in shining, polished armor. Noticing him, the youth drew his sword and blocked Mjaonel's path.
"Stop!" said the youth. "Stop and answer me: are you lost in the forest or intentionally heading to its heart, to the Windowless Tower, where the Master of Shapeshifters dwells?"
"And if so, what then?" replied Mjaonel, thinking, How fortunate that this young man is talkative! How else would I have known whose lands these are?
"Then," cried the warrior, raising his sword, "I must kill you!"
But Mjaonel did not move or raise his staff to defend himself, for he saw in the youth's eyes that he could not strike an unarmed man. The youth hesitated, and Mjaonel mockingly asked:
"Why do you want to kill me? I am not your enemy. We barely know each other. Or did the Master of Shapeshifters order you to kill everyone who strays into his lands?"
"Not at all," replied the youth contemptuously, "I do not serve him. But I am going to the Windowless Tower to kill the Master of Shapeshifters, and I will not tolerate rivals. And if you are not a rival, but one of his minions, it is better to destroy you now rather than later when you'll be helping your master!"
But Mjaonel silently laughed at these words.
"I do not serve the Master of Shapeshifters, and I am not your rival. I have no concern for the Windowless Tower. However, if you do not object to my company, I am willing to go with you there and assist you in battle."
"No!" said the youth, again stretching his sword between them. "No one will stand between me and my goal. I do not need your help. And if you still try to provide it, I will kill you first and then my enemy!"
Mjaonel marveled at the recklessness of youth but remained silent. Instead, he said, with a dazzling smile:
"Well, then I will go with you just to witness your battle and immortalize its details in verse."
For a while, the youth looked thoughtfully at him, and then said, without putting away his weapon:
"Swear that you will not interfere in our duel."
And Mjaonel swore.
They continued on their way together. As night approached, they stopped to rest and gather strength before meeting the master of the Windowless Tower. And then Mjaonel asked the youth, whose name was Kermal, why he so persistently refused any help.
"I am on a quest," Kermal replied, "and if I can defeat the Master of Shapeshifters, I will gain his power."
"Is that so?" Mjaonel marveled. "Is his power so easily obtained?"
"Not everyone," replied Kermal. "I exterminate monsters, and that makes me stronger."
"How did you acquire such a strange ability?"
"I was the weakest in the city guard," the youth began to tell his story. "Besides, I was the youngest. My comrades laughed at my weakness and inexperience. So, I went to the cave where old Gvethhing lived and asked her how to gain Strength. She wanted to know what kind of strength I craved. I replied that I wanted to be a hero, the kind people sing ballads about. That's when she suggested this path to me. Admittedly, I am only required to do good deeds and fight evil wherever I encounter it, but it didn't turn out to be as burdensome as I initially thought. It's true, though, that I haven't accomplished anything truly great yet. Defeating the Werewolf Lord will be my first real feat."
"But have you achieved anything at all?" asked Mjaonel with a smirk, finally convinced that he was dealing with a foolish, conceited youth.
The young man just shrugged, stood up, and knocked down a huge, century-old tree with a single punch.
"Is an ordinary person capable of that?" he asked, sitting back down by the fire. "And just a year ago, I called liars those who talked about anything like that."
"Yes, I see Gvethhing's advice didn't go to waste," said Mjaonel, recovering from his astonishment. "It seems you've already achieved everything you wanted."
"Not at all," the youth dismissively waved his hand. "These are trifles. But, I believe that by killing the Werewolf Lord, I will gain immortality and become equal to the gods. And then..."
"Wait," interrupted Mjaonel, "does that mean you're going to the Windowless Tower just for the sake of greed? That doesn't quite align with the image of a noble hero in the ballads. And there will surely be listeners to the ballad who will call this act a mere murder, not a feat."
"They won't find any," the youth disdainfully brushed off. "Because the Werewolf Lord is a monster. He has committed enough evil deeds and caused people considerable suffering for his extermination to be considered a heroic, just, and noble act. Besides, it is known that his only daughter languishes in the Windowless Tower. Each morning, when the Werewolf Lord visits her, he threatens to tear her apart, and she has to sing for him to soothe his rage. Then he falls asleep, and, waking up with renewed strength, leaves the Tower in the evening and hunts humans all night. So, you are wrong to try to find flaws in my deed, oh poet."
"I see only one flaw," said Mjaonel. "And it lies in the fact that the Werewolf Lord might not want to become your first feat. Compared to this flaw, all others are insignificant. However, let's end this conversation and wish each other a peaceful sleep, for even if some of our hopes may not be fulfilled tomorrow, as I foresee, we will not be bored in any case. Moreover, you will need all your strength tomorrow, oh hero."
