Melanthrix the Mage (7 page)

CHAPTER NINE

“WHY HAVE YOU COME?”

Before the rosy-fingered Dawn could welcome the arrival of her brother, the Sun, Hereditary Prince Arkadios transited through the
viridaurum
mirror mounted in the Hall of a Hundred Kings to the chambers of the
Symboulion Magôn Christianôn
, which is to say, the Covenant of Christian Mages, being the very first member of that august association to arrive for the meeting that he himself had just called.

This was an organization which had been founded during the Millennium Year
celebratio
of the birth and as­cension of Our Lord and Savior, Jesus of Nazareth, sur­named the Christ. For it had happened,
mirabile dictu
, that the Byzantine Julian Emperor of the time, Antiochos
vii
, had fortuitously encountered the Holy Roman Cæsar, Mar­cus Ætherius
i
, in the Basilica of the Risen God in Hi­erosolyma on midsummer's day, and despite the many centuries of antagonism resident between the two great powers, had forthrightly strode up to his counterpart and embraced him, kissing him on both cheeks; and turning widdershins, had proclaimed then unto the multitudes, “This is my brother, in whom I am well pleased.” And, wonder of wonderments (for God doth work His magic in unfathomable ways), the Emperor of Rome then reciprocated, in the first overt display of good will between the emperors that the world had witnessed in some four hundred years.

Thereafter, these two great men had erected a coun­cil of protection, for their own safety and for that of their citizens, they said, consisting of an equal number of mages deriving from both spheres of influence, and presided over by a neutral individual, whose chore it was to arbitrate between the disputes that might cause either side to unleash the dogs of war, as had happened so often in the past. Thus, in the intervening years only one such conflict had broken out, some four decades earlier, but it had not es­caped the confines of the Carpates Spinæ Mountains, thanks be given unto the Almighty, and also to those men and women who had worked so hard to prevent this war and others like it from spreading any further.

One of those individuals, Hereditary Prince Arkády, now collapsed wearily into a seat near the end of the great oaken roundtable, and considered for a moment suckling upon one of the
kokaphyllon
leaves he kept wrapt in a preservation skin within his purse, but finally thought better of the idea. He had another meeting to attend later in the morning, for which he would yet require both his wits and his wisdom to remain active; and his little restorative, while effective for as long as half a summer morn on occasion, tended to leave one with the same feeling that resulted from the overindulgence in
les esprits de la liqueur
. Thus it was that he just allowed himself to doze, counting on the others to rouse him whenever they chose to arrive.

As he drifted in and out of sleep, a dozen men and women silently filed into the room and seated themselves 'round the table. He abruptly stirred himself awake, prompted by an ache in the small of his back, and then re­alized that something was very wrong here, for he recog­nized none of the faces staring back at him, and the thir­teenth seat of arbitration situate at the head of the table had been occupied by an elderly woman with green-gold eyes peering out from underneath her peasant's hood.

“Who
are
you?” he asked, sitting up straight. “What are you do­ing here?”

“You engaged the covenant, good sir, as the law doth provide in the canons laid down by Muravyóv and Bathyány,” the lady replied, her voice a mere whisper of sound, “and so we have responded, each to our own, emerging from that place where we first found rest, as you yourself may have occasion to judge, o King-To-Be.”

As he examined more closely the individuals seated around the great slab of polished ochre wood, it suddenly occurred to him that, despite their evident vitality, none of the mages facing him might actually dwell within the Land of Living Men.

“The just man requires neither judge nor jury to justify his actions,” the prince finally replied. “So, why have you come?”

“Why?” she said in her soft voice, the merest shadow of an exhalation. “You ask why? The answer to that question would require a dissertation, princeling, a veritable treatise, an entire volume of words and ideas and notions, and still you would not understand.

“There is no covenant where the law reigns not supreme, over the kings and nobles of the land, over the servants of the state and those whom the state doth serve. We espy a Charybdis lurking within the body politic, a grand discontinuity in the æther which, if left unto its own devices, shall enswallow intact the lands of Nova Europa and all the realms sheltering therein. We feel the crisis come upon us. The men and women and entities inhabiting this vale shall soon be asked and soon be required to voice their ‘yeas' and ‘nays.' No one shall be exempt.

