The journey continued. It included not only visits to towns and villages, but also visits to monasteries. There was always plenty of work and always lack of hands, however, not all 'Earthly Jerusalems' trusted the nomadic people. They couldn't find any trace of the princess in any of the ones that welcomed them. So, another city, another wall, another control that must be passed every day to get to the market square.
"Sis! Sis! Stop! Don't go there! You can't go there!" The Kid was running at full speed from the city gate towards the camp, clutching a piece of paper in his hands. He was always among the first to leave and always ran first to the place where the decrees were read out and then posted. He couldn't read, so he was under the feet of those who could and hoped to hear that they were looking for an enchantress with a raven on her shoulder. But when he saw what he saw, not disappointment, but fear gripped his small consciousness.
"But... where... where did they get my portrait?" On the open palms of the shocked gypsy lay a drawing with her face framed by loose long curls.
"Are you sure that…"
"I am. He didn't have…"
"So there's only one answer," concluded the jester. "The prince made it. He's the artist in the family."
"The Prince…" The dancer's hands clenched, crumpling the paper; she closed her eyelids and two tears raced down her cheeks. "This person took everything from me." Her chest was rising fast and high, but her voice sounded restrained. "First the father, then the cards, and now the music." In complete mute, The Gypsy turned around and wandered back to the camp.
She had been burning herbs and looking at the cards all day long; the mixture of pungent smells was already giving her a headache. From time to time, she glanced at the drawing - something about it seemed strange to her, going against the reality, as well as in the unfortunate layout. The girl looked at her face again. Eyes. It's because of the eyes. They were sad. That's probably how she looked at the dead body of The King. And he saw it, remembered it, and depicted it. But why did he start looking for her just now? Why is she not outlawed just like the jester? The fortune teller mixed the cards and scattered them in front of her. Then she put the drawing to her heart and tried to remember The Prince's face: with delicate features, pale but determined, with watery ice-like eyes about to melt. She pulled out a card at random and turned it over. The Star. Hope, inspiration, epiphany. The King had high hopes for this young man, he said that he saw in his character the traits of a real ruler. However, they had been fighting more and more lately… It is also a desire for higher goals. Apparently, the father's authority did not allow this desire to be realised, so it was necessary to destroy the existing order, The Tower. But he wasn't the only one who tried to impose his will on their father. The princess-beauty. The youngest daughter. She desired these campaigns more than anyone, tearing The King's heart out. Death. She wasn't evil, it was just that the churchmen had put it in her head that this was the way to salvation. Transformation. Matter was alive, it became dead. The soul was black, it became golden. As a child, she stole a cross from the altar of the house church - a sin of biblical proportions. Her maid took the blame. The King did not know the truth at the time, however, he only ordered the thief to be flogged, and did not even send her away from the court. But the executioner turned out to be too much of a believer, overdid it, and beat the girl to death. It was a blow to The Princess, in addition to the fact that her mother died giving birth to her; she blamed herself for their deaths all her life. In the end, there was some kind priest who told her that sin could be redeemed by bringing a piece of the Holy Cross to the castle. A cross for a cross. For all the arguments - that this would lead to the death of a large number of people, that the enemy is now a strong empire and that by doing so you could end up losing your own kingdom - there was only one counter argument - there are no people without sin, it saves the souls of all, even if the enterprise fails. And no one warned the poor girl that she would be personally responsible for every such sinner. The King loved his daughter too much, he couldn't bear to watch the girl suffer. But then what are the disagreements between brother and sister? Is this really just a way to support the legend of the jester's betrayal? How cruel. Why would The Jester want The King dead? Father doted on him, raised him like a son. When he said 'children', he meant all four of them. Revenge for the loss of the kingdom by his own father? But why kill, especially after he was promised the hand of The Princess? He could have waited a bit and everything would have been resolved by itself. The Jester…
The Jester returned to the camp after a day of hard work, which, as always, brought him only money. He was very upset by this state of affairs, especially now that The Prince had finally started looking for The Gypsy. He knew full well why that one needed her. He had already passed by her tent and heard the familiar scents, but he did not stop, did not try to start a conversation.
