Melanthrix the Mage (22 page)

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

“WHO? WHO?”

Later that same afternoon, King Kipriyán took his honored guest, Duke Ferdinand, hunting east of Kórynthály in the Börzsö Forest, a large, well-stocked game preserve maintained exclusively for members of the Royal House of Tighris. Accompanying them were King Humfried and his sons, the Princes Pankratz and Norbert, the Hereditary Prince Arkády and his brothers, the Princes Nikolaí, Kiríll, and Zakháry, Gorázd Lord Aboéty, Lord Feognóst, and numerous retainers.

The day was brisk as they rode out, and the hunters wore heavy, double-woven woolen cloaks over sturdy leather hunting jerkins and breeches to protect themselves from the chill. The king looked especially regal astride his favorite black stallion, Marauder. The spirited steed plunged and reared, but Kipriyán kept firm control. He was a master horseman, and he took great pride and plea­sure in showing off his skills to his cohorts.

Angry, dark clouds in the east threatened rain as the party entered the woods, and an invigorating breeze scented with pine and damp earth fanned their cheeks, which were reddened from the cold. Silver flasks of strong, searing liqueur were passed about, and there was an air of
cama­raderie
and good humor amongst the group, now that the negotiations concerning the alliance had been settled to ev­eryone's satisfaction, everyone, that is, if King Humfried's wishes were discounted.

Because the hour was late, the king had arranged for a line of beaters to drive the animals through the trees to­wards the hunters. They waited impatiently for the game to come to them, armed with bows and lances, a few hundred yards inside the southern edge of the preserve. The neces­sity for silence kept the conversation low and desultory. Not long after they took up their station, a light rain began to fall, slowly soaking through the umbrella of leaves to drop onto their cloaks and gear. A mist began to rise in the underbrush.

A crashing could be heard in the distance, moving closer, ever closer, and the king held up his hand in warn­ing. The men notched arrows into their bows, ready to let fly as soon as something—anything—moved. Suddenly, two panic-stricken does jumped right at them, seemingly from nowhere, snorting vapor out their twin nostrils like miniature dragons, their wild, white-rimmed eyes rolling here, there, desperately seeking a sanctuary which did not exist.

The snick of bowstrings and whir of arrows filled the air. One of the deer crashed to the ground, mortally wounded, blood gushing from its mouth. The second, however, miraculously managed to escape its supposedly inevitable death, and was soon lost in the brush.

“Damnation!” Kipriyán said. “Missed that one.”

The servants dragged the bleeding corpse away from the scene of its demise while the men reloaded. The rolling fog had thickened now, reminding the king of the great Åvarswood, where he and three hundred of his men had been cut off and trapped by the barbarians some fifteen years before. That had been as close as he had ever know­ingly come to death, save for the attack on Marysday. The great, moss-wrapped trees and oozing, impenetrable mist had hidden the enemy until they were right in their midst. Then it had been every man for himself, in a swirling ca­cophony of thrust and parry, using the huge trunks as allies to guard one's back. Just sixteen of the rangers who had started out that day to scout their way north had survived the ten-mile trek back to their main force. He wouldn't make
that
mistake again.

All at once three more deer were upon them, leap­ing through and over the underbrush and around the great boles of the evergreens. One doe went down immediately, bristling with arrows, kicking out spasmodically in her final agony. Her companion, a large buck, dark as a horse and sporting ten points at least, took a shaft deep in the muscle of its left shoulder, then swerved to avoid Humfried's mount. The beast stumbled over a root as it turned, and drove its lethal antlers right into the belly of Kipriyán's steed, one prong catching the king's left leg in the calf. The com­bined
ménagerie à trois
crashed to the ground in an unruly heap, breaking Kipriyán's right leg cleanly below the knee.

Nikolaí promptly spurred his frightened mount for­ward and drove his lance into the beast's heart, killing it in­stantly. Arkády leaped from his saddle, quickly drew his dagger, and slashed Marauder's throat to stop his convul­sive kicks from further injuring the king. In his mind, he blessed the noble stallion who had served his father for so long and so well.

Sleep soundly, old warrior
, he breathed,
sleep for­ever in peace
.

Together, he and Nikolaí carefully eased the inter­twined carcasses back from the monarch's legs, holding them as still as possible to prevent further injury. Bless­edly, the king had lost con­sciousness from the pain.

“Kir,” Arkády said, “ride to Kórynthály and alert Jánisar. Zack, summon the beaters. We'll need help carrying father back to the wagons.”

To Nikolaí, he said, “Here, help me stabilize his energy. Why did this have to happen now?”

Overhead, a lone white owl watched the proceedings dispassionately from his aerie, one eye thoughtfully closed, knowing full well that the humans below were too preoccu­pied with their own petty concerns to bother with his.

“Who?” he asked. “Who?” he repeated again. But no one bothered to reply.

