Готовый перевод История Королевы Эльфов / The story of the Elf Queen: Пролог

Prologue

* * *

Somewhere in the depths of the Underworld in the Wild Territories...

The underground hall was, by Underworld standards, slightly larger than average and almost devoid of any vegetation. The sparse underground flora clustered along the banks of a narrow stream that flowed from a crack in the side wall and meandered across the entire hall, flowing into a hole in the opposite side wall that led to the neighbouring hall. The rest of the space was almost completely devoid of any vegetation, consisting mostly of a relatively flat surface littered with fresh piles of broken stones and rocks piled up in large heaps. The inhabitants of the well-fortified camp, located in the very centre of the underground hall so as to control its entire territory, were to thank for this.

Large pieces of rock from around the camp were used to build walls with narrow passages and loopholes for archers. Both were covered with overlapping magical barriers and entangled with signal threads. Some of the nearly one hundred and fifty inhabitants of the camp were on constant duty with weapons in their hands, making sure that no enemy could approach unnoticed. They also killed most of the predatory underground beasts, not only in this hall, but also in several neighbouring ones. This included some very dangerous representatives of the underworld fauna. The surviving inhabitants of the surrounding areas quickly realised that the large herd of two-legged newcomers was extremely dangerous prey and best avoided. And the small herd of underground horned beasts managed to eat almost all the local vegetation during the couple of months that the camp existed. Because of this, the relatively peaceful beasts left these places.

No, at first, some predators tried to test the strangers, but quickly lost their teeth. It was impossible to approach them unnoticed or to catch a lone straggler. So, even the most patient and cunning predators of the Underworld decided to look for easier prey by the end of the first month of the camp's existence. There was only one reason for the camp's inhabitants' success in their confrontation with the underground predators. It also explained the extremely diverse composition of the camp's workers, among whom humans predominated, but there were also gnomes, orcs, and even a few dark elves. Brain-eaters, also known as Mind Eaters.

The trio of Illitids appointed to oversee this labor camp remained constantly at the very center of its fortifications, in a separate tent securely protected by several layers of magical defenses. While two of them rested or went about their business, one was constantly in a state of semi-meditation, controlling a hundred and fifty slaves whose pitiful minds were bound together by a single controlling network. The work, in fact, was not particularly difficult and did not require much effort, especially for natural adepts of Mind Magic, which all brain eaters were. Once the network was woven, securely entangling the minds of the slaves and tied to a control amulet in the form of a polished sphere of dark stone, all that was required was to simply monitor it and keep it in working order. This was a task that even a novice, who had only been converted yesterday, could handle, let alone an experienced overseer. The slaves, divided into brigades, were themselves engaged in cooking, setting up the camp, guarding it, and, in fact, the very thing for which all this had been undertaken, the extraction of magically active crystals. Due to the natural source of magic located in this hall, several very rich deposits of these crystals had formed here.

The intervention of the brain-eaters was only required if something happened that did not fit into the standard directives of the slaves. For example, an attack by a truly serious predator. But after the first month of work, when most of the local predatory wildlife had been wiped out, such incidents were practically non-existent. So the three Illitids spent most of their time openly idling, waiting for the slaves to completely mine the crystal deposit so they could either return to their home city-hive or transfer them to another location in the Wild Territories.

Well, one of the brain-eaters' favourite pastimes has always been gladiatorial combat between slaves. Of course, it was impossible to build a full-fledged arena in the labour camp, as in their home city-hive, but it was quite possible to organise one-on-one fights between individual slaves. And now, in the main tent, in the open space at its very centre, where a thick carpet had been laid, a couple of slaves from among the Illitids' personal servants were locked in combat.

A tall and slender half-breed Orc, she had noticeably paler skin than her father's kin due to her life in the Underworld and her human mother. And, by human standards, a much more attractive face, with noticeably more feminine features and less prominent fangs. Her dark hair was cut short, in a military style. Opposite her stood a slightly shorter but equally slender dark elf with anthracite-black skin, a flawlessly aristocratic face currently contorted with tension, light purple eyes, and equally short ash-coloured hair.

Both slaves, drenched in sweat, desperately tried to either catch their opponent in a chokehold or knock her to the floor. The struggle between them was very intense. It was a fight — no punches or kicks, let alone bites with fangs or scratches with nails, which the half-breed Orc could pass off as claws. It was not just forbidden, but literally blocked by the will of their masters, who did not want their personal toys to hurt each other. After all, it was not a fight to the death.

But there was something else that was definitely allowed — groping your opponent if you managed to successfully grab her or knock her down. Given the artificially heightened sensitivity of both slaves, this could easily deprive the victim of the strength to continue resisting, drowning her in pleasure. For this reason, the bindings of both slaves had long since been torn off and lay aside, and they were fighting naked. But so far, neither the half-breed orc nor the dark firstborn had managed to achieve decisive success.

Both their personal experience in such battles and the fact that they had spent the past few weeks in the camp studying each other's fighting styles, having fought more than once or twice, had an impact. So far, the dark elf was in the lead, but the gap was not too big. Two illithids from the resting shift, comfortably seated in ornate chairs with high carved backs, watched their duel and exchanged lazy mental comments.

//"Your pet lacks imagination - it's too predictable. It crushes with pure force, no finesse. So typical of greenskins like it."

//‘The dodges and contortions of your sharp-eared little beast are not much better. She may be good at avoiding blows, but she is completely incapable of holding them.’

"In such fights, there is no need to withstand it..."

//"Brothers, alarm!"

//"What's happened?!"

Instantly forgetting their lazy and almost friendly banter, both resting Illitids literally flew into the air from their chairs, hovering above the floor of the tent. And the two fighting slaves simply froze in the position in which the alarm had caught them, paralysed by the will of their masters. The third brain-eater, who was monitoring the slaves through the mental network controlling them, used a control amulet to connect his fellow creatures to it. Specifically, to a group of sentries who were monitoring the area surrounding the camp. And all three Illitids saw with some amazement through their eyes a crowd of strange creatures moving through the underground hall along the stream bed. Apparently, they had come out of the neighbouring hall, where this stream flowed.

//"What kind of vile creatures are these?!"

//"Deep sea fish people. It looks like a whole tribe."

//"Dagon's minions? Where did these freaks come from? The Underworld Sea is far from here..."

//"What difference does it make? Should we get rid of them or use them?"

//"What's the use of these half-wild creatures, which can't even be called intelligent? Even touching their pathetic semblance of consciousness is unpleasant. Unless you feed them to slaves..."

//"Look, are they going to attack us?"

While this mental dialogue was going on, the Illitid slaves were not sitting idly by. Obeying the instructions embedded in their minds and the direct commands of the brain-eater on duty from the trio, the workers engaged in crystal mining quickly and without any fuss returned to the camp at the first appearance of the enemy. The slaves in the camp hastily armed themselves with both cold weapons and magic wands. At the same time, each of them knew exactly what to do, where to go, and what their role was. Bound by the common control network of the Illitids, the slaves acted in perfect harmony, like a single organism. By the time the crowd of deep-dwelling fishmen emerged from the stream onto the shore, forming a wide semicircle in the direction of the camp, its defenders had long been ready for battle. The three illitids left their tent and, using their natural levitation abilities, hovered above the camp, observing everything from above. And with a noticeable degree of surprise.

//"There are no strong, gifted ones among them, just a couple of weaklings, barely capable of the simplest manipulations."

//"Some warriors have well-enchanted weapons, but there are no more than ten of them."

//"They have young ones and females with them. Were they driven away from their usual place?"

//"What difference does it make, let the slaves destroy this rabble and..."

//"WATCH OUT!!!"

The desperate thought-cry-command of the oldest and most experienced of the three brain-eaters, who happened to be on duty at that moment, came a fraction of a second too late. His brothers did not have time to react when a bright light flashed in the air between the fish-people and the camp. The light, incredibly bright by the standards of the Underworld, hurt the eyes of its inhabitants, accustomed to constant darkness and twilight, blinding and disorienting them. The eldest of the three Illitids managed to protect his own eyes only thanks to his experience and reflexes honed over the years, switching to mental-telepathic perception of the surrounding world. At the same time, he partially shielded his consciousness from the minds of his brothers and slaves so that the pain of their blinded eyes would not interfere with his ability to fight.

He immediately spotted the enemy who had caused this catastrophe, fortunately, as the enemy was no longer hiding. A dangerous enemy, a powerful enemy, full of strength that was very foreign to the Underworld. But too cocky! When the enemy, who had been hiding until then and who, as it turned out, also knew how to fly, rushed into the attack, diving from somewhere in the ceiling of the underground hall, the eldest of the trio instantly delivered a concentrated psionic blow to him. The blow was intended to, if not burn out his mind, then at least confuse him considerably, first depriving him of his ability to resist, and then of any ability to think. When it came to the combat application of Mind Magic, traditionally considered unsuitable for direct combat, few knew as much as the Mind Eaters. The blow, directed by the mind of the eldest of the illithids, was powerful, precise and... completely powerless against the unknown enemy, failing even to touch his mind.