The camp was getting ready for dinner and The Jester was walking across the field at a leisurely pace in its direction when he suddenly saw the healer hurrying towards him.
"Here you are, and I'm looking for you all over the place. I think I found her... the princess," the healer clarified, seeing the misunderstanding in his eyes, "she's in a nearby convent. Two nuns from there came into my shop today. I was inside mixing powder, and I heard them talking about her. Of course, not openly, without names and titles, but judging by the little things mentioned... there are no such coincidences." The Jester's jaw dropped, a blade of grass fell out of his mouth, his gaze fixed on the speaker's face, and he held his breath, afraid to scare off luck. "I will say more, I managed to establish some kind of contact with them. At first, they didn't like that I was a gypsy, but since they couldn't find what they were looking for anywhere but at my shop, they eventually placed an order. I told them that I needed time to prepare and that they would be able to pick up their order tomorrow. They replied that it was not a problem, that they had other things to do in the town and they would leave it only in two days."
The jester didn't say anything, but it was obvious that he was joyfully excited: he squeezed the healer's shoulders, looked at him with grateful eyes, and at the end of his monologue hugged him tightly. The first thing he did was run to The Gypsy's tent, hoping that she hadn't gone to the circle yet. No, she was still sitting at the back of the tent, and it didn't look like she was going to leave at all. The Jester fell on his knees in front of her and, still agitated, began to talk about the main thing without any preliminaries.
"We found her, she's here." He held her hands in his. "Not in the town, in the monastery, but very close. She's close." He kissed her hands warmly. "We'll get her out of there, won't we?"
It was the first time she saw him like this: open, pleading, vulnerable.
"Of course we will," she said, reassuring him. Freeing one hand, she placed it on top of his. And then she seemed to wake up. "My God, I'm so glad!" They exchanged looks of joy and relief.
The Jester calmed down and now sat thoughtfully, running his fingers over the back of the cards, pulling one or another towards him, and returning the previous one to its place. "We need to get in there somehow. I don't know how yet. Tomorrow they will come to the square to collect medicines. I'll try to find out if they need help at the monastery. But they don't like gypsies. We need to come up with something." He paused and one more time looked at the girl with that unusual for him, soul-seizing gaze. "Will you go there with me? Will you help me? Please, you're the only one I can trust completely. Only you know the whole truth and are willing to take risks for it. I'll figure out how to get in there, just promise to come with me."
"I promise."
The Jester thanked The Gypsy mutely and left. She sat motionless for a while and stared at the cards with empty eyes. Then she stretched out her hand and took the one that the jester had last pulled towards him and held for a long time under his palm. The Hierophant. Spirituality, teaching. 'We don't need mediators'... the blood drained from the fortune teller's face. The King's confidant. The mediator... the churchman... the good priest… An iron hand slowly squeezed her heart. This is who helpfully whispered to The Princess in the garden by moonlight the means of saving her soul; this is who, knowing about the father's love for his daughter, led the kingdom to destruction, waiting for everything to happen by itself. Only The Prince suddenly intervened… Why did he do this? Has The King given up? Did he really agree to the campaign? The Chariot inverted. Indecision. The Hanged Man. Victim. The scream stuck in the fortune teller's throat. It all fit. It was finally all coming together! But why would he want her in the convent? To help rescue The Princess, no doubt. And then? And then he will hand her over to The Prince as one of the witnesses to his crime. Moreover, she's the flesh and blood of the king, and it doesn't matter that she's a girl. Then he will marry The Princess and they will look for a way to take over the throne. It won't be too difficult.