“And so we return to this place to offer our assis­tance for the struggle soon to come, knowing that the issue will be closely fought, that the stakes of the game inflate with each day and every hour that passes. A mere scatter­ing of men and women stand now before the gate, guarding the exit and entrance into this place. Swing the aperture one way, and the world turns, perhaps just a nudge, to­wards God's grace; swivel the door elsewise, however, and thou venturest down that broad and easy way into strife, death, and destruction, where the darkness eats away the hearts of the decent folk who form the very center of our existence.”

“But how can one man alter destiny's dictatorship?” Arkády asked.

“Such answers are beyond our ability to provide,” came the reply.

“Then what possible help can you be?” he said. “I didn't ask for this task, and I
surely
didn't request your assistance.”

“Oh, but you
will!
” the old woman said, flashing a crooked smile. “You will, dear Arkásha...!”

CHAPTER TEN

“WHAT PROOF DO YOU HAVE?”

“...Arkásha! Arkásha!”

The prince heard the words as from a great distance, and struggled with some difficulty to bring himself back up to the world.

“Arkásha, awake!”

He found himself looking into the familiar, plump face of a woman in her mid-sixties. Her neatly dressed white hair was partially enshrouded with a black-and-gold striped shawl stitched with a
tughra
similar to that etched on his ornate buckle of silver. Hanging from a gold chain around her neck was a small globule of smoky green glass, within whose confines one could espy, if one looked very closely, a slow, swirling movement of smoke or perhaps vapor.

“Auntie!” he said with some evident relief. “Why, why I just had the strangest dream.”

“Oh really?” she said. “Well, dearie, Homêros says that dreams are just the visions dispatched to us from God. Of course, I experience such revelations all the time, but nobody pays any attention to
my
visions, save for my little lovies. The dear sweetums, they
always
follow my lead.”

Arkády quickly glanced at the ten council members (Mordekaí was missing, he noted) who had now taken their assigned seats at the table, and nodded his head when he recognized them all. Then he recovered himself.

“What did you say?” the prince asked, suddenly re­alizing that he had missed part of the conversation.

Without waiting for her reply he turned to the entire council and said: “My father was almost killed tonight, shot with a crossbow bolt to his chest while attending a banquet in Paltyrrha.”

Some of the attendees gasped in surprise, but others seemed unaffected by the news. Old Laössoös, slumped in the senior position at the other end of the table, just snored.

“My people blame the Walküri, of course. So my question, Count Zhertán”—he turned his eyes directly to the tall, bald septuagenarian sitting halfway down from him—“is simply this: did King Barnim or his government order this ill-advised assassination attempt?”

“Just one moment, sir,” exclaimed Kulmann Graf von Einschlag, a burly, light-complected man in his thirties who represented Lothar King of Franconia.

He sat straight across from Arkády, constantly twirling his long, curled, blond mustachios.

“What proof do you have?” he asked. “What have you shown us? Why, nothing! Nothing at all! To accuse a Teutonic monarch of such crimes without any presentation of evidence whatsoever is certainly unacceptable to me, and also, I suspect, to the other august members of this body.”

Zhertán, who represented the kingdom of Pom­merelia, held up his right hand.

“It's quite all right, Kulmann,” he said. “Prince Arkády has every reason to pose the question, and I invite all of you to test the truth of my reply. This
psairodak­tylios
encircling my finger is my bond.

“King Barnim did
not
order an attack and neither did I, and I'm in a position to say that no one else in our government had anything to do with it, at least in an offi­cial capacity.”

“I didn't really think your people were involved, but I had to ask,” the prince said.

“But,” Zhertán added, “I would certainly like to know the details, because whoever's responsible is obvi­ously intent on driving us all towards war.”

Arkády spent a few moments giving them an ac­count of the attack.

“This entire business has a most curious feel about it,” said Philodème Duc d'Albérique, the goateed younger brother of Tancrède
ii
King of Neustria.

“Did you examine the weapon yourself, Arkády?” he asked.