With these words, they fell asleep. When the first rays of the sun illuminated the sky, they were already on their way. And before mid-morning, emerging from the forest thicket, they saw a tall tower, devoid of windows and doors. An ominous silence reigned around the tower, and not a single living creature dared to disturb it. Retreating under the cover of the forest, the travelers discussed what to do next. They both agreed that the Werewolf Lord had already returned home and was now sleeping, so it was best to attack him immediately before night came and the master of the Tower regained his strength. Mjaonel, using magic, penetrated the stone wall of the Tower and led Kermal through. They climbed a long staircase to the top of the building, and Kermal, leading the way, easily dealt with the werewolves guarding the stairs. At the very top was a room with walls adorned with various musical instruments, and on the bed, huddled in the pillows, sat a beautiful girl, looking fearfully at the strangers. Kermal, the first to enter the room, quickly scanned it but found no trace of the monster's presence.
"Where is your father?" He asked the girl, but she did not answer, and trembling, she did not take her frightened gaze off Kermal, for the knight, who had put so much effort into her rescue, was smeared from head to toe with the blood of the monsters during the battle and now looked more like a monster himself than a man. Then Mjaonel, who wisely stayed behind the warrior, stepped out from behind him and addressed the girl:
"Tell me, milady, is it true that the one called the Master of Werewolves appears in this Tower every morning and threatens you with death?"
"Indeed, it is true," the girl said. "It is also true that the Master of Werewolves is my father. However, I despise him with all my heart and will gladly help you if you have come to take his life and free me. But beware — he should appear here any minute now."
"Then let us go, milady, let us leave this place quickly," said Mjaonel, extending his hand to her.
By the same route they arrived, they left the Windowless Tower. As the staircase was slippery with blood, Mjaonel carried the girl in his arms, while Kermal led the way, clearing the stairs of new monsters that emerged from the basement of the Tower, sensing trouble above.
After leaving the tower, the fugitives initially argued — Kermal suggested staying and confronting the monster in its lair, but Mjaonel convinced him that their first priority should be the safety of Santris (the girl's name).
"Besides," he assured the knight, "the Master of Werewolves will undoubtedly pick up our scent and pursue us, so you'll still have a chance to show your valor."
And so it happened. No sooner had they left the Tower than a loud roar was heard — the monster was returning home. Within a few minutes, they heard the creature roar even louder — there was no doubt it had discovered the disappearance of its daughter and the corpses of the guards. Soon, heavy footsteps and the sound of breaking trees could be heard behind the fugitives — the Master of Werewolves was on their trail. Then Kermal fell behind Mjaonel, who was still carrying the girl in his arms, and prepared to face the monster. Meanwhile, Mjaonel continued to delve deeper into the forest.
"Why won't you stay and help your friend?" Santris asked him.
"There are three reasons," Mjaonel replied. "First, I gave him my word that I would not interfere; second, he is better prepared for this encounter than I am; and third, Kermal will try to kill me if I break my word and interfere after all. There's a fourth reason: someone has to get you out of this forest before indulging in the pursuit of their own glory."
Mjaonel continued to race through the forest, holding the girl close. His cloak had properties that made trees and thorny bushes part before him, and at the same time, since the cloak took away most of Mjaonel's weight, he flew through the air without tiring, barely touching the ground.
But let's return to Kermal. On the bank of a stream, Kermal met his foe, his heart fortified, his sword bared, and prepared for a long battle. First, the Master of Werewolves appeared to him as a lion, but Kermal easily overcame it. Then the Master of Werewolves took the form of a bull, but Kermal knocked it down with a single blow. After that, the Master of Werewolves appeared in his most terrifying guise — as a multi-headed dragon — but the knight did not retreat then either. With his shield, he protected himself from the flames and poison, and with his sword, he cut off all the dragon's heads. Realizing that it was impossible to defeat his opponent by force, the Master of Werewolves transformed into a swarm of sleepy butterflies and attacked Kermal from all sides. Although the knight, suspecting some trickery, swung his sword so fast that he instantly turned the butterflies' wings into a heap of tiny scraps, the pollen that fell from their wings enveloped him in a suffocating cloud. Kermal, unable to fight off sleep, fell by the stream and slept, while the Master of Werewolves, triumphantly celebrating victory, turned into a jackal and bit through his throat. Having dealt with Kermal, he resumed his pursuit of the fugitives, taking his usual form — a thousand-headed giant.