"I've thought of everything," The Jester said the next evening, almost at night - he returned very late. "I persuaded them to make more purchases than they had planned, then their cart could accommodate, their horse can take away. I will carry some of the goods on a double-bottomed cart. That's where you'll be hiding. I got you the vestments of their order." To the gypsy's questioning look, he replied: "I told you that I have a lot of talents. Well. And people have a lot of weaknesses." The Gypsy did not want to know the details, whatever they might be. "We'll go there together. They only agreed to let me in."
She will go with him, will try to fail the operation. And if she gets caught, she'll demand to see the prince to tell him everything she knows.
"Be on your guard today," she told the camp in the morning. "At the slightest suspicion, leave immediately. Don't follow us, don't try to help, save yourself."
"I won't leave you!" The Kid was scared by her words, his eyes were wet.
"Don't worry about me. I'm a witch, remember?" The Gypsy knelt down in front of him and wiped the tears on his cheeks. "I'll get out, I promise you. But if something goes wrong, I won't be able to save everyone, I won't have enough time for that. However, if I am sure that you are safe, I can protect myself. Do you understand?... If you are captured, you face death for harboring a criminal. To everyone. And your parents, too. Do you understand?"
"Yes," the child sobbed.
"Promise you won't come save me."
"I promise."
"Good boy. I promise I'll find you."
The friend-actor took her aside. "Why are you going there?"
"I have something to do."
"Is it related to what you dropped the other day? That the king is your…"
"Don't bring it up. And don't try to use it. It won't help you. I beg you." The girl waited until she saw signs of understanding and humility on the young man's face and in his eyes and led him by the hand back into the circle. "Love you all," she kissed the actor on the cheek, "and you I just adore," ran her finger over the boy's nose, smiled, jumped on the cart and they drove to the town.
There were no problems with the guards: they had already seen this gypsy several times, as well as women in clothes of this order. The nun said that she had hired one of the camp to help with the transportation of the goods purchased for the convent; the guards glanced at the empty cart and let them pass. As soon as the conspirators saw an empty alley, they turned into it and the gypsy hid between the first and second floors. The jester departed the town with other nuns, but with all that piled on their heads, who could tell who was who? The heavy wagons traveled slowly, for a long time. There was one advantage to this - not so much dust rose from the hooves and wheels. If you adjusted, using the fabric of the robe, you could breathe. The main disadvantage - a terrible, scary disadvantage - was that the space between the floors was very low - she couldn't turn over from her back to the stomach and back. But it was wide enough, which allowed her to stretch her legs a little so that when the time came, she would be able to walk. The Jester whistled and hummed funny tunes all the way, distracting her from the endless ride. The time came when he praised the bricklayer, who managed to lay the stone blocks of the abbey walls so evenly and so tightly to each other. This meant that they were passing under the arch of one of the inner walls. The Gypsy was all prepared at that moment - she could hear the gates opening and closing. When she got out of the cart, she immediately slipped into the shadows. There she quickly put her outfit in order, took a deep breath, exhaled, and walked calmly behind the cart, stealthily looking around for a building that looked like a dormitory. There was almost nobody in the courtyards. If anyone got caught, they went about their business at one of the utility edifices and did not pay much attention to those walking. The horses turned into a barn and the fake nun had to continue walking alone. She tried not to speed up. Entering the next archway, she found herself in a courtyard enclosed in the walls of a residential-looking building. The Gypsy went inside. Silence. It was as if everyone had left it on purpose. At night, there are more sounds and fewer echoes. She took off her shoes, chose the wing she would explore first - a long corridor with two rows of low, narrow doors - and looked into the first one. She guessed right, they were cells: small rooms with whitewashed walls and a small window with a wooden lattice; under it a simple, wooden as well, table and stool; on the left a narrow bed, on the right a chest, and above it hooks for hanging vestments. The doors to the cells were not closed because there was nothing to hide and it was impossible - the list of personal belongings was limited and strictly regulated. The Gypsy walked the entire corridor and turned the corner; there was another one like it, but half the length of the first one and ended with a door that looked different. All the rooms were empty, and she didn't see anyone in the hallway either. "But where are they all? In a sewing workshop, or in a scriptorium, or what are they doing here? I wish I could meet someone. Hardly anyone here knows about helper-gypsy, I could kick up a fuss." The end door was closed. The Gypsy turned around and rushed back. At the entrance, to her great surprise and disappointment, she ran into The Jester - he was carrying boxes with linen. "What are you doing here? Did they let you in here alone?"
