Melanthrix the Mage (18 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

“WHO'S DEAD?”

Meanwhile, the Council turned to the scheduling of the troop musters, and decided to set a deadline of the first of May for the levies from the east, north, and south to reach Paltyrrha; those in the west would cluster directly around Myláßgorod later in the month, and those appor­tioned to Prince Ezzö's army would gather at Bolémia for an invasion from the north.

General Sándor, Count of Yevpatóriya in Arrhénë, expressed much concern over the timetable, saying he doubted that his eastern brigades could assemble in time; he was told to make all possible speed. Count Ygor of Zán­drich also voiced his anxiety over a possible uprising of the northerners, and was ordered to leave a third of his force in Sevyerovínsk to guard the Northern Gates. But in the end, everyone around the table finally agreed that, despite the difficulties attendant with meeting the May deadline, a quick start to the expedition was far better than a late one, and would leave Pommerelia even worse prepared.

Sir Léka d'Örs, Chief Scout of the King's Guard, then made his report on military activities in Pommerelia. His spies had provided him with much information, he said. Hereditary Prince Walther had been named overall commander of the Pommerelian Army, and by King Barnim's order had hastily begun the raising of levies throughout the land. However, they could not possibly gather in any large numbers until mid-May, and then they would still have to be trained.

The present month of March was the rainy season in Pommerelia, making the roads virtually impassable; in ad­dition, the snows had been particularly harsh this year in the central mountain ranges, and the runoff was very heavy. Many of the fords and bridges had already washed out; Léka's agents were busily contributing their own share of sabotage to such structures.

Also, he had paid several traveling minstrels to spread rumors in Pommerelia of Kórynthi infiltration into the army there (which was true), making the raising and keeping of forces that much more difficult. Sir Léka was heartily commended for his efforts by the king, and ordered to return to Myláßgorod on the morrow.

Then Oskar von Tamburín, Royal Ambassador to the Court of Mährenia, made his report on the situation there. The Mährenians had raised seven or eight thousand men, he said, but were having great difficulties in training them as a unified force. They were superb fighters indi­vidually, but had absolutely no experience of making war on the grand scale, having participated only in local skir­mishes. They were completely unprepared for large-scale maneuvering. He suggested the addition of more Kórynthi military advisers and increased training, which requests were granted by the king.

Continuing, he noted that the political situation in Mährenia seemed to have stabilized, although some dissat­isfaction
was
evident among the local populace over the proposed marriage of the ducal heir to a foreign prince. The sooner that Prince Nikolaí wed the elder daughter, Countess Rosanna, the better. Duke Ferdinand's wife Jo­hanna remained highly unpopular, both at court and in the countryside. The Mährenian army was scheduled to gather at Bublkopf by the third week of April. The passes into Pommerelia should be clear shortly thereafter....

Suddenly, the chamber door burst open with a bang. A page stood there, visibly trembling before the eyes of so many great potentates.

“He-he's d-dead!” he managed to stammer out.

“Who's dead?” asked Arkády.

“Lord B-Bazhén, Highness,” the boy said. “I w-went to his bedchamber, as my master ordered, and he was sitting there, cushions propped up behind his back, and w-when he didn't respond, I t-touched him, and he was as cold as ice. And I-I ran here as q-quick as I could, sir, re­ally.”

“You did well, Körte,” the prince said. “Gentlemen, I suggest that we adjourn, with the king's kind permission.”

The monarch nodded.

“I want to investigate this personally,” Arkády said. “Metropolitan Timotheos, I'd like you to accom­pany me, if you would. Also Lord Aboéty, Fra Jánisar, Lord Feognóst, and Archpriest Athanasios. For the rest,
adieu
.”

Not long thereafter they gathered in Ustín's cham­bers. Jánisar carefully examined the body from every an­gle, smelling several apertures, then lifted the limp hands and pushed back the bedcovering and the minister's night­shirt.