Hearing that the giant was catching up with them, the fugitives realized that Kermal had lost the fight. Then Santris cried, begging Mjaonel to let her go and thus avoid inevitable doom — for there was still hope that when her father got her back, he would not pursue the second kidnapper. But Mjaonel just laughed in response to her words. He threw his staff across their trail.
"I believe this mighty thing will keep him busy for a while, and we'll be able to slip away in the meantime," he said, still laughing. Then he stopped and tied the bottom tips of his cloak—just as only the top ones had been tied before. At that moment, the weight of both him and Santris (the cloak was wide enough to cover both) disappeared entirely, and, like a soap bubble, they rose into the sky and flew away, driven by the west wind.
Indeed, the ruse worked. For the day and the following night, no one disturbed them, and then it became clear that they had shaken off their pursuer. In the following days, they sometimes moved on the ground and sometimes flew, trying to get out of the forest as quickly as possible. At night, Mjaonel spread the cloak like a canopy, and they spent the time safely until morning. One night, Santris came to her savior and gave herself to him in love, and Mjaonel found her tender and passionate, virginal and depraved, modest and insatiable. Vice combined with chastity in her, timidity with pride. Mjaonel had never met anyone like her before. And he was her first man.
Mjaonel asked Santris about her father and learned that the master of the Windowless Tower used to be quite different. Santris assured him that the Master of Werewolves had once been an ordinary wizard—powerful, wise, and tenderly loving his wife and their seven children. However, the search for the true Power (at these words Mjaonel became alert and listened twice as attentively) led him far from human nature, and one day he lost control over the changes taking place within him. His mind became like the mind of a wild beast. In his heart merged the fury of a lion and the cold greed of a dragon, the cunning of a jackal, and the rage of a bear awakened from winter hibernation. And so, appearing one night at the Windowless Tower, he tore Santris' mother apart and set up a magical guard so that his children could not escape. The next morning, he killed his eldest son, and a day later—his daughter. This continued until only Santris remained alive. And then, the morning came when he came for her. In desperation, she took a lute in her hands and sang, urging her father to come to his senses. And then the Master of Werewolves froze in place and lost his rage. He then lay down on the carpet and slept. In the evening, he got up and left, and in the morning, satiated with the blood of travelers, he appeared again, and again Santris' song calmed him. And so it went on for three years — until Kermal and Mjaonel broke into the tower and freed the girl.
Soon they emerged from the forest. Mjaonel, feeling it his duty to show Santris human settlements, took her to one of the most beautiful cities he knew—Inor Takled, the palaces and walls of which were built by the giant Folskhantenes. Santris marveled at the magnificence before her, and Mjaonel smiled, watching her astonishment. For he, once of the same kind as demigods, still remembered the times when bare coastal rocks piled up where Inor Takled now stood.
For a while, they lived in Inor Takled—until they heard rumors that one of the Possessor of Power was approaching, intending to enslave the city and subject it to the laws of their magic. Upon hearing this, Mjaonel hurriedly began to prepare for the journey, intending to leave the city before the Possessor of Power's arrival, and Santris asked about the reason for his haste.
"But, can't you," Santris said when he explained the reason, "use your own magic to oppose him? Your cloak makes you invulnerable—what are you afraid of?"
"My cloak is enchanted against the effects of all the elements I know," Mjaonel replied. "However, the Possessors of Power carry elements that did not exist before. My magic is powerless against them, and their magic will easily strike me down."
However, Santris paid no heed to his words.
"Well," she said, smiling sadly, "I am sorry that I loved a coward."
And then Mjaonel's face turned darker than the night, and, forgetting about packing, he withdrew, for no man, even one who was once a demigod, can remain indifferent to such words.
He asked the local residents in detail about the Power that the one approaching the city possesses. He learned that the newcomer was called the Master of Roads, and his power was great, for he could encircle any path, turn any weapon against the attacker, and send anyone who dared to stand in his way to any part of the world—be it the bottom of the ocean, the battlefield, or the heart of a fiery desert. He could also walk on fire without burning, on water, and in the air as if on land. Moreover, he could grant or take away luck, change the course of events, determine the timing of various events, postpone or bring closer the day of death—for, to a certain extent, he also had power over the roads of mortal people's fate. In Inor Takled, his arrival was awaited with horror. It was said that in the cities and villages where he had stayed before, moving in the usual way became impossible. Roads ceased to be straight and even—they only seemed that way, but in reality, taking just one step forward, one could find themselves a hundred steps back. Or in the sky. Or underground. Or inside a burning fireplace. Or in a dog's kennel. Or in someone else's house. Or on the doorstep of their own home.
