Melanthrix the Mage (12 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“MAY GOD HAVE
MERCY ON HIS SOUL”

For Arkády, the next several hours passed quickly. His immediate concern was the safety of the royal family. He dispatched trusted members of his own elite guard to oversee the security arrangements at the personal apart­ments of his parents, his brothers, and the Forellës. Mes­sages were sent to Patriarch Avraäm and the chief officials of state to take all appropriate steps to protect themselves. When the prince was satisfied that he had done all that could be done for the moment, he summoned Archpriest Athanasios from the nearby
Scholê
.

When the cleric arrived, Arkády asked him to take a seat opposite.

“I know you've served as occasional private secre­tary for my father the king,” the prince said, “although I myself haven't used you in this capacity before. However, I now have need of your services.”

The prince gestured to his office table, awash in piles of documents.

“I must have someone whom I can trust to help sift through the dozens of reports I'm been receiving about these outrages, and choose those important enough to bring to my further attention. I also require someone to handle confidential
communiqués
.”

Athanasios bent to the canvas satchel at his side, and took out several sheets of parchment, a sharpened quill, and a small pot of ink. These he placed in front of him on the desk, and took pen in hand.

“I'm ready to begin now, Highness,” he said.

“Good.”

First Arkády dictated a short, formal letter of sym­pathy on behalf of king and country to Ambassador Wid­dekin and his family, also expressing his own regret for the grief they were experiencing. The priest's nimble fingers flew quickly across the page, finishing the docu­ment within moments of Arkády's dictation. Then Athana­sios sanded the ink, scanned the page briefly, and handed it to the prince for his approval and signature.

Arkády read the sheet carefully, and nodded in ap­preciation. He noted a few places where the priest had cor­rected a word, or had made a subtle change in the phrasing to more closely approximate his master's meaning.

“Excellent. Truly excellent,” he said.

The prince inked the letter with a flourish, and set it to one side.

“Now,” he sighed, “an even more difficult note....”

He rose and walked to the nearby window. Gazing out at a gray sky which threatened snow, he began dictating to King Ezzö and Queen Teréza a heartfelt expression of the mutual grief their families were sharing in the death of his cousin Dolph.

“...I would give anything if the events which tran­spired this morning had not happened...,” he added. “Please believe me when I tell you that I would have gladly offered my own life for his if I could have saved him. I shall always regret the fact that I could not....”

Arkády paused to regain his composure, cleared his throat, and continued.

“...With the king's permission, I have dispatched my own guards to supplement those protecting you and your family. A state funeral for the soul of Prince Adolphos will be held four days hence at Saint Konstantín's Cathedral. May God have mercy on his soul....”

He stopped.

“Please finish it, Athanasios,” he said. “I can do no more.”

The priest continued writing for a moment or two more, sanded the missive, and passed it along.

Arkády sat silently, reading both letters over several times. Finally he signed the second one and laid it aside to dry.

“Thank you, Archpriest. You've done me a great service today, one which I will not soon forget. Now, you may go. Please send in Tyrvón as you leave.”

“Yes, Highness.” Athanasios bowed. “Call me should you have further need.”

Then he left the room, quietly closing the door be­hind him.

Shortly thereafter, Arkády's chief aide, Tyrvón Baëthy, entered. Arkády asked him to prepare the two let­ters for transmittal. As the prince affixed his seal to each, pressing his
sphragis
-ring deeply into the bright red wax, he thought of the blood which had oozed from the bodies of the two young men who had met their premature ends this day.

He handed the first document to his aide.

“Send this by fast courier to Ambassador Wid­dekin's boat.”

He picked up the second letter.

“Deliver this note personally to Prince Ezzö's quar­ters. Now!,” he said, more forcefully than he had in­tended.

“Wait,” he added, as Tyrvón opened the door. “What I meant to say was, ‘Thank you.'“

“Of course, sir,” came the reply.

“I'll be in my quarters the rest of the day. Please don't disturb me.”

“Yes, Highness,” Tyrvón said respectfully, bowing deeply.

The aide carefully took the documents entrusted to him, and paused, as if he wanted to say something, but fi­nally just shook his head.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

“YOU CAN LEAD AN ORT TO WATER...”

