The princess turned around. Not far from her stood the same sad minstrel whom she had noticed in the crowd during the day. He was thin and poor, like all free musicians. A pleasant, swarthy face was slightly weathered during endless wanderings. Short, brown hair was sunburned. The pale blue eyes contrasted sharply with the bright, oriental tan. The young man was about the same age as Rose, but a life full of worries gave his calm gaze senile or even magical wisdom.
A staid and silent boy, obedient to the fate of fate, seemed completely devoid of any human fussiness.
Did you call me? Rose asked.
The carriage is ready, Your Highness, he reported barely audibly.
Rose wanted to talk to him heart to heart, to ask about the reasons for his sadness and withdrawal. But she said nothing. Why etch other peoples wounds? She must go, otherwise the queen will get even more angry.
Thank you, Rose nodded. She looked with apprehension at the well and at that very moment the wreath, as if with an iron hoop, pulled her head down. Pain shot through her brain. You shouldnt have taken the trolls gift. There are only troubles from someone elses generosity.
Rose plucked the wreath from her head. Almost all the flowers in it withered and withered. Quite recently, the petals were fresh and transparent, and now even the green leaves have curled up into dry lumps, as if someone had drunk moisture and strength from them.
Ill keep it as a keepsake, the girl whispered. She felt that someone was invisibly nearby and hears her words. But the young minstrel interrupted these sensations mercilessly.
You have to go, he reminded her.
Rose sighed heavily. The hardships of travel await her. When the carriage starts to move, the mystery of the withered wreath and the winged serpent will be left behind along with the castles pointed turrets and the bizarre outlines of the fortress walls.
A small retinue was waiting at the castle bridge. Three guards, armed to the teeth, pranced on black horses next to a gilded carriage, tightly closed and curtained.
Groom opened the carriage door for Rose. The last crimson ray slid over the raised coat of arms and intricate carvings. In the next moment, the valley in front of the castle plunged into darkness, cold water flickered, filling a deep ditch.
A young footman ran up to the coachman. His worried face spoke for itself. Rose leaned out the window, wanting to know what had happened.
Be careful, the footman warned. He was instructed to report something important, to make a loud and pompous speech, but the frightened boy limited himself to just one phrase. The fatal words sounded quiet and scary.
A dragon has appeared in the vicinity, said the footman. The coachman silently crossed himself and checked to see if his sword was in place. Rose, watching this pantomime, immediately opened the carriage door.
The Dragon? She asked with undisguised curiosity.
The footman said nothing. He, like a toy, made a bow and rushed back to the castle, as if looking for cover.
The carriage started to move. The battlements and watchtowers were soon left behind. Rosa heard only the clatter of hooves and the rumbling of wheels. To the right of the road were dense, impenetrable forests, to the left lay wasteland. The borders are still far away. You will have to spend two days on the road, because the kingdom is huge, but if you look from behind the clouds, the world will seem miniature, the universe will appear as a tiny kingdom, and people are insignificant prey. And now the road runs like a thin belt between toy trees and flat saucers of rivers, and the luxurious carriage looks no bigger than a pea. Can the people galloping behind her see a huge, majestic shadow among the clots of clouds and night fog?
The wind sings in the heavens, the star rain scatters in the darkness, but does not reach the ground, but goes out in the air. Glittering sparks pour from the golden wings of the flying monster. The people have composed many fairy tales. From time immemorial, mankind has tried to explain the incomprehensible power of magic, but no one got to the bottom of the truth. Let the legends remain legends, and the truth is too terrible for anyone to know about it.
Its time to forget about honor and valor. Knights of the noble blood also obeyed witchcraft. Magic has unlimited power. Its time to remember the battle wounds, the oaths of the royal conclave, and the battle in the marble gallery. Time to remember betrayal, time to take revenge.
A FATEFULL BALL
Even in her sleep, Rose began to choke. Opening her eyes, she saw thick, gray smoke pouring into the carriage window. On the velvet sofas and walls, swirling, dense rings were already crawling. Her throat was tight like a stranglehold.
Hey, coachman! Rose shouted, but no one responded. The horses were racing at full speed, as if still hoping to overcome the dead zone. Outside the window, nothing was visible except a white, poisonous shroud. Something hissed and groaned on both sides of the road. No animal can make such terrible sounds, no fire can bring such a hellish haze behind it, which slowly spreads along the road, and strangles everyone in its fatal, implacable embrace.
The carriage rushed forward. The escorts barely kept up with it. Gold coats of arms and monograms served as the only beacon in the gray smoke. Suddenly the coachman pulled the reins sharply. The horses snored in fright and stopped.
The white veil faded and dissipated. The air smelled of burning, but breathing became easier. Rose opened the door and got out of the carriage.
If earlier wonderful landscapes were presented to the eye, then what she saw now could only be called primordial chaos. Before her lay the dry, bare ground. Not a blade of grass, not a puddle remained on the ground scorched by fire. To the left of the road was a line of smoking ruins. The wind stirred the ash heaps under the collapsed walls. Wooden buildings burned to the ground, only charred logs were still lying here and there.
Burnout was all around. A woman was sobbing in the ashes. Her loud lamentations were heard.
The guards, galloping after the carriage, exchanged glances among themselves, but were in no hurry to dismount and find out what had happened. Rose told the coachman to wait and walked over to the crying peasant woman. She kept sobbing and wiping her tears with the edge of a chintz handkerchief. She was wearing an old, homespun dress. Unkempt hair matted. The face was swollen and flushed with tears.
Rose didnt know where to start the conversation. The woman hardly wanted to explain to anyone now. She did not even pay attention to the approaching princess.
Tell us what happened here! Rose asked with all courtesy. And since she accompanied the request with a coin, the woman could not refuse her.
There was a village here yesterday, she began to babble. Now look
The peasant woman scanned the ruins with mad eyes and burst into tears again.
Who caused such a disaster? Rose found the strength to ask.
Instead of answering, the woman raised her tired, frightened eyes to the sky.
It flew over the rooftops, spewing flames, she whispered. Its skin sparkled like the sun. One could go blind looking at it. No dragon can be so beautiful and cruel. I barely had time to hide in the ravine before it breathed fire, and our village burst out like a T-bar.
Rose listened in fascination. She understood that the peasant woman had lost her mind from fear. In her words, one cannot distinguish truth from delusional fiction.