Chapter 2

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He wanted to curse and howl in anger before he even opened his eyes: nothing had changed, the next awakening brought the same sensations as the day before. Pain, weakness, a wary desire to find suitable prey. Thirst. Andrew cursed. Would it be like this forever now? Or would the thirst change over time - grow or weaken? He needed to figure that out soon, so he could be ready for anything.

In other words, he needs an older companion. A more experienced ghoul. Where to look for him? Of course, wherever there are people.

Yesterday Andrew noticed figures creeping in the dark, which his senses perceived somewhat differently from the living. Distance prevented him from seeing exactly, but instinctive apprehension at the sight of some humanoid creatures did not allow him to perceive them as prey. He dared not approach - besides, ghouls disappeared quickly and hid well. Today he felt ready to communicate, but preferably on his own terms.

This time, peering into the ruined city and already knowing what to look out for, Andrew noticed an interesting pattern. The larger gangs camped farther from the port than the smaller groups of three or four, but the latter were much more numerous. It made sense: there were better targets for the ragamuffins in the backcountry, and on the other hand, the dangers were greater. Inevitably, the treasure hunters banded together, sought out leaders, and armed themselves, eventually becoming organized groups. It is possible that the bandits divided the quarter among themselves and carefully guarded territories against the encroachment of competitors.

A girl in tattered rags must have looked more than a little strange, climbing onto the sagging roof of one of the houses. But there was no one there to see her: it was too dark for the awake sentries. Her kin, on the other hand, was a different matter. They probably noticed her, but for some reason not in a hurry to get acquainted. Unfortunately for them, Andrew was determined to talk tonight - he had too many questions. However, not all of them could be answered by the ghouls, even if they wanted to...

The worm of doubt reared its head from time to time, and then the earthling began to feel the world around him again as a nightmarish dream, a virtual reality created by the hypnotist. He had to look around, to pinch himself, to listen to the shouts carried by the wind, to inhale the smells of dust and burning, once again being convinced of the clarity of sensations unusual for a nightmare. Except that any psychiatrist, and just interested in medicine knows very well how difficult it is for the patient to distinguish the imaginary world from the real one. Without help, the severe stages of the disease are incurable. What if a self-taught sorcerer accidentally caused too much damage, and now Andrew lies in a coma in a room with padded felt walls, and friendly muzzles in white coats are pricking him with syringes?

One could stay the night in the open street. Then, according to yesterday's prisoner, the dead body would burn, and Andrew might return to his native, human body. Or die, if he became a ghoul. It is quite possible death from painful shock - this option can't be ruled out either. He would die in a madhouse, fried in his sleep under the imaginary sun... It was more than enough material for one dissertation.

No, it's better not to risk it. Sooner or later the subconscious will help, will give a clue - until then one should just survive, accumulate information and strength. Time will put everything in its place. In the meantime, it is necessary to consider the destroyed city and the woman's body as a reality - it is easier to survive that way.

He jumped from the improvised observation tower and ran in the direction where he'd seen his kin or someone like himself yesterday. However, he realized almost immediately how stupid it would be to run into an ambush or just run into people, so he took a brisk step. Gradually slowing down, listening more and more closely to the silence of the night, in the end, Andrew did not so much hear as feel the presence of someone else ahead.

Human silhouettes began to be seen in the distance, and the smoke of the fire tickled my nostrils. People: another gang camping out. Twelve bandits camped by the fire and one sentry. Unlike the ragamuffins you've seen before, these are armed. Curious. Knives, axes, leaf-tipped spears, and something like a crude semblance of a halberd were normal; they were ancient weapons, simple and reliable. But there were no bows and no swords. Shields are not visible either, throwing weapons are represented by short spears. And they were dressed much better - in roughly made leather clothing, broken boots, and some were seen wearing cloth shirts, albeit dirty and tattered. But there were plenty of rags, too, not to mention the cleanliness of the men themselves: a gust of wind brought to my sensitive nostrils a smell more suitable to a wild beast than to a human.

Though it was impossible to see the details from this distance, Andrew was not going to get any closer. Today hunger was bearable, so he should do more important things than hunt. At his last thoughts, the darkness lurking in the depths of consciousness began to stir unhappily: for it, the possibility of quenching thirst meant everything.