Some of the inhabitants of those cities went mad, some died of hunger, and only a few managed to escape—they told the people of Inor Takled about what awaited them when the Master of Roads reached them. It was useless to run, they said. The Master of Roads could easily return anyone he wished to the doorstep of their own home.
Having thus learned everything he could about his enemy, Mjaonel also found out which gods were currently worshiped in Inor Takled. The answer satisfied him completely. Without wasting another minute, he took on the appearance of a gray-haired old man and left the city gates. As he stepped onto the wide road leading out of the city, he loudly announced his intention to meet the Master of Roads, so it was no surprise that after a while the road turned into a trail, and the trail led Mjaonel to the seashore, where a young man sat on a rock, his eyes resembling a tangle of writhing snakes. The young man looked mockingly at the approaching wizard.
"What do you want from me, immortal?" He asked when Mjaonel had come close enough. "Speak quickly. I'm in a hurry—a big city awaits me. It's not out of the question that if I like the palaces of the Folskhantens, I will make Inor Takled the capital of my kingdom."
"I have no doubt of that, oh mighty one," said Mjaonel, bowing respectfully. "I, a clumsy old wizard, have come to you with a desire to know the answers to two questions that have been troubling me since I heard of your amazing power. Will you allow me to ask them?"
"Fine, speak," the young man said dismissively, gratified by the old mage's reverence.
"Here is the first: rumors say that you not only control ordinary paths, but also the roads of mortal fate. Is that true? And if so, does your power extend to immortals as well? And if so, does your power equal or even surpass that of the gods, for none of them, as far as I know, possess such power and do not rule over fate?"
And, having asked this question, Mjaonel saw that the young man frowned as if he had heard something unpleasant for himself.
"No," said the young man. "Not yet. However, my power grows day by day, and the time is not far when the fates of the gods themselves will be subject to me."
Mjaonel quietly rejoiced at this answer because, if the young man already had power over the fates of immortals now—which meant power over his own fate and over Mjaonel's fate—the whole plan he had conceived would become pointless.
"Oh mighty one," Mjaonel addressed the young man again. "It is a great honor for me to converse with the one who will eventually take the throne of the Judge of Gods. Perhaps you will find my next question amusing—well, laugh, just do not take offense at the foolish words of an old man! Do you allow me to speak?"
"Speak," said the Possessor of Power, proudly, like a turkey inflated by Mjaonel's flattery.
"Do you fully possess the magic of paths and directions? Or is what people call you the Master of something that is not actually your property? Is it true that all the paths of the world belong to you, or is it a cunning deception with only the appearance of truth?"
"What?!" The young man shouted, jumping up from the stone. "You doubt my Power? Perhaps you want, old man, for me to teleport you into the mouth of a volcano and seal all the paths from it? I'll do it now, and we'll see how much your immortality is worth if you have to spend the rest of eternity in molten lava!"
"Wait, oh great one!" Exclaimed Mjaonel, folding his hands in prayer before himself. "Please, have mercy!.. Or punish me as you see fit, but first answer my question! Am I right, and is what I said the truth? Refute it, oh strongest of wizards!"
"And how am I to refute this lie?" The Master of Roads asked haughtily. "Well, speak, old man! You have nothing to fear now - your fate cannot get worse, for it is already miserable."
"I know a path that even you, Master of Roads, would not dare to take."
"What path is that? To the paradise gardens? I've been there. To hell? I found nothing interesting there."
"No, although the road I speak of may lead there as well. Sooner or later, every living being will walk this path at least once."
"What are you talking about?"
"I'll show you."
And since the young man condescendingly nodded, Mjaonel prepared everything necessary for the ritual. He drew a pentagram in the sand and adorned its corners with human skulls. Then, turning to the east, north, south, and west, he addressed the appropriate powers. Next, inviting the young man to the center of the star, Mjaonel suddenly struck him with a knife. But the Master of Roads laughed, and Mjaonel felt blood flowing from his own body in the same place.
"Fool," said the young man, pushing the wizard away. "So this was just a trick? You will pay dearly for your foolishness and treachery."
"No, master!" Exclaimed Mjaonel. "It was not a trick. I perform magic as I know how. Perhaps my sorcery seems too crude to you, but I have no other. I never doubted that my knife would not harm you; I only wanted an answer to my question. And I got it," he added hastily, seeing the young man raising his hand to strike, "you do not fully possess what you dare to call your Power!"
"What are you babbling about, mad old man?" The young man sneered.