A wave of psionic energy simply flowed around the unknown enemy, like a stream of water around a rock. In the mind of the brain-eater, surprise, shock, anger, fear, and the belated realization that the unknown enemy was surrounded by some kind of very powerful protection designed specifically against Mind Magic flashed one after another. Like an invisible but very strong barrier, it shielded his mind, and such protection could not be quickly broken... The last thought was interrupted by a monstrous heat that pierced the Mind Eater's octopus-like head. A moment later, the Illithid's body, with a hole burned into its forehead by an extremely concentrated beam of sunlight, collapsed into a shapeless heap. The controlling amulet fell from its paw and hit the stone surface of the underground hall, shattering into small pieces. A moment later, the first Illitid's brothers fell, having never quite recovered from the blinding light that had struck their eyes, accustomed to darkness. The entire battle lasted only a few moments.

And throughout the camp, a hundred and fifty slaves writhed in convulsions and spasms as the network that bound their minds began to rapidly unravel at the seams. The underground hall was filled with the joyful, bubbling cries of the deep-sea fishmen, who rushed in disorderly rows towards the camp:

"Muuuur-Ladin-Buuuul!!! Muuuur-Ladin-Boouuul!!!"

An elderly man hovering above the camp, with a pair of once-snow-white wings glowing dimly behind him, descended smoothly and looked around. Then he made a quick gesture with his hand, and the fragments of the amulet sphere landed in his palm, which the slain brain-eaters had used to control their slaves. He stared at it for a few seconds with a look of utter disgust on his face, but then decided to expend a little more of his energy. The winged man's eyes flashed with sunlight in the darkness of the Underworld, and the fragments literally burned in his palm, turning into weightless dust. And along with them, the vile web that enveloped the minds of the unfortunate mortals began to burn and disintegrate.

Without the treacherous magic of the brain-eaters he had killed and this amulet, it would have become useless over time, but he did not have any extra time. So, accelerating the process of its decay was not at all superfluous. Fortunately, although very small, a steady stream of grace flowed to him from his new followers who had rejected the Deep One. But in the name of his Father and the Eternal Sun, he very much hoped that among the slaves he had saved, there would be at least one who knew where the nearest exit from this accursed Underworld was...

* * *

Underworld. The territory controlled by the Forest beneath the Royal Palace.

The room where she was placed after being discharged from the Healers' Chambers was, frankly speaking, rather ascetic, if not worse. All the furniture was extremely simple and practical, lacking any of the refinement or elegance befitting a firstborn. At best, such a room would be suitable for a slave who was useful enough to the House to be kept separately. But the conditions of her confinement did not concern Ciadal of the House of Zaatran at all right now. What concerned the Senior Member of the Fourth Reconnaissance Squad was her future fate. A very vague and disturbing fate. Since she was already, in effect, a former Senior.

Yes, she survived. Yes, it was only by the grace of Fortune herself that she survived in the thrice-cursed repository of bearded misfits. She survived an encounter with the very Horror of Diyarten, the escape from which will haunt her nightmares for a long time to come. The healers of her light-coloured kin healed the wounds she had received on the sacrificial altar, even restoring her former beauty. They helped her get rid of the Nightmares sent by the Deep Ones. And it would seem that she should be happy with such luck. And Ciadal would be happy, if not for one thing. A very big BUT.

The squad entrusted to her lost two Hunters at once. This was a very serious failure for her as a Senior. Her sworn rivals, friends, and relatives, aiming for her position or higher, wanting to eliminate a potential competitor, would certainly try to take advantage of this. But she could have dealt with this misfortune, especially if she had managed to return to her hometown and House unbound by oaths that sealed her lips, or even parting with part of her memory. After all, information about her saviours would definitely interest the House's leadership, and it was very possible that Ciadal would manage to come out of the situation unscathed. Or at least with minimal losses.

But the main problem was different. The wounds inflicted on the sacrificial altar were not physical, but subtle. Wounds that were much more difficult to heal than mortal flesh. The long-dead guardian of the thrice-cursed treasure trove of bearded dwarves literally mutilated the subtle bodies of the Ciadal on the sacrificial altar with the hands of his necromantic constructs. He practically burned away all of her gift for magic, which she had diligently developed throughout her conscious life, and thanks to which she had achieved her now former title of Senior Squad Leader. Now only pitiful crumbs remained of it, and the healers of her light-coloured kin could not help her. Or rather, the best of the healing magicians could certainly help her. But she had nothing to pay for the services of such experts in healing magic.

Pressing her lips together, she stretched out her slightly trembling right hand over the table at which she was sitting. The simplest weave, the very basics that all students who have just embarked on the path of mastering magic begin with. Just a little light, a spark, designed to dispel the darkness. Any student, unless completely talentless, could easily manage this. But as soon as Ciadal tried to form this simplest of spells, which required only the slightest effort, her whole arm, and then the rest of her body, was seized by a spasm, forcing the dark elf to gasp and bend over the table, helplessly gasping for air.

The physical pain passed very quickly, but it took her several minutes to come to her senses, barely restraining herself from crying out in despair and feeling a nagging emptiness where her gift had once been. It's over. In this state, if she returns to her family home... They'll simply devour her. Hardly in the literal sense, although anything is possible. In the best-case scenario, she would fall under the thumb of one of her older relatives, who would pass her off to one of her children as a brood mare. Or they may decide that the former Senior, who has become practically useless, is not worth the cost of maintaining her. And she will be of much more use to the House if she is sold to a fat cat from the lower races for gold or other services. Firstborn girls have always been especially valued, and she, thanks to the healers of her light-coloured kin, has at least retained her beauty.

Only one thing kept her from falling into complete despair and despondency about her future prospects. A single, tiny ray of hope that gave her...

"You were told not to try to use magic."

The voice that rang out behind Ciadal made the dark elf jump up and turn around abruptly, causing her body to convulse again. It was unclear how her fellow elf had entered the room unnoticed, but he stared at her intently with his violet eyes while she gasped for air, trying to regain her composure. After all, her mutilated, slender body had taken its toll on her physical form. Somehow, finding the amulet given to her by the healers hanging on her chest, Ciadal clenched it in her fist. The weaving embedded in it came to life, and a wave of warmth swept through the dark elf's body, immediately making her feel better. Meanwhile, her kinsman, one of her rescuers, slowly approached the table and sat down opposite her, continuing to stare intently at Ciadal. His violet eyes glowed slightly, hinting that he was looking at her with magical vision.

Gathering her strength, the dark elf forced herself to sit up straight and tried to look as dignified as befitted the daughter of the Underworld. It didn't work very well, not only because of her condition, but also because of the light gray clothes, completely unfamiliar to Ciadal, sewn in the fashion of her light-colored kin and devoid of even a hint of revelation or eroticism. But she had to try. Because the kinsman sitting opposite her was extremely difficult. Even during their first meeting within the walls of the thrice-cursed repository of bearded dwarves, Ciadal had managed to assess his manner, his gait, the way he spoke and acted. A hunter. And clearly not just any hunter, but one from the very top of the House. His call sign, “First,” hinted at this more than eloquently. No one would be allowed to use it just like that.

Bowing her head politely, she said, trying to speak firmly and clearly:

"You are right, venerable First, I shouldn't have done that. But I couldn't resist... Losing the gift... It's..."

“Incredibly painful in every sense,” her relative finished for her, nodding slightly, “And that’s actually what I came to talk to you about, Ciadal of House Zaatran.”

Feeling her heart skip a beat, the dark elf nodded slowly in response:

"It is gratifying to hear this. But in that case, may I first know with whom I have the honor of speaking and to whom I owe my salvation?"

Suddenly, a very strange smile appeared on First's face.

"You can. I'll give you a little hint."

Leaning on the table, he bent his right arm, turning the back of his hand toward Ciadal. A moment later, an intricate symbol appeared on it. For a few seconds, the dark elf stared at him in confusion. Then she recognized him, and her eyes popped out of their sockets. With her mouth slightly open and without even noticing it, Ciadal looked at her fellow elf sitting in front of her, her dark skin turning noticeably pale. Smiling even wider, Luaval extinguished the sign of “First in the City” and said:

"Well, well, you can stop trembling, girl. I'm not that petty and vindictive, and I understand perfectly well that you and your subordinates are too young to have had anything to do with the destruction of my once Great House."

Still pale, Ciadal realized who was sitting in front of her, swallowed, and spoke cautiously, ignoring the openly humiliating and familiar tone, trying to choose her words as carefully as possible:

"If you need information about my House or my Matriarch, I cannot tell you anything truly important, as I am bound by oaths that cannot be circumvented without the help of experts in Mind Magic..."