After wandering around the camp for a while, avoiding the attention of the sentries, Andrew finally stumbled upon the first undead in his life. It was the first undead creature he'd ever encountered, and he couldn't quite make out the exact classification at the time. The dog, mid-thigh-high, full of fangs, stood in the darkened alley, blocking the path as he waited. The encounter must have come as a surprise to her, too, because the creature didn't pounce, but moved backward, mewing warningly.

The upper part of the creature's skull was missing.

Neither was the brain.

The opponents froze, studying each other. After a period of mutual scrutiny that lasted for ages, Andrew, trying not to make any sudden movements, slowly began to step back. The dog growled again. He sniffed. It sniffed discontentedly, jerked the ground with its paw, leaving three deep scratches on the stone, but did not pursue.

Only when he turned the corner, Andrew dared to turn back and run, cautiously listening - whether there is a quick clawing sound from behind, whether the terrible creature has changed his mind to let the unexpected witness?

The girl ran away and froze, looking around. Andrew was waking up from an unexpected shock. Some kind of nightmare. If the beast were a real monster, disgusting and unlike anything he had ever seen before, it would not have frightened the earthling as much as an ordinary dog like a husky, only with its skull neatly cut off. He hadn't expected that. The captive had spoken of monsters roaming, but, first, he had never encountered them in the city before. Secondly, people are always prone to exaggeration, and Andrew simply brushed aside the story he had heard. He remembered it but did not take it seriously.

It was a mistake.

"Is you new?"

A muffled voice, coming from somewhere on the side, would have made a mere human jump on the spot. The dead body, on the other hand, froze, only to jump sharply in the opposite direction. His mouth grinned viciously, a muffled growl escaped his throat.

"The new girl, then," the short ghoul hummed contentedly, his face crouched in the dark corner. The half-naked man, with his eyes flashing and his tongue licking nervously, was not a trustworthy companion. On the contrary, as evidenced by his subsequent speech. "Quick, warm. Recently drank. Lucky, lucky. Dark gods, merciful and punishing, send a prey to your servant, do not leave the chosen one, give blood. Blood. I am not well."

He suddenly crumpled, like a deflated rubber ball, and repeated wistfully: "Not well."

"Who are you?" Andrew asked, and immediately berated himself for asking a stupid question. He hastened to correct himself. "How long have you been like this?"

"A long time," the ghoul whimpered. "Second summer."

However, the temporary insanity had passed - or, on the contrary, there had been a brief lucidity of the mind, who could tell. The man's eyes gleamed keenly and interestedly. There stood before him a short girl of about seventeen, with thin features and long blond hair. She was thin-skinned and frail, with a supple figure and small breasts, and looked like the ideal of a man who liked petite women. More accurately, she would have looked like this if she had washed her face and body of dried blood crust and put on something prettier instead of a torn rag. Or at least clean. The ghoul sensed his kin - young and inexperienced.

He had already opened his mouth to let off a greasy joke when the girl stepped forward slightly while looking him straight in the eye. Unusually she was acting out of character, wrong. All the new risen ghoul had previously encountered were a pitiful sight: shaking, pitying for help, hungry and vaguely aware of their condition. Or, on the contrary, wildly laughing madmen, in the euphoria of drunken blood attacking people. Such people didn't live long. This one he'd just met looked too calm, too sure of herself. And she was standing unusually - leaning slightly forward, one leg resting on the ground behind her, her arms relaxed, but covering her head, her body, and most importantly, her throat. She watched warily, but without fear. Women were rarely taught to fight, except in temples or noble families.

The aristocrat?

"How long have you been an uprising, mistress?" it came out involuntarily.

"Third night. What about you?"

"Second year," the man grinned. "My name is Artak."

Andrew suddenly realized that he should not introduce himself by his real name. In general, his whole story in the eyes of the locals would look a little strange. It is better to pretend to have lost his memory: it is safer and avoids unnecessary questions.

"I don't remember my name, I've lost my memory." He said and was glad that there was no gender division in the first-person conversation in Salvian. Otherwise, there might have been problems.

"It happens," Artak agreed understandably. "Sometimes the Master takes away my memory before he brings us back to the world."