"The Road of Death!" Mjaonel shouted. "The path along which the dead travel! You dare not tread this path, for it is not under your control, and you know you cannot return."
"Fool!" The young man repeated. "I have already been to the Realm of the Dead. It is a boring place."
"Prove it!" Mjaonel insisted. "I know that in one of the record books of the God of the Dead, there should be an entry about a certain Malribius from Ernami. Show me this book, and I will believe you."
"Very well," said the Master of Roads. "You will see this book. But while I am away, prepare yourself: as soon as I return from the God of the Dead's library, I will send you on an incredible journey along the Roads of Pain, for you, old man, have angered me exceedingly."
And so, the young man touched one of the skulls and opened a path to the Realm of the Dead. He left along this road - haughtily smiling, filled with contempt for Mjaonel's insignificant magic.
As soon as he disappeared, Mjaonel quickly healed his wound, and, turning into a bird, hurried back to the city. In front of the gates of the gloomy gray temple, he assumed human form again, and, rushing up the steps, passed the long, dimly lit hall filled with statuettes and baskets into which the parishioners threw tablets with the names of the deceased, and approached the altar. There he addressed the God of the Dead, to whom the temple belonged, with a request for an audience, and his request was heard. The temple was enveloped in gray haze, a cold wind blew, moans and wails sounded from everywhere, and Mjaonel, ascending as if on a glass staircase above the altar, stepped through the doors of the Underworld.
He found himself in a spacious room, along the walls of which columns rose so huge that their tops were not visible, disappearing into darkness high above the ceiling. The flame in the torches, inserted into metal brackets, was transparent gray and seemed to be made of glass – the flame illuminated nothing. However, darkness did not prevail here either: a dim light, the source of which could not be determined, spread evenly throughout the hall. At the far end of the hall towered a throne on which sat a majestic, motionless figure, as if carved from stone. This was the God of the Dead. Mjaonel, without hesitation but also without haste, headed toward him, and the lifeless guards who had surrounded the newcomer immediately after his appearance accompanied Mjaonel all the way to the throne.
"What brought you to my palace, unborn one?" The God of the Dead asked with a smile. "Are you tired of the earth? Have you decided to join my retinue?"
"No, Lord," said Mjaonel, bowing briefly, "I suppose I am not ready for that yet. I have come to warn you. While you rightly judge, thieves roam your palace and take whatever they like. For example, one of them is now in the room where the records of the deceased are stored. Obviously, he is looking for some souvenir to remember. Just imagine the chaos he will bring to your books and scrolls..."
"A thief?!" The God of the Dead asked menacingly. "Well, let's see!"
And, leaving the throne, he went to the library. Mjaonel, hiding a smile, followed him. He had no doubt that the Master of Roads was still rummaging through old dusty folios, for Malribius from Ernami had never lived in the world, and the town itself had been destroyed by conquerors many centuries ago.
Having discovered the intruder, the God of the Dead bound him with his power, for everything in the Realm of Shadows was under his control. Seeing that the young man possessed considerable magic, the God of the Dead brought his face close to that of the Master of Roads and touched his lips. Along with his breath, he infused the captive with a portion of his own magic, subjugating the youth's power to himself and thus turning the thief into a submissive servant. He also gave the young man a new name – Kirult, Guide of the Dead. Kirult gritted his teeth, watching Mjaonel leave the palace of the God of the Dead, but did not dare to attack him in the presence of his master. Mjaonel was not afraid of his quick revenge, as he was confident that the Lord of the Realm of the Dead would find plenty of work for his new servant.
Upon returning to Inor Takled, Mjaonel announced that the danger had passed. The city hailed him as a hero. The king who ruled Inor Takled invited the wizard and his beloved to his palace. There, a feast was held in Mjaonel's honor, and Santris looked at her lover with silent admiration. When asked how he managed to defeat the Master of Roads, Mjaonel replied only: "Nothing complicated: he was foolish. It was not difficult to send him to the Realm of the Dead." It cannot be said that his answers contradicted the truth, but everyone who heard them believed that Mjaonel had defeated the Master of Roads in a deadly magical duel. And Mjaonel remained silent, not wanting to disappoint people who considered him a hero.