Stopping her with a gesture, Luaval grinned and shook his head:

"No, I'm not interested in that right now. Although I do have some grievances against Matriarch Zaatrán, as well as some other members of the upper echelons, right now I'm interested in something else. Namely, the restoration of the once Great House of Travil."

Leaning back in his chair, he continued:

"So, I came to offer you a deal, girl."

Ignoring the blatantly familiar and derogatory address once again, Ciadal froze for a moment, then looked suspiciously at her relative sitting in front of her. A relative who turned out to be none other than the First Hunter of the long-fallen Great House of Travil. Who, concurrently, was also the First Hunter in Rean na Kharan. And who, de jure, remained so to this day, much to the silent anger of the current formal holder of this honorary title. After all, it can only truly be earned by defeating one's predecessor. Or, in very rare cases, if the predecessor meets his death.

"A deal?"

"A deal," Luaval nodded affirmatively, "sealed with blood and on the altar of the Guardian of Oaths. Its essence is extremely simple. You agree to become the concubine of the current Patriarch, who is not yet the Great House of Travil. That is, me. And you must bear me four children, which is all that is allowed you. In return, I guarantee you full maintenance, as befits the Patriarch's concubine, the inviolability of your mind and personality, as well as my full cooperation in ensuring that all your pregnancies proceed as smoothly and comfortably as possible. Provided, of course, that you behave exceptionally well and remain completely loyal to me as your master. And also to my children, including children from other women. After you give birth to my last of four children and he is firmly on his feet, I will release you to the four winds, providing you with everything you need to start a new life. If, of course, you want to leave by that time. And most importantly..."

Leaning forward towards Ciadal, who was listening to him with the utmost attention and intensity, Luaval said:

"If you agree to my terms, then, as I promised you, your subtle bodies will be healed. Your gift for magic will be restored. Completely. And I will allow you to continue developing it, with adjustments for your new status as a concubine."

For a few seconds, the dark elf remained silent, looking at Luaval, as she hoped, with an impassive expression. But behind her relative outward calm lay a storm of emotions. Her mind was racing feverishly and intensely. Folding her arms across her chest, Ciadal asked in an extremely polite and courteous voice:

"May I ask why you are being so generous, honorable First? Given my situation, why don't you just put a slave collar on me and brand my forehead to make sure I behave myself?"

"You will have a collar, you can be sure of that. Decorated with gold, as befits the concubine of the Patriarch himself. As for branding or other methods of enslaving the will and mind, it's all very simple here, and there's no special secret to it," Luaval shrugged demonstratively. “I am very interested in my children being born as healthy and strong as possible. For this, regular help from the Giver of Life will be very useful. And she, as we know, is not very willing to give her blessings if the future mother becomes such against her will.”

“It depends on how you ask her about it,” Ciadal said slowly.

"I don’t intend to use the services of the dark elf priestesses of Gaia,” Luaval chuckled.

After which, leaning back in his chair, he demonstratively folded his arms across his chest and asked with a hint of amusement in his voice:

"So, you've heard my proposal. What's your word?"

Ciadal looked him in the eye, barely twitching the tips of her ears. Then, slowly, carefully considering each word, she asked:

"You said that my subtle bodies will be healed if I agree?"

“I said,” Luaval nodded.

"Completely."

"Completely." Luaval nodded again.

"When? How long will it take to heal and restore my gift?"

"If you agree to my conditions, then by the evening you will be completely healthy and will be able to weave again,” Luaval allowed himself a weak smile, openly enjoying the reaction of the dark elf.

She, hearing these words, already twitched quite noticeably, and not only with the tips of her ears, unable to hide her surprise. Slightly squinting her red eyes, she sat motionless for a few seconds, then nodded very slowly:

"If this is truly so... If you, venerable First, are ready to confirm these words on the altar of the Oathkeeper and certify them with blood... I agree to your terms..."

The smile on the dark elf's face grew a little wider:

"I didn't doubt it for a second. Well then, let's not waste any time!"

With these words, he took a snow-white stone ball on a bronze stand out of his belt bag, which clearly had an enlarged interior space. Placing it on the table in front of the startled Ciadal, he then took out two sheets of the same snow-white paper, which were covered with neat lines of Elvish writing. It took the former Senior Leader of the Fourth Reconnaissance Squad almost two hours to discuss all the details and check everything. Even though First, who was watching her, did not rush her in any way. The dark elf's mind feverishly searched for a catch in the lines of the proposed contract all this time, but found none. And the small altar, filled to the brim with grace and clearly not the last priest of Damokar, confirmed the absence of hidden paragraphs, disappearing lines, or other tricks used in such deals.

Everything was as First had said. In exchange for the complete healing of her subtle bodies, she agreed to be his concubine until the birth of his fourth child, with full maintenance (which was very comfortable, as specified separately and in detail) and preservation of the inviolability of her mind. Provided that she behaved “well,” which was specified and in great detail. That is, if we discard the verbal husk, in exchange for her healing, she was offered a golden cage. Considering her current condition, completely mutilated subtle bodies, which only a magister of healing magic could restore, and not quickly, the deal was still very good. Too good.

Ciadal had no doubt that if First wished it, her light-colored kin would give her to him just like that, without treatment, and so she stubbornly searched for a catch in the proposed conditions and found none. She searched for the real reason why she had not been branded or used by another School of Mind Magic, never believing for a moment in the excuses about the mercy of the Giver of Life. She knew that if she asked her correctly, she would help a completely helpless slave with a blank mind to bear a child. But again, she could not find one. No, surely there were ways to deceive even the small altar of the Keeper of Oaths, so imbued with grace, but... But she seriously doubted that anyone would go to such lengths for a single Huntress, especially one with a completely crippled gift, which meant she wouldn't even pass the introductory Trial. And, as it turned out, the First in the City, about whom only rumors had long been circulating in Rean na Kharan...

Therefore, after reading the contract for the fourth time, while keeping her hand on Damokar's small altar, Ciadal made her final decision. No, she had already made up her mind long ago, as soon as First confirmed his promise to heal her. She had no other choice, really; with her gift crippled, her future would have been much bleaker. She had simply been putting off the final decision until the last moment, subconsciously expecting some kind of treachery, trickery, or other nastiness. Because such generosity... was very hard to believe.

And so, when both sheets of the contract were signed in blood and certified by the will of the Keeper of Oaths, her heart skipped a beat. Or two. Exhaling, Ciadal leaned back in her chair, looking at her copy of the contract, whose text was now firmly imprinted in her mind by Damokar's will. Looking up at First, who was smiling contentedly as he put his copy into his belt pouch, she asked:

"So, where and how will my treatment take place, venerable First?"

"Straight to the point? I like that. Well, that's a secret, my dear. As for where... Right here. And now."

With these words and a very satisfied smile, looking at the tense Ciadal, Luaval demonstratively snapped his fingers. At that moment, the dark elf, who didn't understand anything, opened her mouth wide, and her eyes popped out of their sockets. Because a wave of burning heat swept through her entire body. Ciadal arched her back, and if it weren't for her lungs, which seemed to have been squeezed dry of all the air, she would have screamed out loud. But this feeling lasted only a moment, then the dark elf slumped in her chair, breathing heavily and not understanding what had happened at all. And then it hit her. A feeling came over her. The feeling of her gift returning! The feeling of magic flowing through her veins again, which had been literally drained from her on the sacrificial altar in the thrice-cursed repository of the bearded dwarves. Gasping for air, Ciadal raised her trembling palms in front of her. She formed the simplest weave crookedly and God knows how, and seeing this, her mentor would surely have given her a beating. Who cares, the main thing was that her palms glowed with a faint light! The magic had returned! Her magic had returned to her!

"..and from this moment on, address me as Lord, my dear."

The voice of Luaval, who had somehow managed to sneak up behind her, made Ciadal jump. A moment later, she felt a thin collar of soft leather wrap around her neck with a quiet click. At the same time, the weaves embedded in it came to life. These weaves were very familiar to her, guaranteeing obedience even from the most rebellious slaves. At the same time, she felt a wave of coldness wash over her body from the oaths that had been activated, certified by the power of Damokar. A moment later, her new master's hands rested on her shoulders, then slid down and pulled the top of her clothing up to her chin. Moving to her exposed chest, they began to grope her businesslike.

"Well, let's see what I got... Hmm, not bad, but it needs to be bigger. And the outfit needs to be changed to something more revealing, as befits a concubine..."

Standing behind the door, Diantrel, who had just used the power granted by the Tablet to heal the subtle bodies of her dark-skinned tribeswoman, silently rolled her eyes and hurried off to attend to her business. This was because being in the Underworld after gaining new powers was physically unpleasant for her. She wanted to return to the surface as soon as possible, to the fresh air and clear sky. This desire was so strong that she did not hold back, and as soon as she left one of the rooms of the Underground Guard Corps, she soared into the air, rushing towards the exit to the surface.