Day was now easing into early evening. Sur­rounded by his heavily-armed personal bodyguard, Prince Arkády wearily made his way back to his apartments within the palace. Leaving the gendarmes stationed at his door, with instructions to summon him if they noticed anything out of the ordinary, he entered his quarters with a sigh of relief.

A short, slightly plump, dark-haired woman was giving instructions to some servants at the rear of the room, but she turned quickly as he entered.

“Kásha!” the Princess Dúra cried out, running to him. “I heard.... Are
you
all right?”

“Physically, I'm fine,” he said, “thanks to God's good grace. As for the rest....”

He gathered her into his arms, and just rocked for a moment, holding her warmth tight against him.

“Do you want to talk?” his wife said, stroking his brow, smoothing away the lines of care etched in his fore­head, brushing back the undisciplined lock of hair she so loved.

Arkády shook his head “no.”

“Maybe later,” he said. “For now, though, I should eat something.”

He shuddered.

“Gad, even the thought of food absolutely sickens me. But I must eat...and rest. And then, I'm afraid, I'll have to leave again for a few hours.”

He clenched her even tighter.

“What do ordinary people do, Drúsha?” he said quietly into the mass of her hair. “How do they cope? I spend my days running from crisis to crisis, trying to shore up the walls of state here and there, but all the time seeing them crumbling everywhere I look. And fa­ther! God save us all.”

“Shhh,” she said, “shhh, my love. Relax for a time. Let your cares slip away just now. I'm here. Lay back on this couch. Put your head down and close your eyes. Katrina will prepare something light for supper. There'll be plenty of time to talk later.”

She motioned with one hand to the hovering ser­vant, who rushed off into another room.

“How're the children?” he said, half asleep al­ready.

“Ari misses you, of course,” Dúra said, “and so does Rÿna. She's made friends with that hieromonk from the
Scholê
, the one whose name I can never recall....”

“Father Athanasios,” Arkády said.

“...Yes, Athanasios. He told me yesterday that she had great
psai
potential. He wants to test her power. I said you would have to decide.”

“Hmmm,” was all Arkády could manage.

She paused.

“There's something else, too, Kásha. Please don't be angry with me, but I had to call Doctor Melanthrix again today. I know you don't like him, but he's the only one who really seems to help Ari when he has one of his spells.”

Tears filled her dark, luminous eyes.

“I just can't stand seeing him in so much pain, dear­est.”

Arkády reached over and took her hand, rubbing the fingers.

“And did he help?” he asked quietly.

“Oh, yes.” Dúra smiled though her tears. “Oh, it was a gift from God! The doctor just sat there, very pa­tiently, holding Ari's hand and telling him stories, and slowly, ever so slowly, the pain began to subside.

“Sometimes, if it gets too bad, he uses those nee­dles. It makes me shudder to see those awful things stick­ing in my poor Ari's body. And if they don't work, he'll give him a little fluid from an odd-shaped bottle. But af­terwards Ari seems so much better. I apologize, hus­band, for not consulting you first.”

Arkády put her hands together and brought them to his face, kissing them.

“How could I possibly chide you for easing our son's pain?” he asked. “Dúra, I was forced to kill cousin Dolph today. Nothing...”—his eyes turned cold—“nothing that I'll ever do again will make me feel quite this way again. I can still see Aunt Teréza, crying her heart out, blaming me with her tears.”

“The world may fall around us, dearest,” his wife said, sitting next to him and pulling his head to her breast, “but as long as we have each other and our children, we'll survive somehow.”

“Now I must eat,” Arkády said, sitting up straight, as Katrina entered the room with a small platter and placed it on his lap.

He looked down at the hodge-podge piled before him.

“What
is
this stuff?” he asked, aghast at the jumble of dried-out bread and multi-hued meat and cheese.

“Well, you did say you were in a hurry, madame,” the servant said, “at least I thought you did, and so I had to throw everything together, whatever I could find, this and that and the other, and make it somehow all fit. I usually have more time, sir, but I didn't have time this time, I did the best I could, really, sir, but there wasn't enough time to do it all right, and they're, they're, they're
orts
, sir!
Orts, orts, orts, orts!
”

She suddenly screamed again, “Not enough time to get it done right.” And then she just ran off, shouting, “orts! Morsels of orts! Orsels of morts!”

