Melanthrix the Mage (2 page)

CHAPTER ONE

“NOTHING BUT SMOKE
AND FIRE AND SHADOW”

Anno Domini 1177

Anno Juliani 817

Spring comes late to Zándrich.

For seven months out of the year, grim-visaged Boreas blows his breath down from the Baltískoye Mórye, chilling the Zaÿdar Steppe with his icy gale, and laughing at the poor mortals trying to scratch an impoverished living out of the red, clayey soil. Then gentle Zephyros and blustry Notos beat back their ancient foe, their brother, and a warm, mild breeze from the Blackish Sea restores the land to vibrant growth, so that men can smile once again at all of the good green things that Glorious God pulls forth from the emerald earth.

On the feastday of Saint Ktêsiphôn, a mounted man swathed in muddy olive robes paused before the gate of a well-kept monastery. With the sigh of a man who has fi­nally reached journey's end, he banged twice with an iron-tipped staff on the great bronze doors. The afternoon sun illuminated a small wooden hatch that popped open in the adjoining wall.

“Who seeks entrance to Holy Svyatosláv?” a high-pitched voice asked.

The traveler pulled the hood back from his face, re­vealing a shaved head and a well-trimmed beard streaked with premature gray. A single bushy brow slashed across his forehead, topping a crook'd nose that showed signs of an old break. His eyes were framed by lines that smiled when he squinted.

“Father Arik Rufímovich,” he said, slapping a biting midge off his bare pate, “hieromonk and preceptor of the Order of Saint Mauros the Misplaced,
grammateus
[that is to say, secretary] to King Kyprianos
iii
(may he live forever!),
diangelos
[or go-between] to Pa­triarch Kyriôn
iv
(may he bathe forever in Christ's Holy Light!), who seeks present audience with the venerable Archimandrite Jován Csigály, Abbot-Bishop of Saint Svy­atosláv's Monastery.”

“Father Arik? Is that really you?”

The traveler sat up straight on his saddle and stretched his back, groaning just once.

“Why, that sounds like Brother Philêmôn of the Holy Flame,” Arik said.

“Why, bless my soul, I think I am!” came the re­sponse. “I mean, yes, of course I am! But,
but
, however did you know?”

“Just a lucky guess,” the traveler said, audibly yawning. “I wonder if you could let me in, Brother Phil? I'm very tired.”

“Oh my, oh my, of course, of course,
of
course!
Wherever are my manners, where have they gone? Oh dear, oh let me see, just a moment, just a moment, if you please.”

There was a rattle and a loud clang, followed by a distant thud and crash and bang and yell, echoing far into the distance.

The voyager dismounted, again stretching himself, but had to wait a bit longer before the massive entrance fi­nally swung open. A little man in a dark brown robe was standing just inside.

“Welcome to our simple home, kind sir. Enter into this place of God in well-deserved peace,” the monk said, rattling off the formula that he had memorized for the occa­sion. His hands were folded piously in front of him.

“My dear Brother Phil,” Arik said, coming forward and embracing his host, kissing him on both bewhiskered cheeks. “You're certainly a welcome sight. I'd appreciate a meal and a clean robe, if that's possible. I must say, the roads have been particularly foul these past few weeks.”

“Oh yes, oh yes indeedy, 'tis very true, very,
very
true,” the monk said. “I just think, I
really
think the One True God was trying to make up in one season what He forgot to give us during these past years. Why, I've never seen so much rain in all my born days. Here, let me take your horse, Father: I'll make sure that he's properly tended to. Oh,
oh!
I almost forgot. You must tell me all the new stories you've heard along the way, and all of your new adventures, oh yes, pretty-please, with sugar and dumplings on it!”

“In good time, my old friend, in very good time,” Arik said. “‘Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,' as the philosopher Barlévin says. I pray that you and all of the community have all been well.”

“Other than the troubles with the heathen-folk up north, we prosper very well, yes, we do,” came the response.