He calmed down a little and became angry with himself. Just an ordinary girl-just an odd-looking girl. She didn't remember anything. Now she was going to start asking him what was going on, asking for help.

The girl really began to ask questions. Just not the ones that the man was used to.

"Are there ghoul groups in town?"

"What?"

"Do you hunt alone or with others?"

Artak remained silent. His intuition, honed over the past three years, which had more than once saved his life - and the afterlife, as the uprising called its existence - insisted that he stay away from the odd stranger.

"The community lives nearby, in the former monastery," he finally pointed behind. "I'd show you, but I didn't have anything to eat yesterday. If I don't eat tonight, the demon will come out."

"Need a hand? I just saw a dog without a skull."

"The brainless don't touch us. One Lord we serve," Artak brushed off. "Go straight down the street, when you see the wall with the Judges' symbols painted on it, a simple cross and an eye, go right to the gate. There will be someone there to take you to Carlon. That's our head's name, Carlon."

The first ghoul he encountered was left behind. Despite his instructions, Andrew twice had to avoid the bands of marauders who had camped overnight, so he arrived at the monastery almost before dawn. Fortunately, it didn't take him long to find the gate. Or, more accurately, the search for the archway, for the gate itself had disappeared, only the massive hinges left of it. The monastery appeared to have been burned long ago; the stone of the low walls and the courtyard paved with carved tiles were black with soot, and there were no wooden parts left. In some places, grass made its way between the stones, wild ivy braided statues of unknown saints, crawled up the walls of buildings, climbed onto the roofs, and through windows with broken glass. I wonder if there is anyone left in the country who knows how to cast glass, or will people have to restore the lost technology?

The announced guide was sitting in the courtyard. The gatekeeper was useless: he noticed the stranger's appearance when the girl was five paces away. The ghoul's gaze was unconcerned, unaggressive, unafraid, unconcerned. Skinny, ragged-looking, with his hair, pulled together in tangles, he stared at the stranger indifferently, hunched over and frozen in an absurd pose on the ruins of a column. Andrew said hello: "Hello."

The answer was silence, which gradually became unpleasant and viscous. The ghoul seemed either asleep or in a narcotic-like trance. What was the next thing to do? Just ignore it and walk on by, go looking for this guy, Carlon himself? There was no guarantee of what the blank-eyed jerk would do - a man with a face like that would have been committed to the nuthouse a long time ago. "Hi."

The only reaction was a blink. The eyelids slowly lowered and lifted, once.

"Artak said you live here? Carlon where?"

After sitting for a while, the man finally moved. He still shook his head silently, inviting me to follow him. Reluctantly, with difficulty, he lowered his bare feet to the ground, and Andrew was amazed at the length of the claws on his toes. He couldn't have walked on his own with ten centimeters of "jewelry" - the ghoul had somehow managed to get around. It was a strange, bouncing gait, but it was fast enough. The ghoul didn't look back, so the new girl had no choice but to follow him. He didn't have far to go - to a small temple, which had a door right outside the courtyard.

The inside, strange as it may seem, was relatively clean. It was sterile by local standards. The floor was scrubbed, torches of incense burned along the walls, illuminating the elaborately painted frescoes. Interesting architecture, somewhat reminiscent of the Arab-Spanish: the same light and airy. Only the color scheme was chosen heavy, pressing on the psyche, and drawings, to put it mildly, not the most life-affirming. Pictures of the afterlife, some monsters tormenting sinners, grinning jaws interspersed with images of executions and torture. A black cross with a white dot in the middle seemed to be the symbol of the deity - just as the sculpture stood at the end of the hall. The horizontal bar at the ends was divided, the resulting offshoots were decorated with jewels of blue, brown, red, and milky white. A ghoul stood in front of the cross in a prayerful pose.

It's interesting: whatever religion you choose, all require their neophytes to worship unconditionally. The only healthy skepticism is found in Buddhism, and many teachers treat the tenets of their teachings with excessive zeal. Faith presupposes no doubt, but it demands obedience. Doesn't this mean that well-established canons are needed, not for people, but society? An extra binder to unite a bunch of personalities into a whole? Hence the similarity of customs: sermons, the requirement to kneel before sacred symbols, the adoration of "antiquity" and the need for the blessing of elders on any initiative.

