Melanthrix the Mage (10 page)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“THE ÆTHER IS STIRRING”

After the prince had departed, Athanasios returned to his breviary, wondering why he had uttered precisely those words. It was near the dinner hour before he closed his book for good, and stretched his arms. He was rising to leave “Land's End” when a rustling of the leaves behind him made him jump, and he turned to find the stooped form of Doctor Melanthrix emerging from the shadows. He slowly grew to his full height right before him.

“Friend Melánty,” the priest said, “you gave me quite a start. What brings you here?”

The astrologer took his place on the bench beneath the queen's statue, inadvertently crushing the spider and her dinner with his heel.

“Melanthrix's name was taken in vain, so he thought to join the game. You've had quite a busy af­ternoon, my boy.”

Only Melanthrix still called the forty-year-old arch­priest a boy.

“I thought to find some peace here,” Athanasios said, “but every time I discover a new and interesting verse, someone else wanders by.”

“And you don't find that significant, Athy?” asked the philosopher.

He then pulled a ripe apple from inside his cloak, quite out of season at this time of year, twisted it into halves between his long alabaster fingers, and gave one piece to the priest.

“Everything is connected, you know,” he said, gesticulating with his arms to emphasize the point. “Sometimes those bindings are obvious, sometimes they're not. It's rather like this fruit”—he displayed the core and black pips quivering in his palm—“By the simple sharing of this apple, we strengthen the bonds between us, we build connections to the tree that bore it, we touch the earth that nurtured it, we pay homage to the orchardmen who tended it, we bow our heads to the bees which polinated the glori­ous flower which became, yes, the ripened fruit.”

The philosopher suddenly scattered the seeds to the wind, then began rubbing his hands together, muttering a few words to himself, and smiling as several of the pips abruptly sent green, wavering shoots right up through the earth. Athanasios was pleased with the trick.

“Perhaps a hundred years from now, when the king of Kórynthia is just a boy, he'll pick an apple from the tree we've made together, and be nourished by it. There are no accidents, Athy. At this time and in this place,
you
are the nexus around which the world is revolving. Don't look for ‘why' so much as ‘who.'”

A cool breeze began ruffling the rapidly increasing sprouts.

“The æther is stirring. Listen to it, feel it, open your mind to it. If you try, you can sense all of the great things rushing in upon us. Give us the right fulcrum, my boy, and we can leverage even the world. Do you see?”

Athanasios shook his head in weariness.

“I don't understand, Melánty. Sometimes it seems to me as if I'm about to grasp whatever it is you're saying, and then it just slips away. Why can't you speak more plainly? Why me?”

The philosopher laughed.

“Firstly, my boy, because that's not the role of old Melanthrix in the grand design. He's growing a bit an­cient, you know, and his course is nearly run.

“Secondly, because you are who you are. A year ago, a year from now, you might not have been part of this working.

“Thirdly, because you must learn at your own pace. You can only apply the lessons of life when you're ready to face who and what you are.

“Do you remember,” the astrologer said, “when you tried to teach us the game of
les échecs
? You showed us the relative values of each piece and how they moved, and when we pointed out that ‘La Reine' seemed a far more powerful piece than ‘Le Roi,' who was very weak, you made what we thought then, and still think now, was a most potent observation. Do you recall what it was?”

“I confess not,” the archpriest said.

Melanthrix pointed a wavering ivory finger right between his eyes.

“You said, my dear child, that without the king, there
was
no chess, for the whole object of the game was to
kill
him
. Melanthrix has never forgotten that lesson, and he learnt it from you. He knew then that you would one day cut a slice of wisdom to go with the bread of your life, and that you might just survive the experience with a modicum of understanding of what was happening around you.

“Most people are pawns in the game of life, Athy. They'll follow their leader anywhere, even when that indi­vidual hasn't the faintest idea of where in the world he's going. They'd follow him to perdition's edge if he took them there. Doctor Melanthrix decided early that he didn't want to be someone else's pawn, to be moved around the board at another's whim, and he made his choices accord­ingly.

“These ‘great men' and their ‘great councils,'
pshaw!
, they look upon us like so many sheep ready for the slaugh­ter, if they regard us at all. They make their gestures like those
maîtres
grands des échecs
, scarcely giving a thought to the feelings of their pieces. And if a few of their sub­jects should be injured or killed, or even more than a few, well, so what! They're just so many odd tokens to be re­moved from the board, to be cast away with no other thought than the grand design. And then it's on to another game. These games must end, Athy, before our grand­masters destroy their very boards, and us along with them.”