“I'm so glad to hear it,” the priest said. “Now, tell me how your plantings went last year. Weren't you cross­breeding several strains of gourds to increase their yield?”

“Well,
well
, of course,
of course
, but you know how
dry
it was back then, Father Arik,” the monk said. “I mean, I guess I told you that, didn't I?, but still, it was just, just terrible. Much,
much
too little rain to grow much with, that is, much of anything, really and truly. Oh, but,
but
, come to think of it, I did manage to seed one small crop by scratching out a ditch down from the Yaroslávets, not far from where it flows into the lake. Ho, ho,
ho
, I can tell you, father, I got some
verrry
interesting results with my progressive postminimal program for prop­agating
les
géants jolis verts
.”

“The what?” the priest asked. “You mean, the
big
ones?”

“Yes, yes,
yes!
You see, Father Arik, they suddenly got, well, they suddenly grew remarkably
huge
in just a couple of generations; and after that, well, after I'd cleaned them out a bit—they made good eatings—I was able to cook up the husks during the winter doldrums, so to speak, and dry them out completely, oh,
very
completely, and then I fashioned a few of the larger ones into musical instruments.”

“
You did
what?”
asked the traveler, eying his friend most curiously.

“Yes, yes,
well!
” Brother Phil smiled, clearly pleased with his inventiveness. “You know that we don't have all that much to do during the long winter months, the days being so short and all, and the visitations, well, they're just so utterly lacking, and so we have to do our very,
very
best to keep ourselves entertained, in addition to our constantly puissant purification and prayerfulness, of course....”

“Of course,” his friend said, shaking his head in wonderment.

“...‘Idleness being the devil's woodbin,' as Brother Mendevíll is very fond of saying. So, we pluck the harps and blow the gourds, and make some music without dischords.”

“Really?” the priest said.

“
Really and truly
, Father Arik. And, and,
mirabile dictu
, why, it's like a miracle, it's God's own hand at work, if I ever saw it, for I must tell you that several of our group of idle songsters and I are actually getting together later on this evening to practice our newest composition, a truly
truly
inspiring ode or hymn or paean to Saint Bogolén the Brewmeister, and I wanted to be the first of our com­pany to invite you to join our
soirée
petite
while you're still a resident here. Of course, many, many,
many
toasts will be offered in his memory, in addition to our celebratory music-making.”

“Of course, Brother Phil. But alas, my dear old friend,” Arik said, “oh, alas, that I have to see Abbot Jován urgently on business, and then just as quickly depart. If it weren't for that, well, you know that I'd join in.”

“Oh, I do, I do,
I do!
” Brother Phil said, eyes perfectly downcast. “Oh my, oh my, oh my gourds and swords. Well, well,
well
, then, I guess we'll just have to get along without you, as hard as that may be. Oh my prayers and hairs! Let's get you taken care of, then, eh, father?”

He led his companion into the main compound, where Arik was meticulously groomed and broomed in preparation for his presentation to the head of the Monastery of the Transubstantiation of the
Psychai Siôpêlai Agiou Sbiatoslabou
, which is to say, the Silent Souls of Saint Svyatosláv. The order had been founded nearly two hundred years earlier by a starving Saint Ézzard à Hagyma, who, having stumbled upon a sacred onion patch growing where none should have been found, just by the shore of the Työmny Lake, had acclaimed it a miracle of God Almighty that he should have been thus rescued from per­ishing at a time when all had seemed lost. Now, a dozen establishments of the order were scattered across northern Kórynthia, mostly in Zándrich, Trapézhia, Kúrskaya Kósa, Pustáya Boltoviyá, and Isaúria, with more planned for con­struction over the next two or three centuries—God willing!

Three hours after his arrival, Father Arik was fetched by Brother Milorád to the abbot's cozily appointed chamber overlooking the pebbly vistas of the great lake.