CHAPTER FIFTY

“HE MUST TELL
ME WHAT HE DID”

In the wee hours of the morning, Prince Arkády was wakened from a sound sleep by a pounding on his door. As he tried to wipe the night haze from his eyes, his ser­vant quietly approached his bed.

“Highness?” he said. “I'm sorry to disturb you, but....”

“Thank you, Tyrvón,” the prince said, “tell them I'll be there in a moment.”

Arkády quickly pulled on a tunic over his night clothes, trying not to disturb Dúra, and hurried to the vestibule of his apartment. An obviously frightened officer stood there, his greatcloak dark from the rain.

“Captain Kérés, sir,” the soldier said, saluting. “I'm in charge of the detachment at Kórynthály.”

“What's happened, captain?” the prince asked.

“Uh, I didn't know what to do, sir,” the officer said, ducking his head and shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “You see, one of my boys reported a disturbance in the tombs, and when I checked what was going on, well, I saw the king there.”

“The king!” Arkády blurted out.

“Yes, sir,” Kérés said. “I was as surprised as you are, sir, but the king's the king, and it's not for me to say, now, is it? But when I saw him crying and carrying on and such, and talking to someone who wasn't there, well, I thought I'd better tell you right away. I mean, I'd thought you'd like to know, sir, seeing as how he was in­jured today and all.”

He cleared his throat nervously before continuing.

“Of course, sir, if you just want me to ignore this....”

“You did exactly right, captain, and I won't forget the service you've done me tonight,” Arkády said, lost in thought. “We'll need Fra Jánisar and...no, belay that! Tyrvón, ask one of the ladies to fetch Princess Arrhi­ána, and have her meet me in the transit chamber down the hall. Captain, you're with me.”

He strode off with Kérés in his wake.

A few moments later the trio emerged at Saint Ióv's Church in Kórynthály, and exited out the back door onto a boulevard that extended well into the distance, lined on ei­ther side with the stately tombs of the Tighrishi. All three carried a torch, for the moon was now hidden completely behind clouds that dribbled down a constant haze of light mist. Everything glistened with the wet, reflecting back a myriad of small points, as if a thousand eyes were watching them avidly from the dark. Far down the avenue Arkády could see the flicker of a single light. He had a pretty good idea of where they were going.

The newer mausolea were located at the end of the
Boulevard des Tombeaux Tighrises
, and it was there that they found King Kipriyán, prostrated before the great mon­ument to his father. In the flickering light of their torches Arkády could see the inscription etched in Greek onto the marble façade:

“
Makarios
Vasileus Kôrynthias
”

“
Father!
” said Princess Arrhiána, concern etched in every syllable, “whatever are you doing here? You're soaked right through. You were badly hurt today. You should be in bed recovering your strength. You'll catch your death.”

Slowly the old monarch crawled unsteadily to his feet, using the tomb as a prop. Pain lined his face as he turned to face them.

“I, I must talk to him. I have to know. He must tell me what he did. He knows.”

“Knows what, father?” Arkády asked.

“He knows about the Dark-Haired Man,” Kipriyán said, looking wildly around in all directions. “So does Grandmamá. He did something naughty during the war, but I can't tell you what it was, oh no. And Grand­mamá, she and Great-Uncle Víktor told me about it after­wards, and they said they had taken care of it, but that I'd have to watch myself all the time, have to watch for the Dark-Haired Man. I've been a good little boy, haven't I? I've been very, very careful, just like Grandmamá said. But they didn't tell me
where
to look, and so I have to know what they did.
I have to know!
”

His eyes suddenly went very wide.

“Father...,” Arrhiána said.

Arkády motioned silence with his left hand, slightly jerking his head back at Kérés, who was standing respect­fully to one side.

“Captain,” he said, “please wait for us in the church.”

“Yes, sir,” was the muted reply, and the soldier trotted back down the avenue.

“Father,” Arkády said, sighing deeply, “does this have anything to do with Aunt Mösza or her visions?”

“
Ayyy!
” Kipriyán said, shrinking back along the face of the tomb.

He made the witch sign with the fingers of his right hand.

“That bitch! That ingrate! She was never anything but trouble.”

Then he seemed to regain some of his composure.

“What did she do, father?” Arrhiána asked.

He leaned heavily against the stone fronting of the monument.

“I was told that she dabbled in arcane lore, that she refused to marry the man she was promised to, and, finally, during the great war, that she killed someone for no good reason. They banished her from Kórynthia forever on pain of death. Good riddance, as far as I'm concerned. Grandmamá wouldn't even talk about her after she left.”

Kipriyán lurched to one side, favoring his left leg, and nearly fell; Arkády immediately leant him a shoulder.

“Oh, God, I don't know what I'm doing here, son,” he said. “I had to get out of that tomb, and this seemed like the only place to go. You know, I'll be in­terred here soon enough myself, sleeping with the rats.”

“Oh, father!” Arrhiána said, “don't say such things.”