"No, sorry, I lost my nerve."
"What? What does that mean?"
"Don't get distracted. Did you find her?"
"Not yet."
They went to the second wing together. There were no cells in the corridor by the stairs where they crossed. There were linen and clothing store rooms on one side, and on the walls of the other hung the regulation and daily routines, orders from the abbess, and everything like that. They were halfway through the long section of the cloister when suddenly:
"This door is closed," said The Gypsy in a whisper and walked away from it, "I haven't met any like this before."
The Jester grabbed her hand and went to the door, hearkened. Judging by the expression on his face, something was going on behind it. Then he recoiled and with a quick step, almost running, went to the far end of the wing, dragging The Gypsy with him. She followed him obediently - this was not the time to ask questions. They had barely turned the corner when they heard the sound of the door being unlocked and men's voices talking softly. And then, measured footsteps, getting closer by the second. The Jester glanced at the end of the corridor, which turned out to be shorter than the adjacent one, and it bumped into the door. The Gypsy noticed it too and wondered if it was closed the same way as in the other wing. These doors, she thought, apparently lead to the same room. The Jester did not hurry there, he still held The Gypsy by the hand and waited, listening to the sound of the heels. At some point, he peeked around the corner. The girl heard an exclamation and felt a sharp pain in her shoulder due to the jerk. They ran to the door, which indeed turned out to be unlocked, and found themselves in a spacious square chamber. The stones of its walls were much larger than those of which the cells were built, but remained without whitewash; the four corners of the room were decorated with thin columns, from their openwork capitals ribs ran upward, converging under a high vault in the keystone; a large lanceolate window was cut in one of the walls, under it, on a step, stood a chair with a high pointed back; benches were placed tightly against each other along the walls, their ribbon was interrupted only by three doors, one of which the conspirators entered. The Jester pointed The Gypsy to the opposite one and ordered her to check it. He himself rushed to the one opposite the window, which apparently led to the abbess' office or the sacristy.
"It's closed. What about yours?"
The Gypsy pulled back the bolt and pretended to push the door. "Also. From the other side."
"Damn."
None of them thought (was that so?) to bolt the first one, and when The Knight appeared in it, The Jester jumped up to The Gypsy, grabbed her and put a dagger to her throat. The girl screamed in surprise. The Knight, who had drawn his sword, halted. The Jester tore off the coif from the nun and The Knight understood everything.
"Daughter for daughter. Bring us to The Princess." The knight did not move from his place. Then the gypsy pressed the point on the skin and blood appeared on the girl's neck; her face was distorted by a grimace of pain. "The Prince needs her to be safe and sound, doesn't he?" The Jester was sure of a positive answer to this question. But then The Knight raised his sword again and took a step towards him.
"You are mistaken if you think that this game is a two-sided affair." The Gypsy's heart sank, she trembled like an aspen leaf in The Jester's hands. "This blade is long enough to impale both of you on it."
That one tensed too. "And what will you tell your lord?"
"That you covered yourself with her at the last moment."
"It's a good idea."
The Gypsy felt his body begin to move away from hers, and was about to whisper to him about the unlocked door behind him when The Prince ran into the room. They both breathed a sigh of relief.
"What did I miss?" The Prince, like The Knight, was dressed without pathos, which means they traveled incognito, and most likely only the two of them. Breathing heavily, he analysed the situation; he was somewhat surprised by this exhalation.
"The jester is offering an exchange."
"I see." He responded after a short pause.