Athanasios shook himself.

“I still don't understand what you mean. Who
are
you, Melánty? One of my visitors asked me that question, and I didn't know how to reply.”

Doctor Melanthrix smiled broadly, and pierced the archpriest with his piercing blue eyes.

“Your true friend, Athy, at least that. And also your teacher, if you allow us that honor. And perhaps, should God or fate grant us this one last boon, your pro­tector as well. The game has truly begun. We don't think that many of the pieces will be left standing on the board when the king has finally been checked and mated.”

The emerald eyestones in the astrologer's signet ring suddenly reflected a ray from the declining sun, flashing its green light directly into Athy's eyes and temporarily blind­ing him. When he looked up again, Doctor Melanthrix was gone, vanished as mysteriously as he had arrived.

All that echoed of his presence in the garden was the encrushed, intermingled carcasses of beetle and spider, in­tertwined now into an unrecognizable mass. Already the ants were beginning to feast on the delicious remains.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“THE AMBASSADOR PLENIPOTENTIARY OF POMMERELIA AND THE
COURT OF SAINT WARTISLAV”

In the latter part of January, on the Feast of Saint Sávva of the East, an emissary from the Court of Rabestadt in Pommerelia was formally received in Paltyrrha. During the previous week he had been pulled up the Paltyrrh River from the Blackish Sea with the king's permission, disem­barking on the day previous at the
Quai de Saint-Basile
, and spending the night there on his own ship, the
Lorette
. In mid-morning he rode in the king's carriage of state up the
Avenue du Saint-Constantine
, flanked by an escort of the Royal Guard, bared
kiliçs
held up smartly in their right hands in formal salute. He was presented at court by the Hankyárar of Konyály, Tivadar Zsitvay, who sonorously recited the ancient formula:

“My Lord King, there cometh before you the Am­bassador Plenipotentiary of Pommerelia and the Court of Saint Wartislav, Widdekin von Lorestan, Hereditary Count Körvö, Graf von Elsevarr, Baron du Haut-Repère and Chanutierre, Conservateur of the Duchy of Morënë, Lord High Admiral and Guardian of the Three Rivers, Master of Ünterziebött, who craveth present audience. What say you, milord?”

“We will entertain the Ambassador from Pommere­lia,” Kyprianos said.

He looked rested and fit, sitting upright on his ob­sidian throne in the Great Hall of Tighrishály Palace. On his head sat the plain beaten gold crown of his ancestors, un­adorned by jewels. His long gray beard was curled, and his hair plaited to either side of his face, hanging in locks down past his ears, one of which was nicked along the up­per edge from an old war wound. The years of home life had added gravity to his middle, but he still sported mas­sive muscles in his arms, the result of daily workouts with sword, spear, shield, and bow-and-arrow. He was covered in a simple white mantle trimmed in purple; his tunic, where it showed in front, was emblazoned with the image of the crouched tiger symbolizing his house. In his right hand he held the long ivory staff of his office, carved with intricate cuneiform designs winding up the shaft.

Widdekin, the eldest surviving son and heir of Zhertán Count Körvö, was an imposing man of some forty years of age. Tall and slim, he bore the unmistakable aura of authority wrapt about him like a cloak, as he strode boldly up the center aisle, looking neither left nor right, a rolled piece of parchment tucked in a leather case under his left arm. On his right side marched his eldest son and heir, Lord Åkos, nineteen years of age, and immediately to his left Lord Tibor, eighteen months junior to his brother; and be­hind him trailed his entourage, a dozen courtiers, advisors, and guards.

Ten yards in front of the king he bowed, succes­sively, to King Kipriyán, Queen Polyxena, Hereditary Prince Arkády, Patriarch Avraäm, and to the Great Sword of State mounted on the wall behind the throne. Then he pulled out his message, and began reading in a loud, pene­trating voice that carried unto the farthest reaches of the hall:

“Barnim
iii
, King of Pommerelia, Overlord of Morënë, Nisyria, Ptolemaïs, and Mährenia, Lord of the Prüffenmark, sends greetings unto his brother, Kyprianos
iii
King of Kórynthia.