And there was a feast. Wine flowed like a river, the exquisite dishes prepared by the cooks exuded such delightful aromas that they could awaken greed even in an ascetic, and the dances of the naked dark-skinned slave girls captivated the eye and stole the mind. Mjaonel spent time conversing with the sorcerers and dignitaries of Inor Takled, and when night fell, he retired with Santris to the rooms allotted to them in the palace. There he tossed his cloak into the air, covering the entire room like a dome. Mjaonel had done this every night since he had fled with Santris from the Tower Without Windows to protect himself from her father's spells, for the Master of Shapeshifters was particularly strong at night. However, during the feast, he did not notice that a small mouse had gnawed a hole in his cloak. Giving themselves to love and enjoying each other, Mjaonel and Santris fell asleep. Soon, a sleepy butterfly flew in through the window. The butterfly circled above Mjaonel's face, then descended to the floor, where it first turned into a mouse, then a cat, then a fox, then a leopard, and then took on human features. At that moment, Santris woke up and recognized her father with horror. She began to shake Mjaonel, but he did not wake up, and the Master of Shapeshifters approached the bed, threatening death to both lovers. His nails on his hands lengthened, his chest expanded forward and outward, and his head took on bear-like features.
"Stop," he growled at his daughter, "you won't wake your friend anyway. I'll tear him apart in front of you, and then I'll kill you too — which, by the way, should have been done long ago."
And then Santris began to sing, and the Master of Shapeshifters stopped. Straining her voice, swallowing tears, Santris continued to sing, while in the soul of the Master of Shapeshifters, the beast's malice fought with the reason of a man. And then he picked up his daughter in his arms, jumped out of the window, rose into the sky, and flew westward. He did not touch Mjaonel.
When the effects of the sleepy butterfly's pollen wore off in the morning, the hero of the previous day, upon waking, saw that his beloved had been abducted. Discovering the hole in the enchanted canopy, he learned how the abduction had been carried out, and seeing the claw marks on the floor, he guessed by whom. Without hesitation, he gathered his things, rolled up his magical cloak, and said goodbye to the palace hosts. They tried to persuade him to stay, but he gratefully declined. He also asked the courtiers about how to get to the cave of the prophetess Gwethhing. They described the route in detail, as many of the dignitaries of Inor Takled had visited Gwethhing and asked her their questions.
And so, after some time, Mjaonel reached the cave of the prophetess. Upon entering, he met a mangy dog and a huge old rat, feeding from the same bowl. And when he entered, the dog tore itself from the food and growled at him. Flame erupted from its mouth, and its eyes wept icy tears.
"I don't wish you harm," Mjaonel said peaceably. "I won't touch you. I have come to see your mistress."
"Please, come in, my lord!" The rat immediately exclaimed. "Don't mind Tirka. He won't bite you. Please, come in, my lord, don't be afraid!"
And Mjaonel, having grown accustomed to various wonders during his long life, calmly walked past the talking rat and the demonic dog, appreciating the sense of humor of old Gwethhing.
In the next cave, he saw Gwethhing. The prophetess was old and ugly, resembling a homeless, bald beggar. Nevertheless, Mjaonel bowed respectfully to her and greeted her as if she were a noble lady.
"Flattery," the prophetess smiled in response. "I've heard so much flattery in my lifetime — that I'm young, beautiful, charming, and kind — but it still warms my heart when a young liar like you comes along and weaves their falsehoods. Well, speak up, why have you come?"
"Madam," Mjaonel said, "your wisdom is renowned throughout the lands. I have come to seek your advice."
"Advice…" The seeress mused. "I must warn you, mortal: the price of my advice is always higher than the benefit derived from it."
"What do you mean, wise woman?"
"What I have is all mine, unborn one. Whatever you ask me, I won't tell you anything new, and if that's the case, whatever you pay me and whatever you have to pay later will still be more than nothing, right?"
"Your words are cryptic, wise Gwethhing. Tell me directly, what price do you demand for your advice?"
"Usually, I don't demand a high price, but since you're so kind, Mjaonel, give me your cloak, which makes anyone who wears it invisible, weightless, and invulnerable — because I'm tired of answering the foolish questions posed to me by brainless people and lazy deities, and I wish to hide from them."
And without argument, Mjaonel took off his magical cloak from his shoulders, rolled it up, and placed it on a stone. However, while folding the cloak, he surreptitiously pinched one of the torn threads between his thumb and forefinger.
"How can I gain my own Power?" he asked then.
"Like you don't know that yourself," the witch mockingly defended, greedily devouring the gift with her eyes.
"Did you give the same answer to Kermaly, the monster slayer?"
"To the foolish boy Kermaly, I gave an answer he could understand."
"Am I worse than him that you don't even give me that much?"
"No, Mjaonel, not worse and not better. I thought you were smarter."
"Answer," the wizard hissed angrily. "Stop insulting me and answer clearly — or you won't get the cloak."