“I see nothing unusual here,” he finally told the oth­ers. “He's been dead at least eight or ten hours, probably since he retired.”

He opened Bazhén's mouth and lifted his tongue, examined his ears and nose, and then with the help of Feognóst, turned him over, poking into his rectum.

“No, nothing obvious,” he said. “I'd say apoplexy or angina. Can't be sure, of course, until we cut him open. Do you want a necroprobe?” he inquired, shift­ing back and forth on his feet rather uncomfortably.

“I seem to recall that you found nothing wrong with Andrássy, either,” Arkády said, “but I still think we need to follow through on this. Aye, have it done, Fra Can­tárian, but be very careful. Report to me later.”

“Yes, Highness,” Jánisar said.

The prince turned to the archpriest.

“Athanasios, I want you to take notes on this matter, both now and when Jánisar reports. I'll see you two later.”

Then he departed.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

“WHAT SAY YOU?”

The one known as Alpha transited to the island of Loryùppa early that evening. He had called the Brother­hood of Tighris together on several different occasions during the past month, but always there was one or more of the brethren who could not be present, and so the gathering had failed. Now, finally, he had received positive re­sponses from all of the members that they would be at­tending.

He had much to tell them. The events of their Jan­uary meeting were still fresh in his memory, and had left him with the unsettled feeling that they were being toyed with. He had tried to analyze in his own mind what kind of magic could have caused the effects that they had wit­nessed, and had decided that it represented an amalgama­tion of several different parapsychological traditions, two or three of which he had encountered previously, and at least one of which was unfamiliar to him. He (and they) needed help, and he would propose this evening that they seek it from some of their eastern colleagues, dispatching, if nec­essary, one of their own to consult with these far-distant mages. He even had someone in mind for the trip.

As he hurried down the corridor to the Enneaphon, his excitement began to build.

Yes
, he acknowledged to himself,
old he might be, but he still had his wits about him
.

As he opened the metal door into the chamber, he could hear his friends discussing something. The conver­sation abruptly stopped. Puzzled, he looked around the room, and his heart jumped. All of the seats,
all nine seats
, were filled!

“Who are you?” he demanded of the imposter occu­pying his place.

“Who are
you?
” his own voice said.

“Stand aside,” Alpha ordered.

“Stand aside,” came the reply.

His colleagues looked back and forth in evident con­sternation. The height, the build, the voice were the same. Alpha felt a pain in his left side, and only remained upright with the greatest of difficulties.

My heart again
, he thought.
Not now, please not now
.

He centered himself, finally regaining control over his surging emotions and his frail body.

“Brethren,” he said, “we seem to have a small problem.”

He heard several nervous laughs.

“I appear to have grown a twin. And I see no way to distinguish between us without letting slip the aura of se­crecy demanded by our brotherhood. What say you?”

When his opposite tried to speak, the true Alpha in­terrupted, saying: “Let the membership decide. So mote it be.”

“So mote it be,” they replied as one voice.

“There can be no solution to this problem,” Lambda said, “save the indefinite suspension of these meetings.”

“Yes,” said Mu, “one of you must go and one must stay, or we must elect a new Alpha.”

“I cannot leave,” said the true Alpha.

“I cannot leave,” the imposter seconded.

“Then we must disband ourselves until the problem is resolved,” Epsilon said, sadness evident in his voice. “I very much fear that our enemy has finally found a way to make us irrelevant to the conflict that is to come. We must each strive to fight against the chaos, to restore the order which this organization represents. Perhaps if you would sacrifice yourselves....”

But neither of the Alphas would budge from the po­sition that he alone was the one true leader of the group.

“Then honor demands that I must leave,” Epsilon said. “And when we return,
if
we return, I demand that Alpha be tested by all of us.”

There were murmurs of agreement as each of the members rose in turn and filed out of the room and tran­sited through the
viridaurum
, finally leaving only the two Alphas still facing each other.

“Who
are
you?” the true Alpha asked again.