* * *

The Royal Palace of the Forest. Iardal's private chambers.

Despite the late hour, the crowned commander of the Forest Guard was awake. Sitting at a wide table in the study of his private chambers, he scanned the map of the Forest and the surrounding territories spread out before him. It was a very detailed map, marked with many things that those not privy to the secrets of the Forest Guard were not supposed to know. And which, thanks to complex enchantments, was partially three-dimensional, projecting the terrain relief above its surface. A little to the side of the map on the table lay several unfolded scrolls with reports from the commanders of the Underworld, Sea, Reconnaissance, and Forest Guard Corps. Referring to them from time to time, the King of the Forest periodically made new notes next to the markings on the map, which indicated the fortifications and the elven warrior units stationed in them, using a special enchanted pen. Or next to other notes marking the settlements and fortifications of the lesser races surrounding the Forest. Most of these notes, marked with alarming red comments, were in the Great Steppe. An eternal source of green menace, it had been his constant headache for more than a century or two.

And recently, he had another headache. A personal and completely unexpected one. Taking his eyes off the map and his subordinates' reports, the King of the Forest cast a cold glance at a small stack of letters neatly stacked on the edge of the table. Letters that he really wanted to throw straight into the fireplace. Or burn them right on the table, scattering the ashes to the wind. If that would have done any good, he would have done just that. But alas, destroying the letters themselves would not solve his new problem. And what was most disgusting was that it was impossible to simply leave them unanswered or ignore them, considering who had written them. Which was even more annoying....

Iardal's gloomy thoughts were interrupted by a short knock on the door. Glancing at it in confusion, he realized that he had locked it out of habit and activated the security system. With a snap of his fingers, Iardal unlocked the locks and deactivated the security system. A moment later, the Elder Enchantress entered the office, dressed only in a white and green robe made of thin, silky fabric embroidered with leafy patterns, ready for bed. Approaching Iardal, who had begun to scan the map of the Forest and the surrounding areas again, she stood still beside him. Glancing over the numerous notes, Mirael asked sympathetically:

"Any problems on the eastern border again?"

Without stopping to look at the map, Iardal put his left arm around his lover’s waist and said in a quiet voice, shaking his head:

"No, everything is relatively calm there for now... As is the case on other borders."

Frowning slightly, Mirael asked:

"Then what's the problem?"

A heavy sigh was her answer. Glancing at the stack of letters, the Elder Enchantress asked sympathetically:

"Is it that bad?"

Putting the enchanted feather aside, Iardal leaned back in his chair and sat his mistress on his lap. He hugged her waist tighter and said in a distant voice:

"My closest associates. My acquaintances. Everyone! Everyone around me who is unaware of the true nature of our “Guest” has, in one way or another, managed to inquire with varying degrees of persistence: who? Who is this remarkable mortal woman who has interested me so much that I decided not only to share my bed with her, but also to conceive a child? And, of course, they asked about him too. After the incident in Elven Bay, in just a couple of days, everyone became very interested in my “bastard.” Even our children with Sivila managed to ask me questions about their new “stepbrother,” although they showed the proper tact."

Pressing herself closer to Iardal and settling herself more comfortably on his lap, Mirael hugged him sympathetically, and he continued:

"And I can't just remain silent, considering who is asking me. I'll have to answer something. The First Tree sees, I never thought I would say this, but right now I would be happy if another Great Horde were to form in the Great Steppe. Or at least one that claims to be Great, so that I could hide from all this in my own domain..."

"Well, don't exaggerate, I don't think everything is that bad..."

Her response was another heavy sigh, accompanied by Iardal's hand creeping from the Elder Enchantress's waist to something just below her back.

"You are too immersed in magic and don't realize how intrusive and meticulous people can be when it comes to such an intimate topic. Especially close relatives. Especially on my wife's side..."

"Gradiana?" Mirael asked sympathetically.

Nodding gloomily in response, without ceasing to stroke his lover's lower back, fortunately, there was something to stroke there, Iardal quietly muttered:

"As our mutual acquaintances have informed me, she has already organized a search for that “clearly outstanding” mortal sorceress who caught my attention. She has managed to compile a list of potential candidates, whom she is already preparing to investigate..."

Quietly snorting, the Elder Enchantress shrugged her shoulders to open her robe wider, revealing that she was wearing nothing underneath.

"Are you really that irritated by this situation?"

In response, Iardal turned Mirael around with one graceful movement and laid her back on his knees. Placing his palm on the Elder Enchantress's stomach, he slid it upward and gently squeezed her breasts, which were no longer covered by her robe. Leaning over his rather purring lover, the King of the Forest spoke meaningfully, looking into her eyes:

"You know very well that I am interested in only one enchantress, and she is by no means mortal..."

His response was a satisfied laugh, interrupted by a passionate kiss. After enjoying his lover's lips and tongue, Iardal rose to his feet in one swift movement, picked her up in his arms, and headed toward the bedroom. After all, it was possible to distract oneself from the sudden onset of “family” problems not only by immersing oneself in one's affairs. At the door to his study, he snapped his fingers and activated a control amulet in the form of a ring. At that moment, the map spread out on the table, and the scrolls with reports rolled up and slid into the open desk drawer. The letters followed them, and the drawer closed immediately, after which the office security system was activated. For although the security of his private quarters was beyond praise, it was not worth leaving secret documents at his workplace...

* * *

White Harbor, Elven Part of the city, Guest House.

Running his broad palm over the brand-new robe made of fine light blue fabric, Guur'Aar couldn't help but smile. It was a fine piece of workmanship, and wearing it was a pleasure. All that was needed was to sew on charms with amulets and incantations to help summon the chaos. But there was time for that later; right now, he had more important business to attend to.

Forever young, to their credit, they did not deceive and kept their word. Even though after Guur'Aar and his loved ones escaped on sea horses from the Ruler of the Depths, he never saw his unwilling companions again, their tribesmen took care of the steppe dwellers. They took them into their city, cared for them, and even helped drive away the nightmares sent by the voice of the Deep One, which tormented the little children, especially during the first nights. And even for Guur'Aar himself, to be honest, it was difficult. The horrors that pulled them to the bottom of the sea and poisoned their minds were insidious, and not every chaos that protects dreams can protect against them. So the help of the eternally young spellcasters, who helped drive away the nightmares, was very timely, especially in the early days. Later, for which the old shaman was also sincerely grateful, the eternally young ones obtained special herbs for him, as well as bones and feathers of unusual birds. With these gifts, he managed to summon the necessary chaos to help with this trouble and agreed with it to permanently erase the remnants of the Deep One's nightmares from his dreams.

After Guur'Aar and his loved ones had fully recovered from all the misfortunes they had endured and were back on their feet, the eternally young did not skimp and repaid the old shaman's help with interest. They repaid him for all the misfortune and grief that his small tribe had suffered at the hands of their kinsmen, who had come uninvited to their camp that terrible night. He would remember that night and the horrors that followed it for the rest of his days, and he would tell his grandchildren and great-grandchildren about it.

Each of the steppe dwellers was given two complete sets of clothes, and not just any clothes, but new ones made of good fabric and sewn by skilled craftsmen. Such clothes are not suitable for everyday wear, except perhaps for a holiday. Three sturdy carts, made of good wood and firmly enchanted, could hold a lot of belongings and would not fall apart on the bumps of the steppe. In each of the carts, they placed a tent, not made in the steppe style, but also of good quality, made of fine fabric and enchanted so that neither cold, nor heat, nor heavy rain could harm it. Guur'Aar himself could not have said it better. All the little things needed for the household, such as dishes and tools, were also placed in a chest and loaded into each cart. And then there were the boxes full of various foods, enchanted to stay fresh, dozens of them loaded into each cart. But the most important thing was the horses!

The eternally young gifted them with an entire herd in exchange for the one that perished that fateful night. And they did not simply gift them, but took Guur'Aar and his family to their stables and allowed them to select the ones they liked. Indeed, whatever one may say about the eternally young, their horses were kind! They may not have been steppe breeds, but they were still kind! All of them were handsome, healthy, and shiny! There were no skinny horses in that stable at all; the eternally young did not keep such horses. They spent almost the whole day choosing horses and mares for themselves. And the eternally young also gave them harnesses and tack to go with them, so that they could set off immediately and return to their native places.

He would have left, but the eternally young benefactors of Guur'Aara politely but insistently asked him to stay for a few more days. For the sake of one thing, which, according to them, would greatly benefit him and his loved ones. The old shaman did not object, since, when you think about it, they really had nowhere to rush to. And before setting off on such a long journey, it was necessary to perform a call, and not just one. Over the past few days, he had lost many of his former entourage, whom his tribe had protected. Finding replacements for them was not a quick task; offerings had to be gathered, and the call had to be made in the proper manner.