"The door. The door." The Gypsy repeated with her lips, looking at The Prince with hope in her eyes while he was thinking. He noticed that. Then she jerked, as if trying to escape, but in fact, opening the very door to The Prince's gaze. The Jester pulled her back into place and the metal bit into her skin again; the girl moaned softly.
"Alright! Alright. Bring The Princess here." Giving the order, The Prince turned his back on the criminals, forcing The Knight, retreating, to remain facing them. When he left the hall, The Prince slowly turned around and calmly sat down on a bench near the entrance, crossing his legs in a relaxed manner. "So you knew everything," he said to The Jester, "so The King told you everything. And for me, I confess, it was a surprise. An unpleasant surprise. And at the most inopportune moment." The Prince smiled bitterly.
"The King didn't trust you not for nothing," The Jester replied acidly.
"And he shouldn't have trusted you," The Prince replied, and for a while he silently watched him and The Gypsy, who was closely following their conversation. "But tell me," he continued, "why do you need this exchange? Do you really love my sister? Or did this nut" he nodded at The Gypsy "turn out to be too much for you?" The Jester's blue eyes doused The Prince with an icy wave. The Prince smiled maliciously. "So there's a limit to your talents, too. And we envied you: a few days alone in the forest with a mystery woman; warm summer nights, starry sky... soft shadows, the moon in the eyes of a beautiful gypsy…" He spoke slowly, pausing, filling the waiting time with words, distracting the attention of The Jester. "And it turns out that you made a mistake... or didn't you know who she is then?" noticed irritation in his eyes, "Most likely you didn't know, otherwise you would have made more efforts, wouldn't you? Do you think... Do I have a chance?" The Jester burst into laughter. "Look, I made the buffoon laugh," The Prince smiled again, but his eyes remained sad, "so the chances are not great."
The Jester was still laughing when the door creaked open behind him. "You..." He didn't finish because The Knight appeared in the doorway and he needed to act quickly. He forcefully pushed The Gypsy into The Prince who jumped up from the bench, deciding that mobility was more important to him than a shield, and grappled with The Knight. The Prince caught the girl, kept her from falling, and then, without ceremony, hurried to help his friend. Together they pinned down the jester, who was growling with anger, and tied him with a monastic belt, which The Gypsy thought to take off.
"Get him out of here. Keep an eye on him until the guards arrive from the town. They should be on their way. As I understand it, we shouldn't expect help from the camp."
When The Jester was led past her, he looked at The Gypsy with such hatred that his gaze caused her more pain than his dagger. She felt so bitter that this wonderful, in many ways, man stood against the kingdom. She felt offended, because she liked him very much, so much that she began to trust him.
The Prince and The Gypsy were left alone in the chamber. She walked to the center of the room to show that she wasn't going to run, and at the same time, she didn't trust him enough to be around. He moved away from the exit and also went deeper, but kept his distance so that she would not be afraid of a sudden attack. The Prince started first.
"What's happened here didn't surprise you a lot," he said, more positively than questioningly.
"The details, did, but in general…" She looked into his eyes, and in her modest gaze he read questions.
"Ask. I will answer everything."
"Why do you need me... moreover, alive?"
Instead of answering, he took out a small roll of parchment from his bosom and handed it to her. The Gypsy looked at the scroll, but did not hurry to take it.
"Take it, I know you can read." She raised her eyebrows and tilted her chin to the side. "I saw the books in your tent."
"They're for the entourage." There was a pause.
"Well, I confess, I read them and saw the comments. Fresh," he prevented her explanation, "and not made by the hand of The King."
There were many counter arguments to be found, but there was no point in denying it. The Gypsy picked up the scroll and opened it - his handwriting! Tears welled up in her eyes. She began to read. It was the king's decree on succession to the throne. "Through the female line…" she said aloud.
