Melanthrix the Mage (9 page)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“WHAT BECAME OF MY MOTHER?”

Arik Rufímovich gazed into the eyes of the Queen's statue and reflected upon the past.

“My father, Rufím Katúnovich,” he said, “belonged to the landed gentry. He had a small estate and or­chard in lower Nördmark, all of which my elder brother Armén eventually inherited, although that's another story. So it was either the church for me, or the soldier's life.

“In the twenty-first year of King Makáry
i
I took the hundred gold staters that my father gave me as my due, and bought myself a commission in the King's Own Guards. Thus I became
Lieutenant
Arik Rufímovich.”

The older man smiled.

“Now I suppose that you would think me a very foolish boy indeed in those far-off days, but I had ambi­tions then. I saw my commission as a pathway to fame, riches, status, lands, even a title. All I had to do was to please my superiors and learn how to kill most efficiently, and I found within myself the ability to do both. So I rose very quickly in the ranks when war actually broke out. I managed to attach myself to Hereditary Prince Néstor's personal squad,
Les
Gardes Élites
, as it was known in soci­ety, and I thought I had found the perfect spot.

“You see, we got the best of everything,” Arik said, “the finest mounts, the newest weapons, the shiniest armor, and, of course, the prettiest women, who followed us around like puppies looking for a new home. Soon I came to regard this special treatment as no more than ap­propriate to one of my exalted status.

“In those days I was callow and ever willing to seek pleasure in the most superficial ways, and I cut a very handsome profile back then, with a full head of curly hair and my smart military uniform.”

His face clouded.

“Then the war began in earnest. Prince Ezzö the Elder and Kazimir his heir were determined to take back Pommerelia, and together with Prince Néstor, they per­suaded King Makáry to support them. That was a black day in the history of Kórynthia, let me tell you.

“Oh, things went well enough at first. King Michael of Pommerelia was killed outright, and we thought in our arrogance that we'd won it all. I think we would have, too, if God hadn't laughed at our complacency. As we gamboled madly south towards Balíxira, suddenly the winter storms came rushing in, a month too early, and near froze us all to death.”

He paused to wipe a tear away on his sleeve.

“Many a good man perished on that plain, and not from fighting any battle, either. The following spring King Makáry resupplied the Forellës with arms and mercenaries, and so we tried again. Then came Dürkheim, where King Barnim, Michael's successor, fooled us all, and killed Makáry and Néstor and Kazimir too.

“Somehow we managed to retreat to Borgösha, where we were determined to revenge our friends' deaths. The following summer our enterprise failed when Count Vandorf, Ezzö's new commanding general, perished at the Battle of Audergrimm, and most of his army with him. Afterwards, Ezzö took his own life rather than be captured. Borgösha promptly capitulated, and we survivors were taken hostage. A few months later I was paroled to my family's estate, where I found my father dead and my brother less than hospitable. I was sick to death of all the killing, so I resigned my commission and joined the Silent Souls.”

“Did you ever meet my father?” the younger man asked.

Arik smiled fondly and shook his head.

“We've been over that ground before, Afanásy. Even if I hadn't given my most solemn oath to keep silent, a
geas
was placed on my soul that keeps me ever from re­sponding. All that I
can
say, all that I'm
allowed
to say, is that your father died fighting bravely in the war, before you were born, and that your mother, as much as she loved you, was prevented by circumstance from keeping you her­self, and so placed you lovingly with the church.”

“What became of my mother?”

“Well, that one I
can
answer,” Arik said. “I hon­estly don't know. I have not seen her or heard tell of her in a very long time.”

“Then she could still be alive. Why were
you
cho­sen to bring me to Saint Svyatosláv's?” Afanásy asked.

A shadow appeared on Arik's face.

“Why pursue this now? These people have all passed into the dustbin of history, friend Afanásy.”