The eternally young did not object to this, but politely asked the old shaman to perform his rituals within the confines of their city, which was not particularly powerful or dangerous. If he needed to go beyond the city limits, they were ready to take him there and provide any assistance he might need. But Guur'Aar had no intention of summoning anyone truly dangerous, for he was not entirely foolish. Gratitude is gratitude, but it is not proper for outsiders to know which of the serious khaos spirits he had agreed with. But the lesser and middle-ranking khaos beings, useful on the road and in battle, why not summon them in advance and make arrangements with them? Fortunately, everything he needed for such a ritual was provided to him without question or payment, from bones and bird feathers to shells and river pearls. While he was busy with the rituals, his relatives managed to rest for a couple of extra days and enjoy the city of the eternally young. They also visited the market, where they bought various small and exotic items.

And so, this morning, the eternally young came to the guest house where Guur'Aar and his loved ones were staying to discuss the upcoming matter with him. And after understanding the essence of it, the elderly shaman could not help but smile with satisfaction. Dressed in an excellent new robe, a gift from the eternally young, taking his Arakhan-Taal, as well as a sturdy dagger found in the cursed repository of the mountain people, he set off with them. Fortunately, it was not a long journey — the eternally young took him to their white-stone palace, which was located not far from the guest house, to one of the separate chambers, reliably fenced off from the eyes and ears of strangers. There, they once again discussed the upcoming task with him in detail, after which they brought the trio of dwarves into the chamber.

One glance at them was enough to see that they were not simple mountain folk — they all had thick, well-groomed beards that reached down to their bellies, combed cunningly rather than casually. Their clothes were made of expensive fabrics and embroidered with gold. The eldest of the trio, who was already quite gray-haired, wore a gold chain around his neck and had a gold ring with a gemstone on almost every finger. These were not mere decorations, but sturdy amulets, skillfully crafted by a sorcerer and imbued with powerful magic that protected the bearded man's life. It was immediately clear that if he was not one of the khans of the foothills himself, he was at least a close associate of one, and not the least important one at that.

Upon entering, the trio of bearded men briefly greeted the eternally young and looked at Guur'Aar with surprise. When they took their seats at the table, the eldest of them asked in a powerful bass voice: for what purpose had they been invited to this meeting, and who was this spirit conjurer? To which the old shaman, whose words had been translated by the summoned in advance khaos, slowly placed the enchanted bag on the table with a satisfied expression, which had been given to him in advance by the eternally young. Opening it, he took out the magic crystal that had been taken from the cursed vault of the undermountain people and placed it in front of him. He did so in such a way that the three dwarves could see one of the crystal's facets, where, if you looked closely, you could make out the neatly engraved mark of the master cutter. All three bearded men stared at the crystal in amazement and incomprehension, raising their thick eyebrows. Then the eldest of the three recognized the mark on the crystal, and his face immediately darkened. Frowning, he turned his suddenly unkind gaze to Guur'Aar and the eternally young ones standing on either side of him and said in a heavy voice:

"What does it mean?"

One of the ever-young one accompanying Guur'Aar, slightly bowing his head, answered with the utmost politeness and courtesy:

"As you well know, honorable Khodrin, the Forest sacredly honors the word given to the people of Undermountain and the oaths it has taken. And according to them, the Forest in no way claims or encroaches on any treasures from the Kardarot repository, where, as you well know, our kinsmen recently found themselves by the will of Fate. But by the will of the same Fate, it was not only our kin who ended up in that ill-fated place. And so, the honorable Guur'Aar, who, together with his family, also found himself in the treasury of Kardarot, has no connection to the Forest and does not walk under its canopy. He did not take on any obligations to Podgorye and did not make any vows regarding the treasures in the vault."

It was a pleasure to watch the faces of the bearded men, which grew increasingly gloomy as the eternally young man spoke, and the old shaman struggled with all his might not to smile, flashing his fangs. The eldest of them turned red with anger and was on the verge of biting his beard. His companions were more restrained, but their faces also darkened considerably. Guur'Aar calmly withstood their glances, allowing himself only the faintest of smiles, literally at the corners of his lips. Reaching out, he took a crystal from the table that was worth no less than a large herd of horses, and not just any horses, but good ones suitable for warriors, not some half-dead nag, and lifted it as if weighing it.

"It is a valuable item and quite useful, crafted by a skilled artisan," remarked the elderly orc. "However, one would suffice for me, perhaps two, to protect my family from misfortune and to offer as a pledge and gift to the mighty Khaos. But I have no need for nearly two dozen such crystals; such wealth will bring more harm than good. If my neighbors hear about this, I won't be able to fend off those who want to get their hands on them. I would sell them, but the trouble is, it's not easy to find buyers for such goods, unless they are three-year-old stallions. And my benefactors," Guur'Aar nodded toward the eternally young people standing on either side of him, "don't want to take them under any circumstances. They say they can't touch these treasures; they swore an oath. So I asked them if they knew anyone else who might need these crystals and who could give a good price for them."

By the end of his speech, all three gnomes were roughly the same color — dark crimson. It seemed as if their beards were about to start smoking. Giving the eternally young people surrounding Guur'Aar very heavy looks, they turned to the old shaman, and the eldest of the three bearded men slowly, as if chopping each word, said:

"And how much do you want for our crystals, you who speak with spirits?"

The smile on the elderly orc's green face grew a little wider...

* * *

Royal Palace of the Forest, Sivila's private quarters.

Despite the fact that she had not left her desk since dawn, the number of tasks and documents lying in front of her and requiring her attention did not seem to be decreasing. No, in fact, there were fewer of them, and noticeably so. After all, the sun outside the window was already beginning to set. It was just that, after the recent events that had caused too much commotion in the Elven Bay and far beyond, there were too many of these tasks even by her standards. And the First Tree could see that those related to the new version of the legend of the “Guest” bothered her the least.

No, not only her dear aunt and her entourage, but also some of her acquaintances who did not know the true nature of the “Guest,” and even her children, many of whom belonged to the circle of friends of the Queen of the Forest, had already taken an interest in her husband's latest illegitimate son. Some did so to hurt Sivila, remembering those long-gone centuries when she was still jealous of her husband. Others wanted to find out who Iardal was actually having an affair with, and a very serious one at that, since it had led to the conception of a child. So, were the rumors about his relationship with the Elder Enchantress really just rumors? And in reality...

Oh, if only those were the only problems she had to deal with... the First Tree could see, she would be infinitely happy. But to Sivila's deepest regret, “family” problems were only a small part of her current concerns. In almost four thousand years of her life, she had firmly learned that problems should be solved not as they arise, but before they arise. In any case, it is highly desirable to do so. No, there are situations when a problem could not have been foreseen. For example, the appearance of an alien endowed with the Tablet in such a closed world, chosen at the time by her branch for resettlement precisely because of this property.

But most problems can be, if not solved, then at least mitigated to a large extent if you prepare for them in advance. And this is exactly what Sivila, and not only her, had been doing literally around the clock since the return of the “Guest.” There were many consequences of his unexpected journey, but one of the main ones was that it confirmed an extremely unpleasant fact. Master is alive. Thanks to the Sun-faced Herald, who somehow managed to talk to the Horror of Diyarten, this is now known for certain. The accursed brainwasher did not perish in his flames, did not suffocate in his smoke. And that is very, very bad.

Sivila, and not only she, had a faint hope that the main source of her most serious problems, at least over the last two centuries, had finally perished. The chances of this were quite good, and how much easier everything would be in that case! She could have worked relatively calmly with the “Guest,” gaining more and more gifts from the Tablets through him and using them to strengthen the Forest. And then, in a couple of decades, she could have seriously considered the possibilities of, if not a new attempt at expansion, then at least a partial solution to the problem of the Islands.

Oh, how much easier everything would be if that bastard had really disappeared into the Underworld... But there's no point in regretting what didn't happen; you have to work with what you have. And Sivila worked. And right now, her main task, together with the Supreme Emissary, was to plan and think through the Forest's actions in case the true nature of the “Guest” was revealed. It would be more accurate to say not in case, but when. Because as long as Master is alive, it's only a matter of time before he makes his move. It's even a mystery why he hasn't done so yet.

The Third and his analysts are currently working on this issue. After all, a considerable amount of time has passed since the tragedy that ended the joint pursuit of him. During this time, he had the opportunity to shake off his pursuers, settle into a new lair, and make his move. But for some reason, he did not do so. Why? There were many possible reasons, and the best analysts of the Secret Guard were now racking their brains over them, making various assumptions. And one of their assumptions was quite alarming. It was that Master might already have made his move, entering into secret negotiations with someone powerful who had been tempted by the possibilities offered by the Tablet. And perhaps he had already caught those who had been tempted by his offers in his net.

