He dreamed he was a unicorn — white, fierce, untamed, — but captivated by a bewitching and tender voice emerging from the forest thicket and seeing a maiden sitting on silk cushions. Her blonde hair flowing in the wind, her beauty stinging like a sword, leaving unhealing wounds. Undoubtedly, it was Lady Isola. She was singing a heart-wrenching French tune:

Térehoyno

Géreyhoyno

Hori garan

Haragaloun

Holouuryaba

Hori garan

Hongorhaltargalounoud...

Unable to resist the magic of the words or the charm of the maiden, he bowed before Lady Isola, lowering his head onto her knees. His heart trembled with happiness and freezed with delight, even though her knees were hard, uncomfortable and the sharp edge painfully dug into his cheek.

*****

It was not a sound, that awakened him, but a gaze. The Scarlet shot up and recoiled, reaching for his dagger. Asterius was standing in front of him.

‘Were we friends, I swear, I would not have resisted the urge to douse you with a bucket of water,’ he said with his shameless grin.

‘I wouldn't have minded,’ grumbled the Scarlett. His head throbbed – either from the wine he had drunk the night before or from the blow he had received last morning. ‘I see you've found a cunning way to finish me off without dirtying your hands,’ he nodded to the basket Asterius was holding.

Fresh green onion feathers spilled from its side, and judging by the scent, it was filled with warm bread and sausage. And, of course, that wretched local cheese.

The tauran laughed heartily, throwing his head back. Knights of the Bull and the Chalice were hardly ascetics, but they were not prone to gluttony like some temple dwellers. The meal that Scarlet had devoured at dinner would have lasted him three days in other circumstances.

‘Dawn is coming,’ said the tauran, having laughed his fill, ‘Let's have breakfast by the sea. There is no sadder place than an empty, vomit-stained tavern in the morning. Even desperate drunks try to crawl away by then.’

The Scarlet shrugged. He did not care either way.

****

They descended to one of the narrow, rocky bays that cut into the coastline and settled on a rock, dangerously overhanging the sea. Asterius plunged his mighty hand into his bottomless basket, while the Scarlet barely restrained himself from stripping down and diving into the waves. The same feeling that allowed him to recklessly fall asleep in the tavern again overcame him: as if he were a ghost or everything happening to him was a dream. As if he was dissolving in the still timid rays of the sun and the cool wind. As if he was vanishing, like sea foam, leaving no trace behind.

Asterius handed him two slices of bread, pressed together with cheese, greens, and sausage in between. For a while, they chewed in silence. The Scarlet, still feeling like disappearing sea foam, had almost forgotten why he had returned to the city.

‘You look like him,’ said Asterius after swallowing the last bite and licking his fingers.

The knight gave a curt nod.

‘They say I'm his bastard. But no one knows for sure.’

‘He did not lack courage or intelligence. But he was also a first-rate bastard.’

‘If you want to anger me, try harder.’

‘Oh, such composure!’ Asterius glanced sideways at the knight and his black eyes sparkled with mockery. ‘They say he was not entirely human either. They say his ancestors were half-snake-half-people who invented the chariot. Because they had no legs.’

‘I don't know about the legs, but if you judge by the Grandmaster, they had no fear or conscience.’

‘Maybe so. But you would do well to learn a thing or two from him — about foresight and prudence.’

The Scarlet stiffened. He considered himself clever — perhaps not as ruthless as his dubious father, but still sharp enough to play the game several moves ahead.

‘He was the only one who survived a duel with me,’ continued Asterius. ‘And do you know why?’

‘Tell me,’ said the knight with feigned indifference. He had heard something like this. Was it true? There were so many tales about the Grandmaster's feats, but could he have dealt with such a monster alone?

Gloria Mu, The Game of Jart, 2022

Translated by YB

Artwork by Aleks Klepnev

Published with authors permission