“I did,” the prince said. “It's an ordinary cross­bow and quarrel. There's no indication of any magical ap­paratus involved, nor any curse, hex, jinx, or other device or taint that might have been applied.”

“But who could have loosed it?” Zhertán said.

“Well, that's just the problem,” Arkády said. “The weapon was mounted on one of the great wooden cross­beams overlooking the hall.”

“But the ceiling must be, what, fifteen or twenty feet high, at the least?” Metropolitan Euphronios said. He stood in lieu of Autokratôr Dêmêtrios
iii
in Julianople.

“At least,” Arkády said. “I don't have an an­swer, Ephron. One of my soldiers spotted the thing after we'd removed the guests. He reported that the bow was tied to the rafter. There were no obvious footprints or handmarks left on the beam, just minor disturbances in the dust. We also don't know how the thing was aimed or fired. We thoroughly examined each of the guests as they departed, and none could be connected to the incident.”

Philodème clucked his tongue. “I wonder, my friends, about the intent here. Surely the attacker knew that the king's physician would be standing by, that medical assistance would be available al­most instantly. If they had really wanted to kill him, why not soak the bolt with poison? I think we're being played with.”

“Why, indeed?” said Mösza, the
soi-disant
Countess of Rábassy, who represented Harûn Emir of Umm az-Za­kkár.

Then she noticed Arkády's expression.

“There's more, isn't there, nephew?” she said.

“Yes, auntie,” the prince said. “This is the sixth such attack against King Kyprianos during the last year, each one worse than the last. The first occurred in Faülniß: a cinch broke and the king slipped from his horse, severely bruising his thigh. He was very lucky the leg didn't break. We originally thought this an accident, but later found that the strap had been partially severed.

“This was followed by a series of similar incidents, including the collapse of a wall into the street just before the king arrived at a dedication ceremony in Daphnéa, the loosening of a brick in a stairway used only by the royal family, the toppling of a transit mirror just before the king was scheduled to use it, and so forth.”

“I've heard nothing of these events,” Zhertán said.

The prince sighed. “We've been able to keep them fairly quiet thus far, although this latest incident cannot be hidden. There's an­other problem, too. The king is convinced that the person responsible for these assaults is the Dark-Haired Man.”

“What?” said Jerzy Count Waledynski of Poló­nia.

“Absurd,” said Kulmann. “The Dark-Haired Man is a myth.”

“Perhaps so,” Arkády said, “but that's what he believes, and each subsequent attack has just strengthened his conviction. He's also come to identify the Dark-Haired Man with King Barnim, for no reason that anyone can dis­cern. I and several others in the court have tried to move his mind, but nothing that we've said thus far seems to have had any effect. In the past few months, he has begun active preparations for a military campaign in the west. I now think that war is likely.”

“If true, this is a misfortune of the highest order,” said Zhertán. “Men have forgotten the devastation of the last conflict between Pommerelia and Kórynthia, al­though I recall it only too well, and how long it took for the Teutonmark to recover from the aftereffects. We sim­ply cannot allow another such test.”

“No one here would disagree with you, I think,” said Arkády. “But the question remains: how do we stop what's already begun? I have no answers to offer at this wretched time of the night, alas.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“WHAT DO WE REALLY KNOW ABOUT THE DARK-HAIRED MAN?”

Then he abruptly changed the subject. “What do we really know about the Dark-Haired Man?”

Ancient Laössoös, representing the Lakedaimônian Laconians, finally stirred himself at the other end of the table, slowly raising his eyes.

“
They say
,” he said, “that Death snatches even the coward as he flees his every yesterday.
They say
...that man is but a breath and but a shadow, a phantom in time who quickly fades away.
They say
...that Kyprianos will cross the Carpathian Spine to keep his guilt at bay.
They say
...that He waits within us all to capture our souls when we look the other way.”

Then he slid back into sleep.

Sayyíd Nur ad-Din ibn Shukr Alláh as-Saíf, a swarthy man of middle years who hailed from the Empty Quarter in southern Araby, but represented the Sharíf Quriyáqus of Libán, spoke up for the first time.

“I hesitate to offer my remarks, kindest of people, for fear of stirring your scorn,” he said.