For the First Tree sees that even among her people, some have been bypassed by the elven wisdom and foresight praised in legends. And among the mortal races, there are countless numbers who, blinded by greed, selfishness, and the thirst for easy gain, will do all sorts of foolish things. Even something like entering into not even an alliance, but simply a relationship with a brainwasher who has almost subjugated an entire celestial being to his will, along with all of his flock.

Therefore, Sivila worked from dawn to dusk, with rare breaks for meals, having long forgotten when she last managed to truly relax. She had to content herself with Fiorel's skilled tongue during short breaks; fortunately, her page, who was confidently moving towards officially becoming her unofficial lover, was always nearby. He worked just as hard from dawn to dusk, relieving Sybil of a considerable part of the hassle associated with the material side of providing for the “Guest.” Which, after recent events, had also become more problematic...

Now that everyone knows that her husband has a new half-elf son for the first time in centuries, attention to the “Guest” has increased many times over. There was already some interest before, after all, a gifted half-elf boy living in the Royal Palace at full expense and taken as a student by one of the best mentors of the Forest Guard, but without an official parent-patron - that's guaranteed interest, no matter what you do. But for a time, it was possible to curb this by limiting the Guest's communication with those around him as much as possible and strictly controlling his existing contacts. Now, however, this has become impossible.

There are too many people in the Palace who do not know the true nature of the “Guest,” but now want to meet Iardal's “illegitimate son,” and you cannot simply forbid them from doing so. Therefore, it was necessary to make the difficult decision to move the “Guest” to a new home. A separate house, located in one of the Protected Groves, where ordinary people are not allowed to enter. Fortunately, such a move fit perfectly into the framework of his new legend as Iardal's illegitimate son, whom he did not want to publicize as much as possible. And credit must be given to her husband, who played the role that fell on his shoulders magnificently. Although, as far as Sivila knew her husband, he wasn't acting at all, but simply behaved as if he had discovered a half-breed son whom he had previously diligently hidden.

Everyone agreed that it would be best to hide the Guest away from prying eyes and under the protection of the impenetrable thickets of the Forest, if not for one problem. Now, there was a literal need for his further development and acquisition of new gifts from the Tablets. The potential it offered was now more than obvious to everyone involved. Diantrel's recent official magister patent was the best confirmation of this. As was the new sapling of the Tree of Life obtained through it, which had already been planted and was thriving. However, Diantrel's sudden rise in both personal power and magical skill is a separate headache. After all, this must somehow be explained to her fellow wizards. Fortunately, this particular problem is not Sivila's concern, but Mirael's.

Looking at this rise, Third's analysts came to some not-so-great conclusions. That same thrice-cursed Master will also be rapidly gaining power. It's quite possible that right now he's getting and mastering more and more gifts from his Tablet, while getting ready to strike back. It is very possible that he will do so together with new puppets who have been tempted by the offer to receive a share of the power he has stolen and naively consider themselves his partners. And in the long term, Les could only oppose this with one thing. “The Guest.” Ah, if only they had managed to catch up with Master then... If only they had managed to destroy him with their combined efforts... So many “ifs”...

But there is also the possibility of a third owner of the Tablets, as the First One never fails to remind us. The thought that there might be another potential source of trouble comparable to Master made Sivile even sadder. But there was no point in feeling sorry for herself and her difficult fate. That would not solve the problems that had been snowballing lately. They could only be solved through persistent and methodical work. At least, Sivila very much hoped that her personal efforts, as well as the joint efforts of the other leaders of the Forest, would not be in vain. Therefore, having finished writing a very long and detailed analysis of the possible position of several Free Cities in the event of the true identity of the “Guest” being revealed, she carefully signed it with her seal and picked up one of the dozens of letters requiring her attention.

It turned out to be a message from Turiel. After checking the letter with the help of a set of amulets built into the desk, designed to detect traces of alchemy or magic, and making sure there were none, except for the seals protecting the letter, Sivila carefully opened it and scanned it with her eyes. The letter was written, of course, in Elvish, in perfectly even lines, in calligraphic handwriting. And its content was completely empty. It was simply an old acquaintance and friend of the queen writing to her about current affairs in Morgrave. Nothing special. At first glance. Skimming through the text with an experienced eye, Sivila easily found the keywords hidden in the lines of the letter.

These keywords formed another message. But this message was not from Turiel, the queen's old friend and acquaintance, but from Turiel, an agent of the Secret Guard. However, at first glance, this message also seemed meaningless, consisting of a set of nonsensical phrases. Without knowing the true meanings hidden behind them, it was impossible to understand their meaning. Sivila knew this and many other codes by heart, as part of her duties, and therefore had no trouble reading the true meaning of the encrypted message. Which, incidentally, also turned out to be relatively routine. It was even stranger that Turiel sent it to her in this way; she could have reported through the Secret Guard agents stationed in Morgrave.

An old friend of Sivila wrote that Mistrael's help came at just the right time, and that apart from the unfortunate loss of a recruited puppet in Dantmark, everything else was going very well for her. Augustus' loyalty is unwavering, and he is extremely grateful for the help in rebuilding the city after the islanders' raid. The anti-elf party at his court, which suffered tragic losses during the same raid, has largely not recovered from them. Mistrael, on the other hand, who was responsible for these losses, has very successfully and firmly established herself at the same court. Or, to be more precise, in Christian's bedroom. Or rather, on his face.

Having read this far, Sivila involuntarily rolled her eyes. Such intimate details could have been omitted. But on the other hand, it was very good that Mistrael had bound Turiel's son so tightly to herself, without any love magic or alchemy. Sooner or later, he would become the next Duke of Mont Ros, and the stronger the Forest's influence on him and the higher his loyalty at that point, the better. The main thing was that his passion for Mistrael did not fade, given that he could not have children with her. Well, unless he gets the opportunity to eat out the very embodiment of the Giver of Life, Sivila smiled to herself, continuing to read the true message.

At the same time, according to Turiel, the duke's courtiers were completely satisfied with Mistral, believing that August had hired a very expensive and prestigious whore for his son in the Forest. Sivila grimaced at her friend's choice of such a blunt and vulgar word, but after reading the rest of the text, she was forced to admit its relative appropriateness. The strategy chosen by the agents proved to be unexpectedly effective and successful. Everyone at the duke's court now perceived Mistrael in this less than honourable status. This may not have been very pleasant for her personally, but it allowed her to do her job very effectively, with minimal problems both with the remnants of the anti-elf party and with Christian's official wife.

Mistral managed to find common ground with the future Duchess de Mont Ros, and there were no problems on her part. And as for the talk of a possible ‘elf takeover’ at Augustus Castle, there is no need to worry, which is also to the Forest's advantage. Having finished reading Turiel's true report, which, in Sybil's opinion, was overly detailed in terms of her son and Mistrael's bedroom activities, the queen's experienced eye picked out a number of key words in it. It took a little longer to piece together the third layer of the message; it was clear that her friend had taken great care in encrypting it.

However, once the code was decrypted, it became clear why Turiel had sent a letter rather than a simple message via a secret amulet or her comrades in the Secret Guard. The third part of the message was much shorter than the previous ones, addressed personally to Sybil, and extremely simple. Her old friend very transparently reminded her of her promise to find her an official husband from among Sivila's relatives after completing the current task. Otherwise, she would be very upset, and the queen would not get away with just one lick. Or even two. With a heavy sigh, Sivila put the letter aside, leaned back in her chair, and rolled her eyes, staring resignedly at the ceiling of her office. In the name of the First Tree, she was acting like an inexperienced agent, not a two-hundred-year-old girl with only one thing on her mind.

On the other hand, you can understand her. It's one thing to agree to a short honey assignment, even if it's not the most routine one, but it's quite another to get stuck in it up to your tits. The result was Augustus utmost loyalty to the Forest and the birth of three half-breed children from him to Turiel. Oh, and this issue will have to be resolved... Who to put under poor Turie, whose human husband has fathered three children out of a possible five... Closing her eyes, Sybil mentally went through her available male relatives, unsuccessfully trying to find someone, even potentially, whom she could marry off to her old friend, who had worked tirelessly for so many years for the good of the Forest.

Hmm... It's unlikely that anyone would agree voluntarily. It looks like we'll have to play the same game as with Gilraen, whose lovely maids continue to regularly and diligently squeeze him dry, fuelling Gaia's blessings. There's also the issue of dealing with them, or rather, their half-breed children... Pressing her lips together, Sivila thought with a hint of dull irritation that sometimes it seemed like everyone around her was doing nothing but fucking. Meanwhile, she was fucking, but not in the way she would have liked. When was the last time she managed to get a good rest in her private dungeon in the palace? It seems that it was before the operation to catch a gang of adventurers who decided to try their luck at catching the eternally young commodity, which led to Master's trail being discovered...