“Did, did I say something wrong?” Arkády asked, laughing to himself while pushing the food around with his finger, trying to find something, anything edible in the greasy mess.

“Well, dearest,” his wife said, “you learn very soon that just can't pressure old Katrina into finishing something quickly.”

Then they both laughed out loud.

“You can lead an ort to water...,” he said.

“...but you can't make it sink!” she finished.

They chuckled together again.

“Poor Katrina,” Dúra said. “She'll be complaining all next week about her orts.”

There was a knock at the door, and the prince went immediately to open it, even before his servants could re­spond.

“Yes, Tyrvón?” he asked, when he saw who it was.

“Highness,” said the servant, bowing, “terribly sorry, but I thought you'd like to know. Count Alexis couldn't be re­vived. His son, Lord Gorténz, was at his side, and will make the arrangements. Do you want the body se­questered?”

Arkády thought for a moment.

“Order it done,” he said, “and have a stasis placed on the corpse. I'll give them further instructions in the morning. Now leave me in peace.”

But there was no peace to be found that evening, not for any price, not for the trumpeters of war, who spent their dreams dashing in triumph upon the enemy, again and again, killing them all, only to find them resurrected just a few moments later; nor for the peacemakers, who knew that the Rubicon had been crossed once more that day, and that Cæsar would not now be turned back by reason or love or by anything else short of victory or defeat.

In later years Arkády would come to regard this day as the worst of his life, and vowed to spend an entire week of each year thereafter clothed only in black, doing penance on his knees before the cold, stony shrine of Saint Sávva in Bizerte. But no matter what he did, no matter what he said, it was never enough to erase the memories or ease the pain. Never.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

“HE DIDN'T KNOW
WHAT HE WAS DOING”

An hour later Arkády transited to a meeting of the Covenant of Christian Mages. Several members had al­ready ar­rived, among them Count Zhertán, and the prince mo­tioned him aside, where they could talk privily.

“I have terrible news,” Arkády said, “and I didn't want to tell you in council. Your grandson Tibor was killed this morning in Paltyrrha.”

The old man sagged and almost fell, his face going completely white.

“Give me the details,” he said.

“Touch your
psai
-ring to mine,” the prince said.

When the Count complied, Arkády showed him the attack exactly as it had happened.

“God rest his innocent soul,” was all that Zhertán could say.

His face had gone a pasty gray.

“I have no doubt, sir,” Arkády said, “that your grandson is in Heaven. Poor Dolph, he was under a compulsion. He didn't know what he was doing. And it was my spear that killed them both....”

“No!” the count said, rousing himself. “That road is a path to self-destruction. You did what you had to do, what I would have done in your place. Poor Tibor was in the wrong place at the wrong time. This was someone else's game, that of an evildoer who pushes us ever closer to war.

“Great God in Heaven, Arkásha! I think, finally, that I've lived too long.”

Then Zhertán straightened his back, and wiped away the tears dripping from his eyes.

“I...I must return home immediately,” he said. “Give my regrets to the council, and tell them, please, that I'm withdrawing from their deliberations until this business is concluded. I would expect you to do the same.”

The count strode rapidly towards the
viridaurum
, then abruptly stopped and looked back.

“We must find a way to end this madness, Arkády,” he said. “If it costs us our lives, we must stop this.”

Then he was gone.

When the council began its proceedings, the prince gave an account of the day's sad occurrences, before also resigning his seat.

“You may replace me if you choose,” he said, “but I can't in good conscience remain here. I'll be happy to send appropriate updates of a non-military nature through Mösza, if you approve.”

He glanced over at the familiar figure of his great-aunt seated in her usual place across the table.

“Oh, Arkásha,” Mösza said, pursing her lips in sympathy, “my poor, poor boy. Of course I agree.”

“However, I must express my concern over these events,” said Ariosto Count of Corovino, a potbellied man in his seventies, and official representative of the Holy Roman Cæsar, Marcus Ætherius
iii
. “If war does break out between Kórynthia and Pommerelia, we will want some as­surance that our Latinate clerics and churches in the latter country will not be molested.”