"What do you want to know?" The old prophetess sighed bitterly.
"How to gain Power? How to bring new magic into the world? How to learn to create the impossible?"
"To create the impossible."
"Speak!" Mjaonel ordered, barely containing his rage.
"What else can I say if you don't want to listen? How can I teach you your Power? You must find the way to it yourself. Only then will it truly become yours. You have mastered many known paths of magic, Mjaonel, but to the magic you yearn to possess, there are no known ways. Many perish on this path — like Kermaly; many lose Power — like the Lord of the Roads, whom you cleverly deceived; and many, having gained Power, lose their minds — remember the Lord of the Werewolves! Listen to the magic that is ready to be born within you, Mjaonel — and you will understand what you need to do. I will only tell you one thing — you cannot gain something without losing something, so think again whether you should continue to strive for power.
And suddenly, it seemed to Mjaonel that he indeed understood something — or was about to. Anger left him, he bowed low to Gvethhing and left the cave. As he crossed the threshold, he nearly stumbled upon the rat and the dog, realizing that they had been eavesdropping on the conversation. The dog growled, dripping fiery saliva on the cave floor, while the rat, bowing low, exclaimed:
"Clearly, milord, you are a well-mannered and patient person. Some, you wouldn't believe, need to be dragged away from her by force. They would have strangled her long ago, the kind soul, if it wasn't for me and Tirke. But, go ahead, milord, go ahead. I sense another visitor is coming."
"Let them come," shrugged Mjaonel. "Your mistress is about to retire and will no longer accept visitors."
"And I say: let them come!" The rat muttered. "Because it's you anyway, milord, and there's no need for a second time…"
But Mjaonel had already left the cave and didn't hear the last words of the rat. And for another seven years, he wandered the world, conversing with various sages, seeking ancient scrolls, and talking to demons occupying the bodies of small children when the children's souls left during sleep and forgot to return. Mjaonel learned that the world had become entirely different from the times of his youth, and what had once seemed unshakable and indisputable now turned into legend and falsehood, and what could never have happened was happening and firmly taking its place in the new world order. Where did this newness come from? Obviously, it came from the outside. And then Mjaonel decided to travel to the limits of the real world. However, he only knew of one place where the real touched the unreal, where the boundaries between them blurred, where mystery and fear led, a place where one could find neither meaning nor existence, but which served as the source of both. It was the Realm of Madness, the Land of Madness and Chaos. That's where he set off.
His journey was long, but overcoming all obstacles, he reached the indescribable Kingdom of Madness, where the sky spat mountains of fire and bushes of roses, and the mirror-like earth foamed and rippled in circles with every step. He reached a region where clouds were made of millions of eyes and passed a field where hand brushes fought each other, moving on fingers like tiny legs. There he noticed that he was walking on a road paved with scrolls and clay tablets with indecipherable inscriptions and considered it an ill omen. On the sidelines, friendly mechanisms beckoned Mjaonel to leave the path and talk to them, but he resisted the temptation. Leaving the mechanisms behind and passing the hills where forgotten dreams die, he reached the ever-changing valley. There is not much to say about the valley, as every new moment it turned into something new, but the eye could not see exactly what, because the valley was already changing again. There Mjaonel took a dimly shining heart from his chest and planted it in the transparent, like the sea, land of madness. And he began to wait.
After a while, the sky above him darkened, and a tree appeared between the earth and the sky - a ghostly tree, as if sewn from shadows and dreams, darkness and wood rot - a wormhole without an outer shell, cobwebs and mold, a wound oozing with serous fluid. And Mjaonel thought he should laugh because he had finally partaken in the power he had long awaited, but his laughter died on his lips. And then he woke up.
He woke up and saw that he was standing in front of the Gwethhing Cave - seven years ago, before entering it. Only the magic cloak was not on his shoulders, and his heart no longer beat in his chest. Instead of a heart, Mjaonel felt within himself the strength to accomplish what he thought he should. And he returned to the dark forest where the Windowless Tower stood and approached its walls without fear or agitation. And then, for the first time, he used the magic he had acquired in the Land of Madness. Perhaps he brought the walls of the Tower closer to the ethereal world, or maybe he turned into a ghost himself, but he easily overcame all the barriers that the Master of Shapeshifters, who was in the Tower at that time and saw that his daughter's beloved had come again, had placed in his path. And Mjaonel ascended the staircase filled with monsters and wild beasts, but where he passed, the nature of the shapeshifters changed. And it seemed that madness and darkness marched behind his back, turning the raging animals into something far more disgusting. Dead wolves, whose flesh was gnawed by corpse worms, rose behind him, and lions and scorpions merged into a single entity, and creatures resembling ghostly dogs silently rushed ahead of Mjaonel. Power fought against Power, but Mjaonel prevailed, winning back step by step, and as he progressed, the Windowless Tower itself changed - its walls blackened, layered as if made of obsidian; and cracks in the walls oozed with ichor, as if they were not made of stone but of living flesh; and headless birds circled above the tower; and from the ground sprouted the first weak shoots, woven from ghostly shadows and the finest cobwebs.