“It's hard to explain, Father,” the younger man said. “You have a family. Knowing what you know about your­self, you can choose to embrace or reject your past. My parents are unknown to me. I don't know why they left me without an identity, or what they were like, or how or why I came to be. Without a name—my
real
name—without a beginning point to my life, I drift like a boat without oars upon a sea of uncertainty. What's old history to you is my entire life to me.”

“You must place your trust in Almighty God,” Arik said. “
He
should be the central axis of your life.
He
must be the identity that you give yourself. You already have a name. It was lent to you by God's agent here on earth.”

The older man rested his hand on the archpriest's shoulder, and then said: “Athy, there are questions that should not be asked, and answers that should not be heard. Trust me when I tell you that this is one of them.”

“I
do
trust you, Father,” Afanásy said, “and I pray for His guidance constantly. But I have a hollowness within that demands a response, Arik. Try as I might, I can't let this issue go. I'm truly sorry.”

The metropolitan sighed and rose from his seat.

“Then you must do what you must, my son,” Arik said.

He traced the sign of the cross over his pupil.

“May God grant you the wisdom to go with what­ever knowledge you find. Now, my limbs grow stiff, Athy, and I must walk a bit before sup­pertime. I'll see you, I trust, at evening prayers.”

And he left Afanásy wondering, not for the first time, if Arik Rufímovich had been his biological father as well as his spiritual one.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“YOU SAID THE KING WAS SICK?”

The Archpriest Athanasios had returned again to his breviary when he heard a child's voice nearby. It sounded as if she were talking to someone. He looked up and abruptly shut his book with a small clap of thunder.

“La-ti-dah, la-ti-day,” he heard, “let's all go run away.”

She suddenly came skipping around the corner of the maze, and when he saw who it was, he immediately jumped to his feet.

“Princess Grigorÿna,” he said, bowing to the seven-year-old firstborn child of Prince Arkády.

“Oh!” she said. “Oh, my! I didn't know anyone was here.”

Her head darted back and forth 'round the grotto.

“I'm not supposed to be here, you know. Papá says I shouldn't play in the maze, 'cuz I get lost easy, but I didn't get lost today, did I?”

Then she noticed the archpriest was still standing.

“Oh, you can sit, now, sir, if you please. You haven't introduced yourself very properly, you know.”

“I'm the hieromonk Archpriest Athanasios Hokhanêmsos apo Sbiatoslabou,” he said. “I teach at the
Megalê Scholê
and I also work as grammateus for your grandfather, the king.”

“Papá says Grandpapá is sick,” she said, plopping down on the bench opposite, next to the image of the queen, “and I can't play with him today, 'cuz he needs his rest, and I'm not to disturb him, neither, so I have to go outside to play.”

She cuddled a rag doll to her chest.

“This is my friend, Milady Louisa. She says that Grandpapá is very mad about something, and that makes everyone else mad, too. Mamá always says we have a ‘wery trézhik fämlyi,' but I don't know what that means, and Ouisa doesn't, either. Do you, Athy...Athynaysus?”

The archpriest smiled broadly.

“I think so, Princess Grigorÿna, but I don't think it's anything that you need to worry about. You can call me Athy, if you'd like, since you're a princess.”

“And you can call me Rÿna, at least when we're alone.”

She abruptly jumped up.

“Of course, in company you must still call me ‘Princess....'”

“Of course,” Athanasios said.

“...'Cuz that's the proper thing to do, and I have to learn how to do everything ‘proper,' that's what Mamá says, even when I don't want to. Someday I'll marry and have children, and then I'll have to go away, just like she did from
her
Mamá and Papá. Sooomedaaay....”

She started to leak tears down her ruby red cheeks.

“There, now, we mustn't cry,” said Athy, brushing the moisture away. “That's such a long, long time from now. Where are all your friends?”

She suddenly brightened up again.

“Oh, they're just boys. They don't know anything. 'Sides, Ari is sick all the time, so he can't play very much, and Siggy's just a little brat, and I don't like him. My sis­ter Mellie is too little, she's only two. No one else wants to play with me.”