Realising how long ago it had been, Sivile suddenly felt like dropping everything and taking a day off, a day filled with pure, unadulterated pleasure, free from any obligations whatsoever. Just sex. It would seem so simple — to have sex with someone. But not when you are one of the supreme leaders of the Forest, and everyone, literally everyone, who is willing to share your bed, even in the most perverted and humiliating roles, inevitably wants something in return. Or at least expects to get something in return. And only the specially bred cute green babies want nothing from her except pleasure...

Sighing sadly, Sivila allowed herself a moment to sit motionless in her chair, indulging in memories of the last time she had managed to have some real fun in her private dungeon. How long ago was that... And how good it was... Feeling her excitement growing, she opened her eyes and glanced quickly at the wall clock. Then, at the documents and letters lying on the table. She let out another sad sigh, but still activated the communication amulet. A dozen heartbeats later, Fiorel entered her office, carefully closing the door behind him. Another twenty heartbeats later, he was kneeling under Sybil's desk, lifting the hem of the queen's dress, throwing her legs over his shoulders, and diligently working his tongue between them.

Reclining in her chair, the queen enjoyed her page's skilful oral caresses, caressing her exposed breast with one hand and burying the other in his hair. But in her mind, which was increasingly consumed by pleasure, a melancholy thought flashed through her mind: that Fiorel also wanted something from her, that he was counting on something. And only her little ones wanted nothing from her except her body...

* * *

Somewhere...

Despite its name, the Guild of Messengers had nothing to do with messengers and conduits of the will of the celestials. However, it was directly involved in messages and news. And while it was sometimes inferior in terms of combat power to the Adventurers' Guild or other guilds of magicians, in terms of influence... That was another matter entirely. Its branches and affiliates were present in one form or another in literally every Free City of the Confederation, on the Islands, in the Caliphate, in the Theocracy, in the cities of the black-skinned inhabitants of the far South, in the cities of the Lizards, in the Eastern Empire, in the Gem Cities beyond the Southern Seas, in the Forest. In short, in any truly large city, one could find representatives of this guild in one way or another.

Because fast and reliable information exchange was as essential as air to all organisations or individuals of any significance. Yes, all serious players had their ways of communicating over long distances. But smaller players could not afford top-level communication amulets or entire complexes of them, tuned to dozens of recipients around the world, and protected from interception and eavesdropping. The most common communication amulets were paired, tuned to each other. This meant that a separate pair was needed for each recipient. What if you were not a representative of the largest and richest Trading House, but did business not only in the Middle Sea region, but also beyond? And you have dozens of partners with whom you need to maintain contact. And you simply cannot physically afford, like the emissaries of the same elves, to maintain a complex network of communication amulets in different parts of the world?

This is where the Guild of Messengers came to the rescue, providing its services to anyone who wanted them for a fee. Well, almost anyone who wanted them. Yes, there were some caveats, given the complicated relations between certain factions, but still. And it is understandable that, given the nature of their main occupation, very often the branches of this guild either directly neighboured the temples of the Guardian of Oaths or had their shrines with priests on duty there, who provided quite acceptable guarantees of the confidentiality of correspondence. And, of course, the Guild of Messengers did not feed on the transmission of messages alone.

News from different corners of the world was also largely disseminated through it. A whole separate staff of this guild was engaged solely in collecting information about various events from different branches, compiling it into collections, and then distributing these collections to interested parties. Some were free, some were for a fee, and some were only available for a very high fee and not to everyone. Bringing this news, or rather selling it, sometimes brought in as much money as sending messages through communication amulets to different parts of the world. And it must be admitted that the past year has been extremely rich in very hot news. The Guild of Messengers has not had this much work in a very long time. And, accordingly, income.

The hottest news of recent weeks, overshadowing even the events in Iyastar and the ensuing ‘General Commotion,’ or, as the lower and middle ranks of the Guild dubbed it, ‘Total FUBAR,’ were events from two places. From Dantmark, where a natural breakthrough of the inhabitants of Inferno occurred, which put not only the entire Free City on edge, but also all the neighbouring territories. Since everyone took the threat from the demonic creatures extremely seriously, they reacted to any manifestation of it with extreme sharpness and nervousness. And, almost simultaneously with this, events in White Harbour and Elven Bay. At first, they were separated, but it soon became clear that they were directly related.

And while there were many questions but very few answers regarding the breakthrough of infernal creatures, the events in the Elven Bay. Oh, everything was much more interesting in that regard. One could say there was significantly more information. And what information! Such juicy and hot material is rarely found! And the employees of the Guild of Messengers branch in White Harbour performed a real labour feat in collecting and processing this information. At the same time, they spent almost the entire annual budget allocated for salaries (and bribes) to informants in just under a week, and even that was not enough, so they had to borrow from various creditors. And all these expenses paid off in just a couple of days, as soon as the main news reports were compiled and began to spread throughout all the branches of the Guild of Messengers!

After all, it's not every day, or even every year, or even every decade, that fanatical killers from the Dark Brotherhood stage a massacre of such monstrous proportions in the only open city of the elves. And for what? Or rather, as it turned out, for whom? For the illegitimate son of the King of the Forest himself, who was there incognito and whom they tried to kidnap! And they almost succeeded, but he miraculously escaped! Consider it a literal miracle, and one involving two celestials, one of whom almost appeared in person! Oh, many were willing to pay a lot for the details of such a story. Especially not for simple rumours, whispered by some old grannies, but for a detailed report with attached copies of the testimonies of witnesses, eyewitnesses, and even some of the direct participants. And not everyone who wanted such a report would be sold one...

Damian emphasized the last phrase in particular, looking meaningfully at his interlocutor. The latter had remained silent for most of the conversation, listening attentively to the senior member of the Guild of Messengers, only occasionally asking brief clarifying questions. Just as silently, he took a bulging purse from his bosom and placed it on the table in front of Damian. Then another one from his belt bag, just as bulging. Then a third. Carefully untying them one by one, Damian poured a whole mountain of silver coins of various denominations onto the table. There were florins, orens, thalers, and even drachmas. Quickly estimating the total amount, he allowed himself a broad smile:

"How pleasant it is to do business with you, Quarts... Here you go!"

Pushing aside the silver, which amounted to a small but still substantial fortune, Damian placed several sealed tubes filled with scrolls on the table in front of him. His interlocutor carefully took one of them, opened it, took out the first scroll, unrolled it, and scanned it with his eyes. He studied what was written for a minute, then, looking up from his reading for a moment, asked briefly, pointing to the others:

"Is all the information here?"

"All the information we have managed to gather to date. Here is the fully verified information that I can vouch for. Here and here we have gathered everything that looks credible, but which we have been unable to confirm with certainty. However, all the information we have obtained comes exclusively from sources that have already earned sufficient credibility. No rumours from gossiping grannies, I guarantee it!Э

Quarts nodded silently, put the scroll back into the tube, and the tubes themselves into his belt pouch. Then he took another purse from his bosom, smaller than the first three, and placed it in front of Damian. In response to the questioning look, he briefly explained:

"A small thank you for being able to get everything so quickly."

"For verified clients - anything you want. For an appropriate fee."

"Of course."

With a brief nod, Quartz stood up and left the small but well-protected room where the meeting had taken place. When the door closed behind him, Damian waited a few minutes, sitting motionless at the table. Only when he received confirmation from the guards via his personal communication amulet that the guest had left the house, which had been purchased specifically for such purposes through front men, without any incidents, did he allow himself to breathe a sigh of relief. No matter how many years he had been in this business, he still couldn't get used to such meetings and negotiations. Every time, even when meeting with seemingly reliable clients, he still sat on pins and needles, expecting something to go wrong at any moment. Although, to be fair, Quartz was far from the worst of those to whom Damian sold information.

He had inherited him as a client from his predecessor. Demian didn't know how his predecessor had met him, and, honestly, he didn't want to know. As one of the last employees of the Guild of Messengers, he understood better than anyone that unnecessary information was not only unnecessary sorrow, but also a deadly threat. He was quite satisfied that Quartz always paid well, didn't haggle, didn't ask unnecessary questions, wasn't interested in any dirty business or news that could get him into trouble without unnecessary questions, and generally didn't cause Demian any problems. And he reciprocated, making no attempt to find out who exactly Quartz worked for or whom he served. Nothing personal, just business. He provided information, and he received money. If all his clients were like that, Demian would have no worries at all! Ah, dreams, dreams.

Okay, while there's still time before the next meeting, we need to sort out the money. Demian's immediate superior and patron preferred to receive his share in elven florins, and it would be very good if there were enough of them and we didn't have to bother calculating the ratio...

Leaving the sturdy private house through an inconspicuous black door that led to a side alley called Quartz, he took a few steps along it, and then his figure seemed to dissolve into the darkness that reigned there. It was already late at night on the street, and most people and non-humans had long since fallen asleep. But most does not mean all. Although there had been no problems with Demian before, that did not mean that no one knew about his place for non-work meetings. And that no one would try to keep an eye on him and track down those who came to the information dealer.