"I also know that you were born into a marriage," The Prince said, and handed her folded sheets of paper-church records of the wedding, birth, and death. "It took a lot of time to find them. I'm sorry, I've said so many things here…"
"And which of those things was a lie?" The Gypsy asked sharply enough and looked into his eyes again. Now it was a completely different look: still direct and open, but cold and domineering, grabbing at the throat and not letting go until its owner gets what she needs. The Prince was taken aback. "That you decided to marry me so you wouldn't lose the throne? Isn't that true?" The Prince was silent, startled by such a change, pierced by that look, and unwilling to lie. "And if I refuse? Then what? Kill me, destroy the documents? Who besides you and The Jester... besides us and The Jester knows about this?" She raised her hands holding the decree and the church records. "Who? Answer me. You promised to answer all my questions. Your friend, the knight?"
"Yes."
"The princess?"
"No."
The Gypsy grinned. "So you decided to make do with the men's company… Why all these difficulties? Why am I still alive?"
"Because I'm not a butcher!" The Prince finally managed to break her shackles, and the intense pain helped him in this. In an attempt to piece together his shattered soul, he rushed around the room. "Do you think it was easy for me to decide on this?! Was it easy to fulfill the plan?! When this thought first occurred to me, I thought I was crazy! To kill fath…", the voice trembled, "the man who raised me as a son, who loved me as a son, recognised me as his son! Yes, to kill the father! Crazy… But it wasn't me who went crazy, it was him who went crazy when he went along with the selfish, stupid girl, when he gave up, when he agreed to the campaign! I tried to persuade him, begged him, and he himself knew how this enterprise would end, that there could not be any other way, but no! And I... I just... I couldn't let him ruin the kingdom, and I... I killed my own father. And he even didn't have the will for me to inherit this very kingdom."
The young man's mental strength was used up and he stopped, plunging into apathy. The girl listened to him, watched him and felt that the same longing lived in his heart as in hers; she understood how he managed to convey in the portrait the sadness that filled her eyes at that terrible moment. The Gypsy approached The Prince and, cupping his head in her hands, lifted it up.
"The man you killed no longer had any will. The only thing he was capable of was going away, leaving the problem to his children, the four of us. And he gave you the most difficult task because he knew you could handle it. He knew that you could properly weigh the life of the kingdom and the life of the king who had lost his power. That you have the guts to do it yourself." The Prince looked at her once again changed face, still domineering, but already soft, radiating warmth. And as long as she said the next words, it remained that way. "But realising this does not absolve you of the sin of murder, it cannot be justified and cannot be redeemed; it can only be accepted, shouldered and carried."
The Prince took a deep breath; he felt better and looked at her with gratitude. "Now I understand why he wrote such a decree. He taught you, not how to be a court lady, but how to be a ruler. And he decided that you can, that you're ready." The Gypsy removed her hands from his face and, clearly nervous, turned and moved away. "Claim the throne, be a queen!" The Prince did not understand her reaction. "Do with me what you think is right, I am ready to take responsibility for what I've done, I did it not for myself."
"But I don't want to!" He met her gaze and saw the fright in it again. "I can't decide your fate! I can't and I don't want to. Not yours, not The Jester's, not The Princess's, and certainly not the kingdom's. I won't be able to bear the responsibility for this. I can only talk, not do. It's you who can do both."
"What about your tales? Aren't they meant to guide one on the right path?"
"No, not at all! In these tales, I only describe the problem, explain the positions. The listener makes his own conclusions and his own decisions based on these conclusions. I don't give orders, I give a choice."
"Choice often kills, but orders save lives."
"But all a thinking person does is make a choice. You can execute the jester for treason and get the sister-heir who hates you, or you can leave him alive and live on the edge of an explosion; you can kill all the pretenders to the throne, become the only legitimate heir and get an outraged crowd of citizens and vassals who do not trust you; you can go to war on the empire, lose and drown the kingdom in feudal wars, or you can prevent it and get an uprising of the bankrupt chivalry that only knows how to fight. What kind of order would save anyone here - and from what, exactly? I can give up the throne, then it will go to our sister; she will free the jester, and you will be executed for regicide. Other people's orders can't save your life."