The ghoul crawled away from the cross at the sight of the intruders, and then straightened up to his full height. Still not turning his back on the symbol, he took a couple of steps backward, then turned around and jerked his hand demandingly, beckoning him to come closer. The guide was of no interest to him: all the man's attention was on the girl. The newcomer, in turn, regarded him with interest.

The leader of the ghouls, who could be no other man - much too commanding for a mere man - had a remarkable appearance. He was of medium height, made to look tall by his incredible thinness, and his long, straight hair, which fell to his waist, accentuated his gauntness. The long fingers on his hands were clenched nervously in constant motion. He apparently tried to fight this habit, clutching his hands together, but after a short time the naughty fingers would take over the old ones. But his face, contrary to expectation, was not bony and was rounded, with regular features, even handsome. The good impression was spoiled by the imperious lips and the icy eyes, in which there was a cruel and fanatical expression.

"What's your name?"

The ghoul's voice sounded unexpectedly soft. Andrew even looked around to see if a third person had approached. No one, and the escort was gone.

"I don't remember," he decided to stick to his storyline. "I woke up the day before yesterday, and I realized I'd forgotten everything."

"It happens," the man nodded. "Most of the time it takes a month or two for the memory to come back. It doesn't matter, though. When we enter the Darkness, we discard the past, just as a tree discards its leaves in the fall. Yesterday was dedicated to Celesta, the third of our lord's brides, so from now on you will be named after her."

Andrew shrugged his shoulders. By and large, he didn't care what name to use. So he didn't scandalize or object, though he was offended by Carlon's way of making decisions for others without offering even a semblance of choice.

"The sun will soon rise," the leader went on. "Come, I'll show you a place where you can wait out the day. Tomorrow we'll help you quench your hunger and answer the inevitable questions. Come."

The sleeping place was a narrow cell with tightly boarded-up windows, and the only furniture in the room was a mattress covered with a rough rug. She ran her fingers curiously over the smooth surface. The furniture was not made of wood, as she had first thought, but of some kind of plastic material, elastic and moderately soft. A light door was also made of the same material, and, to judge by the absence of traces of fire, it had been recently installed. Footsteps were heard from the corridor:

"Take it." Carlon came in, holding out a small, dark package. "Your clothes are tattered - this is a substitute."

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me," the ghoul didn't accept gratitude, "we're all brothers and sisters, it's our duty to help each other."

Almost the entire territory of the monastery was occupied by the cemetery. The last resting place of the wealthy was characterized by the opulence of the tombstones - the locals continued to measure the thickness of their wallets even after death. Other vaults, which looked more like miniature fortresses, had withstood the fury of the madding mobs and now flaunted their disheveled stucco, soiled designs, broken mosaics, and if they couldn't get inside, undamaged rich headstones. Most of the tombs, however, had been desecrated.

The ghouls were housed in two buildings - the central temple and a sort of barracks. The rest of the buildings were unused because of the small number of inhabitants, which, with Celeste's arrival, had grown to seven. In addition to Carlon, Artak, and the gatekeeper, who occasionally responded to Tick's call, three more were introduced to her upon awakening. Immediately after they offered to satisfy their hunger.

The uprising needed blood, not so much to sustain its existence as to suppress its inner "demon".The leader of this small group of the damned managed to answer all or almost all of the questions the girl asked him. Carlon created a coherent and logical system that explained both the recent catastrophe that turned a prosperous world into ruins and completely destroyed the old civilization and the emergence of new creatures such as ghouls. He himself preferred the name "risen," or "morages" in Old Sylvian.

According to him, every ghoul is nothing but a receptacle and a material shell for a demon sent by the god of death, called to judge and punish mortals. The demon draws its strength from human blood to stay in the material world - as he is supposed to by his status in any religion. In this case, the demon is not called upon to fight in the night after receiving the next "dose" of blood. On the second night, hunger begins to pester more, but the need for blood is not overwhelming. Waking up the third night brings anguish and pain all over the body, and the ghoul has little perception of his surroundings and actively searches for prey. However, it will not attack a knowingly stronger enemy - the instinct of self-preservation will not allow it.

If the ghoul does not find prey within four nights, he turns into a thirsty madman.