“The Dark-Haired Man,” his twin said.

The
doppelgänger
rose from his seat, and headed towards the antechamber. As he stepped into the alcove housing the great greengold mirror, he turned, crossed his arms over his chest, and added, “or anyone else you might prefer.”

Then the imposter vanished, leaving Alpha gasping for air as the pain returned, stronger this time. He some­how managed to find his way to the outer passage and reach the safety of the other transit site available to him. When the ache in his side had subsided enough for him to concentrate, he focused on the shimmering metal before him, twisted the leys, and transited himself back to the Pa­triarchal Palace in Paltyrrha.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

“THESE WERE MEN, I SAY”

The place was entirely without light. Arkády ex­tended his senses out from his body, but could feel nothing. He could tell that he was standing near one side of a large room, but very little else. The air was icy cold. He reached his hand before him and allowed a pale amber flame to form over his combined rings, then gasped invol­untarily when he spied the image of his great-aunt standing not five feet in front of him.

“You!” he said. “I....”

Then he thought better of what he was going to say.

“Yes, nephew?” the old woman said.

There was no warmth in her voice.

“Look about you,” she said, “and see the fate of man's paltry creations. ‘Vanity of vanities, all is vanity. What profit hath a man of all of his labor which he taketh under the sun?'“

She allowed an emerald flame to sprout from each of the five finger rings on her right hand, and raised them above her head, fully illuminating the room.

Arkády gasped again, shrinking back from the grotesque images that surrounded them. On all sides he saw the contorted, grinning faces of a hundred hideous demons, carved from black and white and green stone. In the wavering light created by Mösza's five auras, they seemed to be laughing and crying at them at one and the same time.

“What
is
this room?” the prince said, com­pletely subdued by the horrible figures gibing at them.

His aunt laughed, long and loud, her voice echoing back and forth among the marble pillars.

“This is one of the old places, one of the hidden places, one of the forgotten places of the world, a place where men were not afraid to tap the powers divine and the forces undivine. There was a time, nephew, when men strode fearlessly into the gulf 'twixt Heaven and earth, contesting with the gods themselves for the
right
to deter­mine their own fate.

“These were men, I say, and more than men, ex­plorers of the infinite who dared to seize the knowledge and the power that was offered to them. In those days men dared to do whatever was necessary to expand their con­sciousness into the Otherworlds that so closely abut upon our own. Hell, boy, that's what this is all about. Look to where you stand.”

His gaze shifted quickly to his feet. He was perched on the end of an immense, grooved altar, the cen­ter of which was fashioned all of one piece from a huge, green, circular stone set at the junction of two large, black cross-sections, stained on its surface with streaks of rust. He stepped to his left and slowly stooped, letting his hands lightly touch the brown marks, and started when he realized they were the relics of old, dried blood. Human blood.

Suddenly he had a vision of a dozen strangely-dressed men wielding long, curved knives of bronze, sur­rounding the naked, bound body of a struggling child im­pressed with the face of his own daughter, Rÿna. The leader whipped his sharp blade across the girl's throat, and caught the spurting blood in a chalice, drinking it in ec­stasy. Arkády abruptly broke contact, stunned by the dese­cration of his oldest offspring, his rings tingling with the energy discharge.

“
What
is
this place?
” he asked again, his anger bub­bling up from within.

His aunt just chortled.

“Some have called it Atlantis,” she said. “The fools.”

She twisted a finger under her left hand to point straight up at the ceiling.

“Up there,
that
was Atlantis, once upon a time. Down here, well, let's just say this room was old long be­fore Atlantis ever came to be. And let me assure you, my dear, dear nephew, that no one else in the whole wide world knows where we are right now, that no one else but me and thee kens the secret of this pretty little place.”

He glanced around him before turning his eyes back on Mösza. He had absolutely no idea of what to say.