“
Cher Cousin
:

“We were dismayed to receive your
com­muniqué
of Marymass, in which you did threaten us and our kingdom with force if we did not accede to your unlawful de­mands. We have also been apprised of your alliance with the Duke of Mährenia, a union that threatens the longstanding peace between the three realms.

“Sirrah, we must tell you that this pro­posed affiliation of family between your son and the Kürbisci heir cannot stand, seeing that it would forever alter in your favor the balance of force in the Teuton­mark.

“Excepting that one issue, however, we are willing to meet with you on neutral ter­ritory, at a time of your own choosing, to seek some middle place on which our grievances can be settled without war. Let us not go hastily onto the battlefield.

“I call upon you to heed the words of our ancestor, the great King Tighris of revered memory, who on his deathbed reminded his heirs of the scripture, saying: ‘Blessèd are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God.' He spoke wisely, my brother, and we would both do well do honor his words.

“But if you cannot find a place within your heart that cries out for peace, be ad­vised that we will defend our lands, our peoples, and our rights, even unto the last valley and farm, as we have done so rigor­ously in the past, to the great and endur­ing distress of the nobles and the people of Kórynthia. Do not allow the lies of the Forellës to lead you down this unholy path.

“We entrust this message to our beloved cousin, the Hereditary Count Körvö, another scion of the great House of Tighris, who speaks with our voice, and to whom you may entrust your response.

“We have spoken.

“By our hand and under our seal, on the Feastday of Saint Lorenz the Abbot, in this, the
xliii
rd
year of our reign.

Barnimus Tertius Rex.
”

Widdekin rolled up the parchment, put it back in its case with a flourish, and stepped forward with his sons to hand it to the king, who graciously bent down to receive it.

Suddenly there was a loud shout of “Stop!” and a man rushed forward from the group of courtiers and princes clustered to the left of the throne, brandishing a naked sword.

Widdekin instinctively jumped back, pulling his son Åkos with him and throwing him to safety off to one side, as the weapon cleaved the spot where they both had just been standing. Chips scattered from the black-and-white tile squares as they were struck by the sword's tip. The de­fenseless ambassador tried to retreat once more, but tripped over one of his own aides, falling heavily to the floor.

Lord Tibor pulled a stiletto from his belt and stepped forward to defend his father, waving it in front of him over his sire's outstretched body.

“Noooo!”
shouted Widdekin, as the heavier blade hewed through the boy's limb like a branch being trimmed from a tree. The knife went rattling and spinning across the floor, coming to rest against the elegantly encased foot of Antónia Lady Vydór. Tibor's hand and arm fell to the floor as he collapsed sideways across his father, his blood spurting like a fountain over Widdekin's disbelieving face.

As the assailant raised his arm to strike a final fatal blow against the ambassador and his son, Prince Arkády grabbed a spear from the left hand of a nearby guard, and in one smooth motion, and without any conscious attempt to aim the weapon, launched it down the aisle at the broad back of the attacker. There was a noticeable thud that echoed dully throughout the hall. Time seemed to stop as the bloody greatsword remained poised at its highest arc for one long moment. Then it clattered noisily to the tile, bouncing several times, and the killer dropped wordlessly across the tumbled bodies of his victims, dead as he hit the floor, his heavy weight driving the protruding spearhead deep into Lord Tibor's back. Lady Vydór daintily bent down, retrieved the stiletto, wrapped it in a napkin, and tucked it up her sleeve.

Arkády immediately took charge.

“Nicky!” he shouted, “remove the king and queen to their chambers, and take some guards with you.

“Captain Fösse! Seal the hall: no one may leave without being searched.

“Zack! Find the king's physician. We need him right now.”

Then the prince ran to the bloody mess piled in front of him, but was stopped by the outstretched swords and knives of the Hereditary Count's retainers.

“Let him be,” came the faint voice of Widdekin from underneath the pile, and the guards backed off.

Arkády and his brother Prince Kiríll mentally probed the bodies, quickly determining that both the as­sailant and the boy were already dead. They lifted the heavy body of the assassin to one side, gently disengaging it from the younger man's lifeless corpse.

“My God,” said Kiríll, “it's Dolph!”

Little echoes of horror skipped their way from per­son to person down the hall, like pale moths fluttering fu­tilely against a windowpane.

“I felt their spirits being welcomed into Heaven,” said Widdekin. “The man didn't know what he was do­ing. In his mind's eye he saw me holding a poisoned blade and thought he was protecting his king. Oh dear God! My boy, my poor luckless boy. Whatever shall I tell his mother?”