To Carlon, a former priest of the god of Death - Morvan, the concept seemed not just correct but the only correct one. He believed absolutely in the "punishment of the gods," and, slightly insane after his ordeal, imagined himself to be the new messiah, called to cleanse the world from its filth. To his credit, he was consistent in his madness and as merciful to those around him as a fanatic can be. So his first concern for his newfound "sister" was feeding: the ghoul believed Celeste was in urgent need of blood. Just after sunset, the leader entered the newcomer's cell.

"How are you feeling?" Surprisingly, he was met by a wary, clearly hungry, but quite a sane girl. "Are you hungry?"

"I drank blood the day before yesterday. Are you going hunting tonight?"

"Yes, but without you." Carlon nodded, inviting me to follow him. "You know almost nothing so we can't take any risk. We caught a man recently, and we didn't kill him, we put him in a cell. My lord guided my thoughts, keeping the prisoner alive. By his grace, you will be able to quench your thirst without fear."

"Do you have the prison?"

"A former penitential cell - formerly used to hold sorcerers caught doing forbidden things."

The former monk walked swiftly and purposefully. Twice he met some unfamiliar risers, but they were in no hurry to make conversation; they only looked at Celeste with dull eyes. The short walk ended in a courtyard, near a low, one-story building that reeked heavily of blood. A slender girl was standing nearby, sniffing eagerly, beautiful despite her ugly robe and layer of dirt in her hair. She turned around when she heard the footsteps and, frightened when she saw Carlon, backed away: "I just smelled it, senior brother! Lord my witness, I didn't go inside!"

Andrew did not hear the monk's response. All his attention was focused on the brackish-sweet smell that overwhelmed his other senses, suppressing his emotions. The desire to go inside became, for a brief moment, unbearable. A hungry beast howled in the mind, a sharp pain cut through the stomach, and the body involuntarily stepped forward. Immediately someone's arms wrapped around her, so strong that the frantic attempt to free herself was unsuccessful. Suddenly the smell was gone.

Carlon put the girl on the ground just as he left the yard. He looked upset.

"My fault. I should have tied up the prisoner." He peered intently into the newcomer's face, searching for signs of madness. "Don't worry, you'll soon stop craving the source of life so greedily. In time, the demon inside you will need less food. Sister Alarika!"

"Yes, senior brother."

The beauty stood beside, trying not to meet the leader's gaze.

"I entrust Sister Celesta to your care. I'm going into town to try to capture another sinner."

"There's no need..." Andrew noticed the slight grimace of displeasure that distorted the leader's face and added just in time: "... Senior brother." The grimace disappeared, and Carlon nodded in satisfaction. "It would be rude of me to interrupt your business, but I'm perfectly capable of hunting on my own. It's quicker that way. But I would be grateful if Sister Alarika would be willing to teach me a few lessons, and give me some insight into my surroundings."

"You have only recently risen, and your memory is as empty as a leaky bucket," the monk objected. "You are still too weak. Besides, it's my fault you're inconvenienced. I must atone for my mistake."

"Don't you have other, more important things to do? I assure you, nothing will happen to me."

Suddenly Alarika, who had been silent up until then, intervened. The short, sharp glance at the new "sister" showed obvious interest. The woman, however, quickly lowered her eyes to hide their expression:

"Brother Artak still hasn't returned, senior brother." Her voice sounded quiet and hesitant. "I promise we won't stray too far."

The monk hesitated, then admitted with visible displeasure: "Yes, he must be found. Good. Try not to stray too far from the monastery: its power will protect you. May the lord's blessing be upon you."

After blessing both of them like a Christian priest, Carlon left in the direction of the temple. Andrew glanced at the "mentor" and was met with a watchful look. She was looking at him, or, more correctly, at her attentively. It seemed, or on the woman's face flashed despair and timid hope? Such is not the way one looks at a rival, but at a possible ally or foe - with hope and fear of making a mistake. At last, the sister came to some conclusion and smiled: "You look hungry, don't you? Let's go find someone. Then I'll tell you about this place, about us. And - just call me Alarika."

The two girls headed for the exit of the monastery.

"Then you can call me Celesta, too. But in reality, it was only yesterday that I got that name."

"Yes, everyone who comes into the community must forget their past," Alarika confirmed in a neutral tone. She lowered her head, hiding the expression on her face with her fallen hair. "I heard you lost your memory?"