“We would insist on the same promise from the other side, respecting our clergy and facilities in Kóryn­thia,” Metropolitan Euphronios said.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” William Lord Eagleton said. “Let us not immediately make assumptions about this little disagreement. Even should a conflict de­velop, we have months to make arrangements concerning noncombatants, and I have no doubt that we will. We can do things in a civilized way or in an uncivilized way, and civilized is always best, wouldn't you agree?”

The two antagonists just glared at each other, with­out speaking another word.

“See!” the chairman said. “See! We can all just get along if we try really, really hard. Of course, Prince Arkády, you can certainly pass along information to our group through Countess Mösza, provided that it con­tains no military data and makes no attempt to sway emo­tions one way or the other. Agreed?”

“Very well,” the prince said. “Then please join me afterwards, Auntie. Meanwhile, I urge all of you to be careful these next few months. There's a rogue rampaging through our community, someone who's trying to destroy everything we've built. He's very good at hiding himself, and very,
very
accomplished at subverting others. If he can destroy Count Alexis so easily, he can get to any of us. Guard yourselves with great care.”

“What about Melanthrix?” Mösza asked.

“Sorry, I just forgot with all the other business,” Arkády said. “Well, I did make a few inquiries, but I discovered very little new. He appeared about thirty years ago, ingratiated himself with my father, and then left, coming back to court at odd intervals. He's friends with Father Athanasios,
grammateus
to the High Council and aide to Metropolitan Timotheos, and not with anyone else except my daughter. I suggest that the matter be postponed until our present difficulties are settled.”

Arkády rose in his seat.

“I hope that we can meet again in peace when this is over. Fare thee well, my friends.”

He formally saluted them.

The council then adjourned, each member going his or her separate way, although at least one of them had an­other rendezvous planned for later that evening. Finally, only Arkády and Mösza remained.

“Auntie,” he said, “if you'll give me a quick mental image of your
viridaurum
mirror, I'll be on my way.”

“Well,” she said shyly, a pink glow slowly suffusing her full cheeks, “well, perhaps we can find some other place to meet. You know how much I value my pri­vacy, nephew.”

She hesitated a moment, fiddling with a stray tendril of snowy white hair that had escaped from her hood and drifted over her forehead.

“Ever since I was...well, that is, ever since I
left
court many years ago, I've just been more comfortable just keeping to myself. Someone once abused the privilege, and I've never forgotten or forgiven. You understand, I'm sure.”

She shook her head to clear it of such disagreeable thoughts.

“But I do know of a few other places that no one ever visits today, sites where mirrors yet remain active, I believe. Let me think about the problem a bit, and I'll contact you again soon.”

“Whatever you say, Auntie,” the prince said, rubbing his neck to alleviate his weariness.

“My dear Arkásha, this has absolutely nothing to do with you. It's just another silly rule I made up for myself many years ago.”

She laughed, her whole body shaking.

“And oh, and I'm such a firm believer in following the rules, right down to the very letter. You see, whenever someone breaks the law, whatever that law might be, he cuts a little piece out of the fabric of society, and that's a terrible, terrible thing to do, my boy. You see the result coming upon us in this crisis. The transgressors, well, they all have to be punished, you know, every last one of them. If we Tighrishi had been as careful about following our
own
rules as we've been about condemning someone else's, why,
we'd
be ruling the world by now.

“At any rate,” she added, “I know you think I'm just a fussbudget, and you're probably right, too. I'm an old lady, after all. What do I know, anyway?”

Suddenly she turned deadly serious.

“But you remember what I tell you, Arkásha, when the time comes. You remember
that
, dear nephew. Now I must go.”

And then Mösza left the chamber more quickly than Prince Arkády would have ever believed possible, had he not seen it himself. As tired as he was, he lingered in the old gray chamber of the Covenant of Christian Mages an­other few moments, pondering the day's events, and wondering, not for the first time, about the curious and convoluted history of the ancient House of Tighris; and whether the tigers to be most feared were those already set loose upon the world, or those still locked tightly in their captivating cages.