"And it serves me right." It was obvious that he was tired. His recent hope of sharing the burden of responsibility for everything she had listed had been drowned in her fear.
"What?! How can you! Did you deprive me of my father so that you could ruin everyone anyway?!" She was ready to slap him in the face.
"What can I do?!"
"Destroy these stupid documents!" The papers scattered on the floor at his feet. He looked at them as if they were the rotten fruits of his labors.
"How did you get into a gypsy camp?"
It took her a while to switch over. "My mother got to traveling artists when she was still a child. She was brought to them by a maid in the hope of saving the girl when her father's castle was attacked. Parents died, the castle burned down, and they were afraid to contact the relatives because they didn't know who had committed that attack, so they left together with the troupe. The girl grew up, became an actress; one day the king saw her on the city stage, fell in love, and when he discovered her origin, he married. She tried to live at court, but when she became pregnant, she started having phobias based on childhood trauma. They said that they would pass soon after giving birth, but no. One day, she heard that the actors, her troupe, had arrived to the city; at night she ran away, taking the child with her. The King came for her, but she was in hysterics, begging to leave her there and not take her daughter, and he took pity on the ill woman. She really got better there; she was happy there, I remember her being happy… The king needed a heir, a suitable match was found, and churchmen concocted documents about the death of the queen and the little princess. The new queen gave birth... a month ahead of schedule... but the baby was healthy and it was a boy, so everyone got what they wanted. Father visited us every time we were in town, brought gifts, played with me, then taught me. Then my mother got sick and died. The King offered me to go to the castle with him, but I refused. I liked my life. I was curious about the knowledge he gave me; I did enjoy spending time with him, but I also liked the freedom and fun that the theater gave me. He accepted my refusal with dignity, he did not cease to be my father until his death." Both of them got their eyes glistened. "One day, we heard that the feudal lord, whose subjects were officially most of the men of our troupe, was going to war and fled to gypsies. We had to forget about the theater."
The Gypsy fell silent. The Prince was also silent and thoughtful. He had seen this girl only once. When they entered her tent, it seemed to him that she and The King were familiar and had met many times, and that she was waiting for him, but not for them. This did not surprise him. He was surprised by the feeling that she also knew them: sitting at the table, shuffling the cards, she studied them - attentively, with interest, but not familiarly, as one might expect from a representative of her profession - but as if she were comparing faces with characters. He noticed it, but didn't pay much attention to it - at that moment, he had more important things to do. Then, this longing in her eyes. It almost ruined everything, almost dragged him into an untimely repentance. Then he found The King's will and remembered that longing again, and when he sorted out the books taken from her tent, he understood everything. He didn't know what kind of person she was. Looking through these books, he could see what was attempted to be instilled in her; but what she took from it and what she turned it into, he could only vaguely guess from the comments made by her hand. There were also play scripts. They've become a very useful source of information. Nevertheless, she told the truth that there were questions in her tales, but there were no answers to them. He didn't know what her side of the game was. It made sense that she was helping the jester escape, because she had seen him, the prince, killing her father. But what did she know about the current situation, how did she understand it? He couldn't have known that. Why was he even looking for her? Out of guilt towards his father, out of curiosity, out of hope for help hidden even from himself. He was amazed by what he saw today, even fascinated. His subsequent disappointment was all the greater.
"Alright. I will destroy the documents... execute The Jester. I will act as originally planned. You're free to go wherever you want…" The Prince knelt down and began to collect the papers, carefully, still showing them respect, "soon your troupe will be able to play performances again."
The Gypsy did not move. She was overjoyed at her newfound freedom, and even more so at the prospect of even greater freedom; she wanted to thank The Prince for what he had done, and waited for him to look up at her. But even after the documents were gathered, he continued to sit on the floor and stare in front of him. She was sad to leave him like this, but still, she slowly walked towards the exit. Just as she touched the polished stones framing the doorway, she suddenly stopped and asked anxiously:
"You said that this knight knows about the will, right?"