"Yes. Did Carlon tell you?"

"Senior brother. Better say "senior brother," the experienced one corrected me. "No, it's just that I was in the temple yesterday and heard you talking. Don't worry, your memory will come back in a time. Gunn is on guard at the gate now, and he only remembered his past three months after the uprising. I will introduce you to him now."

There were two ghouls sitting at a respectful distance from each other in the courtyard. The first, tall and thin, dressed in knee-length pants and the familiar monk's robe, at the moment crumpled up in a knot on his stomach, was looking intently at something on his thighs. At the sight of the girls, he raised his head and stared at them without taking his eyes off them. The second ghoul, the same Gunn, was a middle-aged man with a smoothly shaved head and a huge birthmark on his right cheek - he grinned crookedly in greeting.

"What, the new one?"

"Let me introduce you to Gunn, Celesta, the gloomiest ghoul in town." Gunn replied with an indefinite chuckle, staring shamelessly at his new "sister". She returned the favor with an equally friendly look. "Paltin sits next, his cell at the other end of the corridor. Gunn, has Artak returned?"

"No. The senior took Tik and went in search of him, and we'll go now." The man jumped off the pillar he was sitting on and went out the gate, followed by his companion. "Carlon told you to go to the South Market, were a little gang is supposed to be spending the night tonight. Well, and look for our painter, too."

Then he stumbled and cursed foully. Paying no further attention to the other companions, he walked up the street without looking back. He didn't even seem to care whether or not Paltin was following him. Who, by the way, still kept his eyes on Celesta and Alarika as he walked, his neck twisted.

"Careful with Paltin," Alarika warned him as his kind disappeared around the corner so they couldn't overhear the conversation. "We don't enjoy carnal pleasures with the same vigor as before, but there are exceptions."

"Gunn looks more dangerous."

"He doesn't care about anyone. He doesn't care about himself either."

Their first joint hunt was unexpectedly short and successful, which couldn't be happier. Andrew could hardly keep up a conversation: his hunger was tormenting him more and more by the minute. Why the lone bandit had been driven into the ruins, why he'd lost his own, you wouldn't know now - Alarika had hit too hard, and the man was dead. They had to hastily swallow the blood from his slit throat before it cooled. According to the older girl, the demon inside the risers does not feed on blood, but on life energy, which disappears quickly after the victim's death. So the few attempts to store the precious liquid in vessels failed - there was zero use for the preserves.

There was still plenty of time before dawn, so Andrew suggested we not go back to the monastery and talk here. He already knew the subtlety of ghouls' hearing and knew how easily the leader would overhear the conversation if he wished. No, it was better to let the escort relax and talk without looking back - maybe she would say something interesting.

Alarika agreed at once: she, too, wanted to talk to the new girl without strangers. Both for serious reasons and just to chat. Until last night, she had been the only woman in the men's community, a status that had many disadvantages. She wanted to be sure of her future relationship - would Celesta be her friend or not? Carlon wasn't too fond of Alarika, she was disturbing him, disturbing his cozy little world. No, thought the ghoul, she didn't need enemies, and she'd already been punished three times for her "sins". The monk did not approve of her association with Artak, whom, incidentally, the woman did not intend to give to a possible rival. She should have explained this to Celesta at once to avoid any possible misunderstanding. The former artist the rebellious beauty did not like or even respect too much: he just gave her a sense of security, protected her from other ghouls, especially from Paltin.

"Is there a bathhouse in the monastery?"

"Consider it nonexistent. The sewers and water pipes are destroyed, and you have to go either to the springs or to the river for water. The road is dangerous - you can meet people or monsters. Some people don't care what they eat as long as it smells like meat. And," Alarika said, glancing warily at the new girl, "our senior brother put spiritual purity above bodily purity."

"I didn't quite understand which Lord he was talking about."

Celesta looked suspiciously calm. Unbelievable: usually the first days after awakening, the risen weep, try to find their kin, beg the gods for death. Few are grateful for the chance and euphoric. The girl who had come to the temple yesterday was a model of equanimity.

"Father the Time gave birth to many worlds..."

"Worlds?!" Celesta suddenly tensed.