Having passed the staircase, Mjaonel entered Santris's bedroom. There, sprawled across the entire carpet, lay the thousand-headed Master of Shapeshifters. Hundreds of voices - barking and roaring, growling and hoarse cawing, howling and thin mosquito whines - filled the room when the ancient monster rose to meet its enemy. When Mjaonel stepped over the threshold, the giant attacked him with all its might. The fangs and claws of wild beasts tore Mjaonel to shreds, and the heavy, column-like legs trampled the intruder into the carpet. And the Master of Shapeshifters was already celebrating his victory when he saw corpse stains spreading on his paws with which he had torn Mjaonel apart. The soles of his feet, with which he had pressed Mjaonel into the floor, burned, and his gums bled, having touched the flesh of the stranger. And then, after a little more time had passed, Santris, huddled in terror in the corner of the room, saw that the flesh of the Master of Shapeshifters, like black sludge, was being crushed and moving down, and spreading like an expensive cloak across the floor - and in the center of the sludge, from the rotting flesh of the giant, Mjaonel rose. Mjaonel drank the essence of his enemy in one gulp - like a dying man from thirst, draining the extended cup without discerning whether it was water or wine. And Santris saw something else: when Mjaonel rose, all the external disgusting attributes of his sorcery disappeared, and the cloak on his shoulders became just a cloak, and the doublet, with a wet shine reminiscent of the belly of a lizard or snake, became an ordinary doublet. The wolves with protruding eyes disappeared, as did the snakes with human faces and sharp claws. Only silently, like a mirage, the ghostly forest trembled behind Mjaonel's back, the trees in it stirring as if alive.
And, forgetting all the horrors she had seen, Santris rushed to her beloved, embraced him, and buried her face in his doublet. Mjaonel touched her - but his embrace was cold, as if he were a statue.
"Mjaonel..." whispered the girl, numb with happiness. "You came... I thought you'd never come..."
And again, it seemed to her that she was embracing a statue.
"Should I be happy?" asked a cold voice from above. It seemed that Mjaonel was not addressing her but talking to himself.
"Aren't you happy?" She wondered, raising her face from his chest and reaching for her beloved's lips. He didn't pull away, but he didn't respond to the kiss either.
"I don't know why I came," said Mjaonel after a minute and an eternity of estrangement. "I don't know why it seemed to me before that this was the way to act and not otherwise. However, now I see that there was no sense in it."
"You don't love me anymore?"
He couldn't remember what it was like before when his heart used to beat. He didn't even understand what he had lost, but logic suggested to him that there was a very important meaning behind Santris's question. Therefore, after thinking, he briefly replied:
"No."
"I hate you!" Santris cried out.
He didn't ask "why?" or "for what?" He asked a different question:
"What for?"
"You've been bewitched!" The crying girl shouted.
"I am now the sorcery itself. Leave - or you'll become a part of it, like the Master of Shapeshifters did."
And barely audible, he whispered:
"Run!"
And Santris ran away from the Windowless Tower. She ran, crying and looking back over her shoulder, seeing how the trunks of ghostly trees stretched upward from the ground, and living trees rotted and oozed with slime. She ran through the forest, where leaves disappeared or acquired the hardness of emeralds, where branches turned into claws, roots into snakes, and tree hollows into eyes. Through the forest filled with dead animals and offspring of darkness, through the forest covered in spiderwebs and white mold, through the forest where transparent toadstools drifted in the air, and the scent of flowers brought madness and death.
Mjaonel remained to live in the center of the forest. Eventually, this place came to be called the Mad Grove. It is said that the Master of the Mad Grove turned some travelers halfway into trees and gave some trees hunger and sharp teeth. However, this place had rarely been visited even before. Mjaonel did not leave the boundaries of the Grove, and what he did in its heart - wise people preferred not to think about. But fools can always be found!.. And so, the day came when two fearless heroes set off for the Grove: a warrior, somewhat reminiscent of Kermal, and a young sorceress - as unprincipled and cunning as Mjaonel once was...
But that, after all, is a completely different story.