The Mist and the Lightning. Part 19

Stretching out his hand a little, Arel lazily fiddled with Valentine’s braid in his fingers, sticking out between the lacing of his helmet. Valentin froze, standing on all fours, afraid to make the slightest movement.

“I’m at the end of the third ten,” said Arel.

“What?” Kors didn’t understand.

“I’m the twenty-sixth.”

“Oh Gods! Arel! I’m sorry for you! And what about Vil? He is the illegitimate son of Chester, but born of a noble lady. Not royal, but good blood.”

“Vil is a couple of months older than me,” Arel said.

“Then it turns out that you are not the twenty-sixth, but the twenty-seventh, and not the last, because the last is Valentine.”

“Vil and Valentine don’t count,” Arel disagreed.

“Yes, your ancestors, observing the purity of blood and entering into closely related marriages, dug their own grave with their own hands,” Kors continued his reasoning, “and even if they had not been defeated in the struggle for the throne, your family would have died from degeneration anyway. And no riots were needed. Endless closely related marriages, when brothers married their own sisters, the complete absence of even not so noble, but fresh blood, and as a result, you can thank them for the madness and epileptic seizures that you inherited.”

Arel just shrugged his shoulders, he didn’t care, but Kors didn’t give up:

“Prince, I can’t get this badge around your neck out of my head…” he began, confident that this would definitely touch Arel and make him feel strong emotions, but at that moment the door opened and Nik entered the room.

Seeing him, Kors for a moment forgot what he had just said, and even Arel let go of Valentine’s braid and half rose on the bed. Because Nik was wearing a chic long cloak, trimmed with wide stripes of bear fur. A magnificent bear collar fell down on the chest, thick fur flowed down the hem. For Nik, the cloak was too long, and therefore the hem decorated with precious fur simply dragged behind him, sweeping the floor. But Nik himself looked very pleased and, seeing how both Kors and Arel looked at him, he realized that they appreciated his new clothing.

“Arel, you gave me that cloak then, didn’t you?” Just in case, he clarified.

“Yes, yes,” Arel answered hurriedly, and Kors was ready to swear, he felt that the prince could hardly restrain his laughter.

“Well, now, finally, I can put it on,” Nik said happily, “it’s not as hot in the Black City as it is here, Arel, and this bear cloak will be just right.”

“It’s already cold in the Black City now,” Arel agreed.

“Yes!” Nik was even happier. “That is great!”

“Where did you dig it up from?” Kors asked, unable to suppress a smile. In this cloak, Nik looked very solid and funny at the same time.

“This is the cloak of Arel’s father, Ch… Chester, I noticed it a long time ago,” Nik answered. He stood in front of them even with some pride, and in fact, despite all his outright pathos, this bear cloak really suited him.

“Are my clothes not enough for you?” Kors noted. “Why do you need such a heavy and warm cloak if you don’t feel the cold anyway?”

Nik immediately pouted his lips and sat down on a chair with a displeased look, wrapping himself in a cloak so that the bear collar hid his chin, and looked at Kors reproachfully:

“And now what? Should I go naked? Why are you always talking so hurtfully?!”

“Gods, what have I said?”

“I don’t know… but you know how to do it!” Nik turned away.

And Kors, smiling slightly, looked at Arel:

“Prince Arel, you have given Nik a present, but what about me?” He tried to put notes of resentment into his intonation. “Maybe you can give me some present too?!”

Arel looked at him in surprise, not understanding whether Kors was joking or asking seriously:

“And what should I give you?”

“What you want! I’m not asking for anything special or expensive, a simple gift is enough for me, as a sign of respect from you,” said Kors. He lifted the goblet of wine he held in his hand. “For example, this goblet!”

But Kors was cunning, the goblet was clearly not simple. Made of thick frosted glass, decorated with a bas-relief of grape tassels, with a heavy gold stem, the goblet was truly a real work of art. A man-made miracle created by experienced craftsmen. Moreover, depending on whether wine was poured into it or not, and how long it was held in hands or touched to the edge with warm lips, the goblet changed its color. The glass was of a pale green hue when the goblet was empty, and turned maroon red when it was filled and warmed by the owner’s hand. And now, in Kors’ hand, it shimmered golden-orange.

“Goblet?” Arel asked. “Well, take it if you want!”

Kors smiled contentedly.

“This cup, like the cloak, also belonged to your father before?”