Tears began furrowing down his cheeks as he gath­ered the body to his bosom, and rocked back and forth in his grief.

“Whatever shall I tell my dear Ivana?”

A scream added to the chaos as a woman pushed her way through the milling crowd. Arkády saw his Aunt Teréza crying and tearing at her garments as she ran for­ward, and stepped to intercept her.

“Dolphie!” she wailed. “My son, my little son, what have they done to you? Arkásha, why have you taken my boy from me? Ezzö! Oh God, I think he's dead.
Ezzzööö!
” she screamed again, and collapsed unconscious into Arkády's arms.

When a pale King Humfried came rushing up, Arkády had him take his mother to her rooms.

Metropolitan Timotheos offered to administer the last rites, his aide hovering at his side. To the Hereditary Count, he merely asked, “May I?” and when Widdekin nodded his head, quietly and reverently began his office. He mo­tioned Athanasios to do the same with Prince Adolphos.

There was a moment when the stark horror of the scene threatened to overwhelm Arkády's tightly-guarded emo­tions. He realized suddenly that he had just murdered his first cousin, that that same cousin had just violated the holy sanctity of the embassy. Had the world gone utterly mad? The prince walled such notions away in one corner of his mind, willing himself to continue functioning in spite of what had just happened. He would deal with the conse­quences later.

Arkadios took Fra Jánisar Cantárian aside when he finally arrived.

“There's nothing more you can do for these two,” he said, “but there's something you can do for
me
. I want to know why Dolph acted as he did. Find a Psairothi who's experienced in necroprobing, and have him search through the count's mind, looking for anything out of the ordinary. This is wholly unlike the man. He had no imagination, indeed, scarcely any wits at all. He was harmless. What happened to make him a murderer and vi­olator of truces? I want some answers. Preferably by this afternoon,” he added.

“Highness, I don't think it can be accomplished that quickly,” said the doctor.

“Try!”
the prince thundered.

“Yes, sir. I'll have a report ready for this after­noon's council meeting,” Jánisar said.

As soon as Athanasios had finished annointing the dead assassin's lifeless body, the physician corralled several guards, who took the
corpus
away.

Ambassador Widdekin had finally staggered to his feet, being helped by his eldest son, Count Åkos. The Hereditary Count's green-and-silver tunic was covered with rusty brown blotches. He had aged ten years in an hour.

“He'd just turned eighteen,” Widdekin said, gazing down at the body of his younger son. “He attained his majority three weeks ago, and begged me to take him along. Whyever did I listen?”

He struggled to regain his composure, and then said to the prince: “We will return to the
Lorette
and await your response there. We sail in the morning, whether or not we receive one.”

Then he turned away.

“Ambassador...,” said Arkády.

“Enough!” spat the emissary, his rings flaring in re­action. “Enough, please! You have all done
enough
! We take our leave, o King-to-Be. Would that we had never come.”

He led his small group of retainers down the hall, carrying the body of the lad with them, daring anyone to interfere with their right to depart. Across the boy's chest flopped the severed arm that his father had retrieved. On either side the crowds of courtiers shrank back from the bloody ensemble as it passed by.

There was nothing more to be done but to order a mass said for the repose of the souls of the recently de­ceased, and to make way for the washerwomen to clean the sticky mess off the floor before it had a chance thoroughly to dry.

The Archpriest Athanasios watched in shocked si­lence as the laborers began their rough, dirty work, drop­ping to their knees next to large wooden buckets filled with cold water, and scrub, scrub, scrubbing at the tiles with their stiffly-bristled brushes to remove the deeply-em­bedded stains, assuming almost a prayerful posture in their work, backs bent far forward, faces close to the floor, never complaining, never ceasing, until the task was finally completed. One of them crossed herself as she moved to a new patch of blood.

Why, this is God's work
, he suddenly realized.
These women are closer to salvation than I. They reach for Heaven's Gate through their uncomplaining labor. They do what must be done in God's Holy Name.

The revelation stunned him even more than the hor­rifying events of the past hour.

What am I doing that even comes close to this?
he wondered.
Why am I...?

“Athanasios!” came the command, “I need you.”

The priest shivered himself free of his thoughts, sighed once, and then straightened his back.

“Yes, Metropolitan,” he responded. “I'm coming, Your Grace.”