“I'll play with you, Rÿna, or just sit and talk, if that's what you'd like,” said the archpriest.

“I'd like that, Athy,” the princess said.

She sat back down again, and smoothed her dress.

“Now, what shall we talk about?” she asked.

Athanasios put his book down on the bench.

“You said the king was sick?”

The princess nodded her head, her reddish-golden curls dangling across her brow.

“Well, that's what Papá said. He said Grandpapá's hyu-something were out of place, that he just wasn't mak­ing any ‘cents.' I didn't understand what they were saying. Then old Melánty came in and made him feel good again.”

“You mean Doctor Melanthrix?” the archpriest asked.

“That's what I said,” she said. “He's always around, but I don't mind, 'cuz he gives me sweets, and then he tells me things. If he's not talking to Grandpapá, he's helping Arión with his pains. Ari tries not to cry, he tries real hard, Athy, but his joints hurt so much, I know, 'cuz he tells me. He does try to be ‘a proper little prince' just like Papá wants. Siggy just laughs. He's mean.”

“You said Melánty tells you things?” Athanasios said.

She hunched down and put on her serious face.

“Oh yes, he tells me
lots
of things, just me, even though no one believes me. He said Papá has to go away soon to fight in a war, but he'll be OK. He said Ari and Siggy and Mellie will all have to go away some day, and then I'll be all by myself again, until Nesty is born, who­ever he is. He told my fortune, and said I was a lucky little girl, but he wouldn't tell me anything else except that the lines on my hand were kinda short, so I guess that's pretty good. He said I'll be happy most of the time. I know Papá doesn't like him, but he's always real nice to me. I don't think he has many friends to talk to.”

“I like him, too,” said Athy.

She sat up as an idea came into her head.

“He even talked 'bout you once, Athy,” she said. “I 'member now. He said you were a good man, ‘better than he was,' and he said you were better than he de...deserfèd, I think. He said you would be what, what he couldn't be. I don't know what he means.”

“I don't know, either,” the archpriest said with a grin.

“But he said you had been real good to him, and you and me were ‘the only two friends he had.'”

She beamed.

“So I guess you must be my friend, too.”

Then they heard someone calling in the distance, “Rÿna, Rÿna.”

“That's Papá,” she said, jumping up. “I've got to go now. Bye.”

She ran over and kissed Athy on the cheek, smiled, and said, “Friends?” before running off down the path.

Athanasios sat there bemused, wondering what sprite had been sent by the angels to brighten his day, be­fore returning to his breviary.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“I THINK IT WAS
QUEEN
Landizábel
”

The archpriest was contemplating another pas­sage—“We have left undone those things which we ought to have done; and we have done those things which we ought not to have done”—when he became aware that someone else was approaching through the maze. He rose to his feet immediately when he saw who it was.

“Your highness,” he said, bowing deeply.

Prince Arkády smiled, and quickly motioned the priest back to his seat.

“I just wanted to thank you, father, for watching out for my little girl,” he said. “Sometimes she gets lost in this maze, but she likes the adventure, so I thought I might find her here.”

Athanasios smiled in turn.

“I actually think it's Queen Landizábel,” he said, pointing to her image, “who watches over us all. And Almighty God, of course, always Him. I am just His hum­ble servant.”

“Do you mind if I sit?” asked the prince, taking his place on a nearby bench. “So much has been going on these last two days that I've scarcely had a moment to catch my breath. What did you think of our council meeting to­day?

“I think our friend Melanthrix was having his fun again,” the archpriest said, putting down his book, “even though nobody seemed to appreciate the joke. They mostly just fear him.”

“But not you,” Arkády said.

Athanasios grinned again in acknowledgment.

“No, not me, but then, I've seen a side of him that few people seem to know. He's really quite harmless, once you understand how he thinks.”

The prince arched and stretched his back, passing his hand over his head in evident weariness.

“Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?” he said.

The priest hesitated for a moment before replying.

“That would depend, Highness, on the question,” Athanasios said.