During his predecessor's tenure, this happened a couple of times. Once, it even took some effort to make sure that a certain overly curious individual, who failed to understand the extremely transparent hint in the form of a missing pair of spies, realized his mistake. Or rather, his replacement realized it...

But this time there were no problems. Well, there were a couple of observers, but they were just watching the house, and when Quartz left, they didn't even try to follow him. So let them live. Especially considering his current difficult circumstances, he has no time for unnecessary hassle...

He reached his refuge without any problems, even though he took a roundabout route through some rather unsafe areas. But none of Lortan's followers even noticed the figure hidden in the darkness. It was not particularly difficult to first enter the house, whose inhabitants were unaware of the regular visits of uninvited guests, and then to enter the basement. Much more time was spent checking everything and making sure there were no strangers nearby. Once in the basement, Quartz, leaving no traces and without touching any of the dust-covered items stored there, made his way to the far wall. A light touch in the right place in the right way, and a puddle of jet-black ink spread across the stonework, emitting black smoke.

The portal led to another basement, but this time in the neighboring house, whose residents had no idea that they even had a basement. Well, they did have a basement, and they used it. But none of the current residents knew that it had a second floor that couldn't be accessed directly. As soon as Quartz found himself in his refuge, the pool of steaming ink behind him instantly disappeared, leaving virtually no trace of the portal that had just existed. The basement room was illuminated by a pair of magical lamps, transforming the complete darkness into mere twilight.

In the dim light, Quartz stood motionless against the wall, dressed in the unassuming clothes of an ordinary townsperson, except for their dark color. He stood there for several seconds, listening to the surrounding silence. He also listened to the responses of the natural web of signal threads and other security weaves that securely enveloped this basement room. Only after making sure that no one had been here during his absence did he allow himself to breathe out wearily. Raising both hands, he seemed to pinch his face for a few seconds. And then the face of this middle-aged man of surprisingly unremarkable appearance literally slipped off him, and in the hands of the man Demian knew as Quartz was a leather mask. A mask made of human skin cut from a face.

At that moment, Quarts's entire appearance seemed to ripple, and a moment later, a clearly female figure stood in his place, dressed, however, in the same inconspicuous clothes of an ordinary townsperson, with a pale, noticeably tired and irritated, but quite attractive face. Breathing a sigh of relief, the woman removed the mask that had served as the basis for the illusion, carefully placed it in a small tube, of which she had several in her belt bag, and began to take off her outer clothing. Underneath, she was wearing a black garment that fit her figure like a glove, covering her from her socks to her throat and fingertips. Unbuttoning the collar, she let out another sigh of relief and pulled off the strip of fabric that had been wrapped around her not-so-small breasts. Next, the woman pulled off a well-made wig, revealing dark, straight hair down to her shoulders, covered with a special mesh cap and matted with sweat.

Having completely removed her disguise and carefully placed it on a separate table located against the wall away from the place where the portal-passage was hidden, the woman walked decisively into the adjacent basement room, which resembled a typical study. A wide desk covered with papers and scrolls, cabinets along a couple of walls filled with the same, as well as books. If you looked at it from the outside, you could mistake it for the workplace of some bureaucratic official. The only thing that might have alarmed an ordinary person and would certainly have set off alarm bells for anyone in the know or any non-human was the wall opposite the entrance. A wall on which a black hand had been painted in the center with something black.

And along the edges of this hand, scrolls hung on the wall. Scrolls with lists of various names, written in different handwritings and languages. Some scrolls had more names, others had fewer. But at the bottom of each scroll was a small black hand, identical to the one painted on the wall. And all the scrolls were now crossed out, except for one, the longest of them all. And at the very top of this scroll, above the long list of names, were a couple of words written in classical Confederate. Fourth Sister.

Glancing habitually at the list of “selected” and “taken” by her hand, she approached the desk and sat down at it. Pushing aside some of the papers lying on it, she laid out the scrolls she had bought from Damian in front of her and began to study them carefully, one by one, in the light of the magic lamp. As she read, a faint smile appeared on her pale face. The merchant from the Guild of Messengers had not disappointed; the information was indeed worth the money paid for it. But for her, it was especially valuable!

Because she knew who the sharp-eared ones were really trying to hide behind the guise of their king's illegitimate son, and, to their credit, they were doing a pretty good job of it. She knew who this accursed boy really was, who was in fact no half-elf at all. This bastard, gifted with a power that had made all the powerful of this world stand on end and remain there... This scoundrel, who turned out to be far smarter and more dangerous than she had expected... This...

Biting her lip, the Fourth Sister didn't notice how she clenched her fists until it hurt. She had had failures. Very few, but it did happen that she failed to ‘take’ the “chosen” or ‘marked’ one. And in more than half of the cases, it wasn't her fault. But she had never really failed before! And what happened... It was a total epic fail, a monstrous failure, a disaster, the price of which turned out to be almost unbearable! Only with her skill and the blood of her former brothers and sisters did she manage to buy herself a second chance. A chance to correct her mistake. To ‘take’ this deceitful and treacherous bastard... And when she gets to him... When he is in her power... Damn you!!!

Thinking about what she had already planned to do to the damn boy who, despite all her efforts and sacrifices, had managed to slip away from her, her nipples tensed and hardened again against her will, and a fire began to burn in her lower abdomen. Damn it, damn it, damn you! Almost growling with impotent rage, she froze in her chair, trying to calm down and suppress the sudden arousal with sheer willpower. Of course, to no avail. Damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it!!! Biting her lip, continuing to shower everyone and everything with curses, she unbuttoned the top of her clothes, baring her chest, and threw off the bottom, stripping naked to the waist. Throwing both legs up on the table and spreading them wide, leaning back in her chair, the one known in the Dark Brotherhood as the Fourth Sister began to eagerly caress her bud, repeatedly penetrating her cunt with her fingers. With her other hand, she began to stroke and squeeze her breasts.

All this nonsense began after that damned incident when she thought she would lose her mind with pleasure. When, completely out of the blue, busy planning how to fix her failure, she felt someone's tongue run over her lower lip. Through all her defences, through the defences of her refuge! It was unthinkable, but it was true! And then it happened again and again. She tried to defend herself with magic, using every means at her disposal, even depriving herself of consciousness — but it was useless. It was impossible to hide from the skilful caresses of the invisible but very tangible tongue. She lost her sense of time and understanding of what was happening after the third peak of pleasure, and came to her senses lying on the floor in a pool of her love nectar, languidly masturbating.

It wasn't difficult to guess how and whose fault it was. That damned boy, endowed with the power of the Tablets! Only with her help could such a thing be accomplished. Otherwise, it would be impossible, without her power and her protection! Oh, what punishments she promised him at that moment, when, half-naked and breathing heavily, she finally got to her feet! What options for revenge she managed to come up with at that moment! And the next day! Sitting at this very table, she took a break from her work and began to imagine ways to get her revenge. And her fantasies on this subject were so exciting that she didn't even notice how she began to caress herself again, imagining how she would make the boy pay. And it took her a while to realise that despite all the excitement, she couldn't achieve release. No matter how she caressed herself, no matter how she tormented her womb and breasts, relief still didn't come!

Only by using the ladies' saviour left over from one of the sisters she had killed after her failure, enchanted with vibration, did the Fourth Sister finally achieve the desired relief. But then things only got worse. Attacks of arousal came every day, and it became increasingly difficult to quell them. Sex toys, alchemy, meditative practices, and techniques - nothing really helped! Nothing helped to calm the excitement or achieve the desired release! The last time, she had to pleasure herself for almost an hour to finally feel the desired relief! And now, again... Aaaah, damn it!!!

Growling naturally, the Fourth Sister jumped to her feet and slammed her fist down on the table. This cannot go on! She had to find a way, otherwise she would simply go mad! Maybe she could catch some cute little brat, preferably one who looked like that damned boy? But what guarantee was there that it would help? If toys didn't help, why should a living one... Wait a minute... Struck by a sudden insight, she leaned over the table, her eyes darting feverishly in search of the right scroll. Where is it... Aha! Finding the right document describing one of the targets that had been ‘chosen’ earlier but never ‘taken,’ the Fourth Sister allowed herself a smile that looked more like a sneer. Considering that at that moment she was standing naked to the waist with her heavy breasts spilling out, she looked quite a sight. But in the underground shelter, after the recent failure, there was now no one left who could appreciate her appearance...

* * *
Author's Note:

So, having rested a bit and sorted out the drafts of his other works, Brinar finally gathered his will into a fist and sat down for work. I'll try not to delay the continuation, especially since I already have an idea-plan for the first chapter from Kiryusha's point of view.

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Переводчики: Camrad_RIP