"Yes, worlds. Worlds of Light, worlds of Darkness, and the middle worlds, where elemental spirits rule. The center, the foundation of everything, is ours. There are many gods, but the most important are six: Illiar the lord of Light, Morvan the lord of Hell, Arcota the Heart of Flame, Salline the Benefactress, Derkana the Mistress of Waters, and Firiza the Impetuous. From their marriages, matter and life itself were born, and every living creature carries within itself a particle of the First Ones. Our Lord patronizes nocturnal beasts, dark magicians and sorcerers, merchants and shoemakers, in other words, all whose activities are connected with negative energies."

"What's that got to do with the shoemakers?" the new girl was surprised.

Think about it, where does the skin come from? From slaughtered animals. Now, every original power manifests itself through many faces, the exact number of which even the priests don't know. The demons that come into our world are patronized by Celesta, the Dark Mother, after whom our senior brother named you. It is true that the name of the goddess is spelled slightly differently, but you will not soon have the opportunity to compare.

"Why is that?"

Celesta scraped a piece of the floor, scooped up a handful of dust, and dumped it on the smooth surface, creating a makeshift writing board. She handed the little wand to Alarika. The girl grunted and drew two differently shaped and numbered rows of symbols. The writing was unexpectedly difficult: she'd forgotten what she was used to in the past three years, and now she was reviving it through sheer force of will.

"At the top is the name of the Goddess, at the bottom is yours."

"I'll have to learn all over again," the new girl concluded grimly. "I don't understand anything. Can you teach me?"

"I'd be happy to."

"Thank you. Tell me, does the phrase "The One God" mean anything to you?"

Feeling like a teacher turned out to be unfamiliar, scary, and enjoyable.

"Some sects claim that there is only one god, in the west, they also believe in a single creator. Maybe in your lifetime, you belonged to one of those sects. You look ordinary, you don't look like a foreigner. It's a pity you lost your memorial plate."

"What plate?"

"Look." The older woman pulled a copper plate with a pattern engraved on it from the depths of her robe. "Every Salva has one of these. It shows what family the person belongs to, who were the founders of the family, from what locality, what deeds they became famous for. The more complex the pattern, the younger the clan, some nobles have only a few lines. The plate is set on the altar at the temple when they want to make a sacrifice to the ancestors, put in the cradle of a newborn baby or the coffin of the deceased. If you had one, we might know where you came from."

"Maybe," Celesta answered vaguely, showing absolutely no interest in her past. She had other things on her mind. "Have you ever wondered what's going to happen to us?"

Alarika hesitated. They had known each other too briefly to trust each other definitively. So she answered cautiously: "The senior brother thinks the end of the world is coming..."

"I doubt it." Celesta curved her lips skeptically into a semblance of a smile. "There have been no new disasters since the Plague. Of course, it cost all the troubles of a thousand years, and now civilization would have to be rebuilt, but not from scratch. Even if the mages died - their knowledge, records remained, the crowd could not destroy everything."

"Even if new mages are born," Alarika smiled sadly, "there's nothing they can do. The Elements are no longer answering their calls, and the First Powers are gone. Men can no longer enchant. Except for the servants of Morvan and the few surviving priests of Illyar who have always focused on the spiritual aspects of the teachings. They have little interest in material existence. Or rather, they weren't before; I don't know how they are now. I haven't seen them for a long time."

"So, magic doesn't work?"

"Almost."

Celestа hesitated, then shrugged: "Whatever. Humans are cunning beasts, they're resilient, they adapt to any conditions. I bet a year ago it was much harder to survive in the city. You'll see, soon the Duke will begin to rebuild the city, purge the neighborhood of monsters, strengthen the garrisons in the villages. He will proclaim himself a king. You may call me a mad optimist, but if the human race has withstood the first and hardest blow, it has a future. So I have a future because I'm not going to die. On the contrary, I want to live in pleasure."

"Don't you dare say that to Carlon." Alarika felt something tremble inside her. The gray hopelessness that had clung to her soul receded for a moment, and for a brief moment, the woman believed the words. Could there be a better fate for her than eternal bloodlust and constant killing? Wandering through dark crypts and the hatred of all that is alive?

"I'm not stupid, don't be afraid," the girl smiled back. "And you know... Let's start with something small. Let's make a bath day."

* * *