“Of course,” Arkády said. “I hope you don't find this too intrusive, but I'd really like to know how you and Melanthrix first met.”

“That's easily answered, sir,” the cleric said. “I was about twelve when I was brought to court, or actually to the
Scholê
, to be educated for the church and later for the king's service. When I was presented to King Kypri­anos for the first time, Doctor Melanthrix was already on hand, although but recently come, as I later understood. He looked much the same then as he does today.

“My master, Arik Rufímovich, traveled widely on the king's business during the early years of the war with the northerners, and he some­times left me at Saint Theophanês's Abbey in Paltyrrha. During that time, I deliberately made the acquaintance of Doctor Melanthrix, thinking that I might learn something useful from him.

“When I was about seventeen, the doctor was almost killed in a riot near Kórynthály, and he left court, returning thereafter only when the king was present in Paltyrrha, which was not much during those years. He saved my life during the great earthquake, when I was trapped by falling
débris
in the cathedral. Somehow, although he had then been long absent from the capital, he suddenly appeared and lifted the wreckage off my legs. I still don't know how he knew of my distress, but I believe that I would have been crippled or worse if he hadn't found me in time.”

The prince's attention was caught by a beetle trying to pull itself through the tall grass near his feet.

“I'm a little concerned, Father Athanasios, about the effect that Doctor Melanthrix is having on the king. He now listens to no one else. And these attacks....”

The insect reached the pathway, and began walking more rapidly toward its destination. Suddenly a large spi­der popped out of the ground, grabbed it from behind, and began wrapping it in silk.

By this time the archpriest had also noticed the drama being enacted before them.

“Surely you don't think Melanthrix had anything to do with them?”

“Of course not,” Arkády said, still watching the beetle, “but you'll admit that he's very strange, not at all Psairothi. And because of this, there are those at court who would very much like to see him gone. Very permanently gone. He doesn't help matters any by his attitude.”

The arachnid daintily began her feast.

Athanasios nodded his agreement.

“I know. I've tried to talk to the man, but he won't listen to me. Even after the mob came for him, when he barely escaped with his life, he wouldn't pay attention.

“‘Be careful,' I'd say, ‘be more politic,' and he'd just laugh and quote from the classics, saying that ‘the longest-lived and the shortest-lived man, when they come to die, lose one and the same thing.' He has no fear for his own life.”

“Why does he persist in pushing people to their limits?” asked the prince.

“I wish I could answer that,” the archpriest said. “At times he seems so wise to me, so knowledgeable about past and future, so immersed in things not of this world, that he scarcely has time for the present, and certainly no patience for anyone who doesn't share his vision. I know that something drives him, possesses him almost, but I don't know what it is. All I know is that he has ever treated me kindly and with great affection.”

“
My
concern,” said Arkády, leaning forward on his bench, “must be the well-being of king and country. When the king sneezes, the country catches cold. Much is hap­pening now, as you may have noticed, not all of it good. We can't afford to have the æther disturbed while these ac­tions are underway. The enterprise itself could be jeopar­dized. Do you understand?”

“Oh yes, Highness,” the priest said.

“Then I hope you'll convey that message to him,” Arkády said. “I have just one other question, father. If Melanthrix isn't Psairothi, what is he?”

Athanasios paused a few moments before respond­ing. He was growing weary of this game.

“I think you would have to ask Doctor Melanthrix that question himself, Highness. The only answer that I can give is the obvious one: he's a man like you and me, with the same feelings, desires, and yes, failings as the rest of us. He deserves neither your pity nor your fear, but your respect.”

“Thank you for your candor, archpriest,” said the prince, “and for your service to the state. Might I have your blessing before I go?”

Then he suddenly dropped to his knees before the priest of God.

The startled cleric was taken aback by the gesture, but his ingrained training quickly took over, and he gave his benediction willingly, suddenly adding at the end: “May God grant you the wisdom of Solomon, for there will come a time when you will need it.”