“Take your time, my lovely boy,” she said. “We have all the time that's available in the great green cosmos. Someone's been telling you fibs, haven't they, Arkásha? Now tell your sweet old Auntie the truth. They've been lying again,
n'est pas
?”

Arkády closed his eyes, trying to wish away this nightmare. He ran through all of the exercises that he had learned years ago to quiet his soul and regain his center. When he could picture himself clearly again, he gazed calmly upon Mösza and replied:

“‘The sun also ariseth,' Auntie. And Scripture fur­ther states: ‘Men come and go, but earth abideth,' as I was re­cently reminded. Those who erected this ruin have long since gone to their eternal punishment. They are no longer our concern.

“We can spend the evening regaling each other with fanciful tales, but I'd rather do so in more comfortable sur­roundings, if you please. For the moment, I have a report to make. We had another killing today.”

And then he proceeded to tell her the details of Ustín's passing.

Mösza stood there impassively, drinking in every drop of her nephew's account.

“And what else did you determine?” she asked.

“Jánisar could identify no cause of death,” Arkády said, “although he suspects a failure of the heart. More curiously, a brief probing showed no signs whatever of mental activity remaining in the body. This conforms with an identical reading performed on the remains of Count Alexis immediately following his passing. It's as if neither man was alive at the time of his translation. There were no residues, no memories, no thoughts of any kind. This is supposedly impossible save in one who has long been de­ceased; nonetheless, it happened. The physician could of­fer no explanation.”

“Was the man murdered, or did he perish natu­rally?” she asked.

The prince hesitated before replying.

“Unknown,” he said. “I suspect murder, but Fra Jánisar remains noncommital. I believe that the absence of any discernible mental activity in the bodies is significant, an aberration typical of this killer. He mocks us. He goads us. But I could be wrong.”

“Perhaps,” she said. “So, nephew, you want me to report your theories to the Covenant of Christian Mages. Welladay, welladay.”

She abruptly tilted up her head and sniffed long and loud.

“Hmmm,” she said, not waiting for an answer. “I suspect it's about time for us to leave. The air down here is none too good, and I have other things to do. Be seeing you, my boy.”

She put her left hand to her mouth, blew him a kiss, stepped backwards, and vanished.

He looked around wildly, increasing the size of his ringflame to peer into the corners of the room, but she was gone. Perhaps she had never even been there. He shud­dered again. This place was unsettling. If he stayed here long enough, the grotesque images around him might start talking back to him.

He turned around and moved two steps towards the alcove. His eye was caught then by the strange transit mir­ror hanging on the wall in front of him, which corre­sponded to nothing he had ever before encountered. First, its shape was oval instead of rectangular. He knew that such things were theoretically possible for these devices, but they were rarely encountered, being very difficult to construct and especially to balance. And this one was fashioned from an alloy of gold that he had never before encountered. That gold was present in the metal was evi­dent in the overall sheen of the thing, but it was dark, al­most black with age and with...something else. The rim was surrounded by a metallic artifact that had been cast in the semblance of a long, twisting serpent encircling the en­tire frame, its head, just there at the apex, devouring its own tail. He could almost imagine it moving into itself, inch by inevitable inch.

An ouroboros!
They never really died, he'd once been told, but waited patiently in place until someone actu­ally touched them. Then they sprang instantly alert and alive, ready to swallow body and soul the essence of any intruder.

Arkády deliberately backed up a step and calmed himself. Then he fixed his destination in mind, and care­fully extended his
ley
-ring to touch the surface of the mir­ror, keeping to its center. It resisted briefly, and he almost panicked at the thought of being stranded in this place for all of his days, but he gathered together his energy, and connected the twisting lines in the æther. And then he too was gone.

But the serpent just relaxed its posture, slipt the bounds of the great circle that confined it, and began mak­ing the rounds of the cavern, as it had done for a hundred thousand years or so, and as it would continue to do for a hundred thousand more. It was very patient. Sooner or later they would come back. Sooner or later they
all
came back. And then he would eat.