The Archimandrite Jován Csigály had been chosen abbot by the community some sixteen years earlier. A man of six-and-fifty years, he was thin and small, with neatly combed gray hair and a closely-cropped beard. Around his neck hung a pectoral cross studded with gems, and two gold-framed icons of Saint Gamaliêl and Iêsys the Christos. On the middle finger of his left hand he wore a curious ring of gold, cunningly wrought from five separate bands into a single intertwining unity, so that one could not tell how or why the pieces had been put together, or how they might be taken apart. His white woolen robe was fringed in red and emblazoned over the heart with the crimson Greek letter “psi” framed over a small black “sigma” nestled in its hol­low. He sat in an old, weathered rocking chair before a large open fireplace, his feet and lower legs shrouded with rugs, a cup of spiced wine steaming on the small table by his side. He started to rise when Arik was announced.

“Sit down, old friend, please sit still,” said the traveler. “I know how these cool spring evenings can pain your knees.”

He deposited his large frame on a stool to the ab­bot's left, warming his hands before the flames.

“Might you have another cup of whatever that is?”

“Brother Mílo,” the abbot called, “refreshments for our guest, please.”

A few moments later the monk appeared at the doorway with a steaming drink and a plate of cakes dripping with honey. Arik murmured his thanks.

The two men sat sipping their cups for some time, listening to the popping of the logs and watching in silence the eternal dance of the flames. Finally the visiting hi­eromonk broke the peace.

“It's good to be home again, Father Abbot,” he said. “I find in this place a tranquillity, a shuttered peace, that utterly eludes me at the Royal Palace or at the Cathe­dral of Saint Konstantín, or even in the
Megalê Scholê
.”

“Which is why you return each and every spring, like one of our migrating lake fowl,” the older man said.

“And every year,” Arik said, “my beard grows lighter and my brow darker.”

“Your visits,” Jován said, “remind me of the happy days before the war when you studied here. Such a little troublemaker you were then! But very, very bright, almost too bright for your own good, I think. So tell me, Father Arik, what's troubling you these days?”

“Responsibilities,” the traveler said, “cares and fears and rumors of war. Nothing you haven't heard, I imagine.”

Arik sipped again from his cup before continuing: “You know that our young King Kipriyán, having recently come into his manhood, is determined to finish what his father began.”

“So I'm led to believe,” the abbot said. “I hear that he's begun assembling an army at Myláßgorod.”

“Indeed,” the priest said. “He and King Ezzö are determined to oust the House of Walküre, whatever the cost. But it's the king's new minister, one Doctor Melan­thrix, who's actually been pushing him to take action.”

“I've heard naught of this,” Jován stated.

“It's a closely kept secret at court, although the word's gradually oozing out. But this Melanthrix charac­ter.... Despite my best efforts, abbot, I've been unable to determine who he is or where he's from. He just appeared from nowhere a few months ago, and drew the king into his hands like a spider enwebbing a fly.

“It happened like this. The king has been frustrated all winter in his attempts to organize a campaign against Pommerelia. He accused several of his generals of incom­petence and abruptly replaced them, to no effect. Just a month ago, Kipriyán presided over a banquet celebrating the arrival of spring. This dinner was attended, of course, by all the notables in the land.”

“Including yourself?”

“Including myself,” Arik said. “He had rather too much to drink, a common fraility in his family, and started raging about his inability to promulgate the war, and how he would either proceed forthwith, or suffer heads to roll.

“Afterwards, during an impromptu audience, he had this, this
creature
dragged in, flapping and frumping in his multi-colored robes. It seems that Melanthrix had recently been caught practicing the astrological arts, and the church wanted him burned as an example.”

The abbot snorted. “But this is very strange, Father. Of course, such laws do exist, but when has the church ever cared about their enforcement? Why, I can't recall the last time charges were actually brought against someone. Usu­ally, they just run the offenders out of town.”

“Well, Metropolitan Païsios encountered the man, they had words, and one thing led to another. He officially accused Melanthrix of paganism, and the good doctor then appealed to the throne, which was his right under the law, but which also took the matter out of the ecclesiastical courts.”

“Very canny of him,” the abbot said. “It almost seems to me that his actions were intended specifically to gain him a royal audience.”