“Oh no, sayyídi,” Countess Mösza said, “why of course you should lay bare your mind to us.”

“I do thank you, most gracious lady,” he said, bowing his head in acknowledgment. “This story that I now relate to you is both my life and my truth.

“During the far-distant years of my youth, such a very long time ago, I was instructed in the lore by the elder members of my order, Les Gardiens du Saint-Maroún, deep within the Cedar Mountains, and became privy to certain details regarding the founding of our covenant by M. Zélénÿ, who sought to govern all Psairothi with his law, and, alas, failed in his quest.”

He closed his hands together in front of him, as if praying, and bowed his head to the table three times.

“May Alláh give him peace and joy and contentment throughout all of his days. Amen.”

“Amen,” came the mumbled refrain from around the table.

“As I have said,” he said, “I heard many tales of trials and triumphs and tribulations. There dwelt among us in those days an ancient one whom we called Yunús, now long translated unto his greater reward. He told me that after the establishment of the Covenant of Christian Mages, several hundred years ago, certain Psairothi living in the east came to resent what they saw as the interference of the west into
les
affaires magiques
, even though that
is
not and
was
not the reason for which the convenant was established.

“These disaffected ones created, he said, an orga­nization which sought in both name and practice to restore the traditions of their own ancestors, and specifically to off­set the power and influence of this our council. The mem­bers of this group took a vow of secrecy and erected a cadre much like our own, but it was subverted, in his ac­count, by a powerful changer-of-shapes who called himself the ‘Dark-Haired Man,' amongst many other appellations. Those who opposed him in the organization were either killed or banished into the darkness.

“Now, how much of this is true and how much just another fancy fable from the
Biblos Moiras Atlantidos
,
The Book of the Fate of Atlantis
, I have no way of knowing; but I now believe that Yunús was himself a descendant of one of those exiled mages. The story made a great impression on me at the time, I must say.”

“Just an old wives' tale,” Mösza said. “I've heard it myself.”

“Ah yes, my dear Mosie, perhaps it is so,” said as-Saíf, “and I should never try to contradict such a beautiful woman as thyself.”

He bowed again in her direction.

“But...later I saw something that caused me to re­shape my thoughts.

“I do not know how much of this tale I may tell you without violating a confidence,” he went on, “and therefore I give it to you with no real names or dates, for you do not need to know them.

“As I progressed upward through the nine degrees of my order, I came increasingly to be trusted by my pre­ceptor, and was sent on missions for the benefit and educa­tion of the Christian man. I would travel great distances throughout the eastern realms, carrying messages to and from the mighty potentates of the world and the catholicos-patriarch in Antukhia, or from the latter primate to our own bishops and clergy, leading the fight for Christ in the hea­then villages of the Assyri and the Parsi.

“On one such occasion I came upon a member of my order lying near death's door in an oasis some leagues distant from Dabenégora. A cluster of palm trees sur­rounded a large pool of cool, pure springwater, quite potable although tasting vaguely of sulfur, and I saw ripe dates readily available, not to mention wildfowl clustered about the small lake. Yet my brother was perishing both from hunger and thirst.

“I said to him, ‘My poor comrade, what illness is this that has overcome thee?'

“‘Alas, effendi,' he said, ‘I have bargained with the Dark-Haired Man, but he has wormed his way into my soul and I cannot remove him. Thus must I die unshriven by a priest and unlamented by my kinfolk.'

“‘But where?' I asked, for the land was com­pletely vacant to the eye, and I could see no one there.

“‘In here,' he said, pointing to his own head.”

Nur ad-Din shook his head in sorrow and disbelief.

“Just an hour later, he perished most horribly, his body wracked by convulsions that I could not stop, crying out for a succor that I could not give. And from his gaping mouth there abruptly issued the black body of a deadly scorpion that hissed at me and quickly began to grow in size and strength. And when it had reached the height of a man, it turned to me and said, ‘“Light of the Faith” you may indeed be named, but one day the Dark-Haired Man shall return to dim that glow.' I have never been more frightened, my friends.

“Then the creature turned from me and strode away rapidly across the desert, vanishing into the sunset. After burying the
corpus
of my brother, I left that place and never returned there again.