"You don't have to worry about him."
"But he knows and…"
"We grew up together. He's like a brother to me…"
"... in love with our sister."
"What?"
"You didn't know that?" She turned to him and saw his surprised face. "I noticed it back then in the tent. And when he caught up with us here, he told The Jester that there are more than two sides to this game. 'Like a brother...' Does he know about you too?"
"How dare you!" The Prince jumped to his feet, and the surprise in his eyes turned to annoyance.
"I'm sorry, but... too many people need to be removed... and all for the sake of my freedom. I can not do this…"
"One sacrifice is enough for us! Go away!"
"I already doubt that it's about sacrifice." Now The Gypsy stared at the floor in front of her.
"What are you talking about?"
"I... I don't know, but this conversation, it changed my... thoughts... my feelings…"
"What…" Neither The Prince's posture nor his voice had any trace of his former irritation left. Two long strides and he was next to The Gypsy and grabbed her by the shoulders. And since his tense fingers dug painfully into her skin, she did not expect that the touch of his lips would be so gentle. A pleasant shiver ran through both of them. "How is this possible?" The fingers relaxed, but did not let go of the shoulders. The lips released, but remained very close. "Just a quarter of an hour and the world is upside down. Did you see it in your cards?"
"I never predict my own fate."
For a while they just basked in the rays of each other's warm glances and smiles. Everything was clear.
"Will you be my queen? Will you let me be the king of your heart? Only of it. I need nothing else."
"I will," she said thoughtfully, and added, "but you won't get off that easy."
With a smile of satisfaction, he took her in his arms and was about to kiss her again, when suddenly, a familiar deep voice rang out from everywhere: "The game is played. The heir is determined."
The expressions of the man and the woman changed in an instant. At first, there was a misunderstanding of what was happening between them. Then the memory began to return. The man tightened his grip in agitation. But the woman was embarrassed and gently, and at the same time persistently, tried to push him away. He had to give in. Without looking at him or around, she walked briskly along an absolutely empty white featureless corridor in the only possible direction.
He caught up with her coming out of the building as she walked along the wide peristyle courtyard, between the tall trunks of the forest of Doric columns planted in neat rows; the sun played on the deep flutes of cold gray marble, aiming at the sky.
"Wait!" The woman didn't stop; then he grabbed her arm. "Stay."
"Where? Here?"
"With me."
"Where? ... Here?" She repeated and waited for an answer. He was silent, because there was no answer. "I can't. I'm married. As well as you." She nodded towards his free hand. "Are there any children?" He lowered his gaze in shame. "Aren't they dear to you? Remember them. Her. Aren't you happy?" Hush. "There was a game," she pointed to the blackening rectangular openings leading into the depths of the mysterious building, "no matter how real it seemed. Life is there." and she pointed to the dazzling white thin stripes in the opposite direction. "Let's go, they're waiting for us there." She intercepted the hand with which he was holding her and pulled him along. "Don't turn around."
She took him out into the city, into a buzzing, sparkling city; hurrying and lazy, shouting and whispering, hearkening and interrupting, demanding and giving, offering and taking away, revealing to the eyes and hiding in the shadows, hating and rejecting, loving and accepting. Two cars were parked in front of the building. A tall, slender, blond man was leaning against the front door of one of them, immersed in the mobile phone. Next to the other, right on the sidewalk, sat a dark-haired, gray-eyed woman and a child with blond curls; between them were laid out drawings that they were coloring together. As soon as the players appeared from behind the pillars, the little girl, like all children, having an inner feeling that determines the closeness of their parents, jumped up and ran towards her father with joyful cries. The woman felt the hand she was holding relax and slip out of hers. With a slight smile, she watched as the man, kneeling down and spreading his arms, embraced his daughter. He didn't turn around. Smiling wider, she headed towards the other man, who had already noticed her but remained standing by the car. She put her hands on his shoulders, and he put his arm around her waist.
"How was the game?"
"The game? Oh, good… that was something."