“I do not know whether that black thing was real in form, or just a vision rendered by the hot sun and the hor­ror of my comrade's death, but I know that I dug a grave there and put a body into it and a makeshift cross over it, and I saw the tracks in the sand of an escorpion which can­not exist according to our law, and I believe now what it told me. The Dark-Haired Man lives, and we would do well to consider the notion seriously.”

“But where lies your proof?” Lady Mösza asked. “And even if real, where dwells he now? We cannot take action, sayyídi, based upon such an account.”

“I agree,” said Aurora Lady Estavaye, scion of the ancient ruling house of Morënë and the youngest in age of the council members. “You've given us an extraordinary account, but I'm more concerned with the here and now. Pommerelia and Kórynthia may be heading towards war, and this newest attack on King Kipriyán will certainly not help matters. What can we do to slow the rush to arms?”

“More to the point, Rorie,” said Mösza, “we have members on this council from both countries. If war does come, the council must surely be split, perhaps irrevoca­bly.”

“If there
is
a Dark-Haired Man,” the Conde di Co­rovino said (he represented the Holy See in Ravenna), “and I for one am not yet convinced of his reality, then he and/or this other group may have instigated the attacks on King Kipriyán. Prince Arkády, who gave your father the idea that the Dark-Haired Man was behind all this?”

“I don't really know, Ariosto,” said the prince, “although I suspect old Melanthrix, since he seems to be father's only real confidant these days, other than myself. He first appeared in court about the time I was born, but abruptly left after the great earthquake devastated the city two decades ago. I think there was a riot or something at about that time that frightened the man away. We thought him gone for good. Then, not long after the final campaign against the heathens, he returned to court, from God knows where. No one has ever been able to pinpoint his origin.

“You should have seen the stunt that he pulled last night after the attack on father. All sorts of wild prophe­cies about this and that and the other. Of course, that drunken fool Humfried egged him on.”

“Melanthrix, eh?” Zhertán said. “We've discussed him before without reaching any definite conclusions.”

Arkády glanced at Mösza.

“Auntie, were you still at court when Melanthrix first arrived?” he asked.

The old woman laughed and threw up her hands, her jowls shaking.

“My goodness, no,” she said. “I left Paltyrrha long before that. My brother (your grandfather) and I, well, we just never got along, so finally I moved on. Never asked his permission, either, much to everyone's consternation.”

She chuckled again, her big bosoms shaking up and down.

“Besides,” she said, “as bizarre as he's been de­scribed, our dear old astrologer sounds very much like the figment of someone's imagination.”

“I wish he were, auntie, but he has father com­pletely under his spell,” Arkády said.

Zhertán rubbed his bald pate and yawned.

“Arkády,” he asked, “is Melanthrix close to any­one besides the king?”

The prince thought for a moment before replying.

“I think he's friendly with one of the monks at­tached to Metropolitan Timotheos and the
Megalê Scholê
,” he said.

“Then might I suggest,” said the count, “that you seek out this priest, whoever he is, and see if you can de­termine what Melanthrix knows about these events, or at least what he's been telling your father. You can report back to us at our next gathering, which will be soon, I hope.

“As far as this council is concerned,” he said, “if war does come, I must remove myself from it, and I would suggest that Prince Arkadios do the same. You may choose to replace us with others or leave our seats tem­porarily vacant until the matter is settled. Agreed?”

They murmured their assent.

The chairman of the group, William Lord Eagleton of the Western Isles, glanced around the table, rose in his seat, and spoke for the first time.

“All of us will continue to work for peace in our time,” he said. “Now, brethren, let us ponder these events on yet another day.
Pax vobiscum
.”

The prince rose from his seat and made his way to Zhertán's side, where he gave him the kiss of peace.

“And to you, my friend,” Arkády said, then looked again at his comrades. “And to all of you.”

He abruptly swiveled and left, and was followed in turn by each of his companions. But old Laössoös, waking to find himself abandoned and alone, merely chuckled and kissed his
ka
-ring.

“Oh yes, little one,” he said, watching the
daktylios
flare its violet response, “yes and yes again! We shall!”

Then he mouthed an inaudible word, and drifted away into nothingness.