“Daughter, I can feel the world closing in on me.”

The king wiped his hand across his eyes, clearing away the mist dripping from his bushy brows.

“Everywhere around me are plots and counterplots. I know there's someone behind all of this. I can sense it in my heart. My father could tell me, if he were here. My grandmother knew. But I was too young. And now he's coming after me. Is it not written, ‘The gods visit the sins of the father upon the children'?”

“Come, father, it's time to go home,” Arrhiána said. “Come with us and we'll take you back to the warmth of your own hearth and family.”

She tugged on his arm.

Like an old, bedraggled sheepdog, limping and damp, the king docilely followed her back down the boule­vard to the church, where Kérés was waiting for them.

“Take him back through and get him settled down, Rhie, if you please,” Arkády said, before turning to his other problem.

“Captain,” he said, “I'm afraid I'm going to have to tamper with your recollection a bit. You under­stand why.”

“Yes, sir, of course, sir, that's no trouble, sir,” the soldier said, eager to please his master.

“All you have to do is relax, Kérés,” the prince said. “Just relax and allow me to touch your forehead, here.”

After several moments' work, Arkády saluted the guard officer.

“Good work, captain,” the prince said. “I don't see any sign of the intruders now, but I do appreciate being in­formed about the situation, and I'll see that you get a com­mendation for your initiative. We can't have any of the tombs being defaced, now, can we?”

“No, sir!” Kérés said, saluting in return.

“Carry on,” the prince ordered, and returned to Paltyrrha.

But in the darkness among the tombs another pres­ence strolled down the broad avenue of the dead, looking neither right nor left, but stopping at the same place where Kipriyán had briefly rested. One hand reached out to trace the name cut into the cold stone facing, leaving a faint glow behind.

“Makáry!”
came the faint cry.

“Makáry!”
the surrounding tombs echoed back.

But to the question or to its reply, nothing was ren­dered, nothing set by.

EPILOGUE

“WHO ARE THEY
OFFERING ME THIS TIME?”

Anno Domini 1241

Anno Juliani 881

Queen
Grigorÿna looked up from her desk and said, “Yes?”

“I
'm very sorry to disturb you, Your Majesty,” the Majordomo Baron Kornik said, “but the delegation from Polonia is here. What are your instructions?”

“Concerning the usual business, I presume,” she said. “Who are they offering me this time?”

“Prince Iwán, I believe—although I don't really know that for a fact,” he said.

“King Amorek's second son, eh? Well, at least we seem to be moving up the list. They must be desperate.”

“The Polonians would very much like to annex Kórynthia to their realm. It would give them access to the Southern Sea.”

“Indeed,” the monarch said. “Well, of course, we would also like to add Polonia to our realm. Perhaps I should tell them that. No, on further consideration, you can inform our dear northern friends that we are highly insulted—even scandalized—to be offered only a
second
son, and not the heir to the throne himself; and that therefore we will
not
meet with them until the offer is appropriate to our station and rank.

“Now, is there anything else?”

“Minister Donatos would like a moment of your time later this afternoon, if that's possible, Madam,” Kornik said.

She glanced over at a notepad filled with nearly indecipherable scribblings. “Yes, we can see him just before afternoon Prayers. Please pass along the message. Now, you may leave us.”

“Yes, Majesty,” and he bowed out of the small room.

Grigorÿna sighed as he closed the door after him. She'd only been Queen for three years, but already the burden seemed almost unbearable at times. And always there was that lingering question, permeating every discussion, every briefing, every Council meeting. She had to keep stringing them along until it was too late to turn back.

She returned to the manuscript that she'd been reviewing, her unfinished history of the Great War. If only she'd had her father's wisdom, or even her grandfather's—well, at least up until the.... There was just so much about the period that she didn't remember and couldn't know. After all, she'd only been a child of eight then. Most of the principals were gone now, and those that weren't rarely wanted to discuss what had happened to them during that awful year. Some horrors simply can't be resurrected.

This
was her life's work, not the day-to-day matters of state, however important they might be. Those who forgot history were doomed to relive it, over and over again; and she was determined to record the events of the war exactly as they occurred, whether or not they reflected well on her forebears. This particular conflict must not be fought again. Not ever.

But what to do about Killingford? That was the real problem: how to relate the events of the greatest battle ever fought in Eastern Nova Europa fairly and succinctly, without bias to either side—although there was enough blame left lying on that blood-stained field to spatter the souls of everyone involved, even those whose motives had been relatively pure, like her father.

She hesitated to take the next step, because of the risks involved. Not that she was afraid for herself, oh no. The Queen Grigorÿna had lived a very long life during her short, four decades of existence, and had seen too much of real evil to be frightened of mere death. She shuddered even now at the thought of the more tainted members of her own family, several of whom she had herself planted among the royal crypts—or in special places even further removed from the world of man.

No, the problem, as always, came back once again to the matter at hand. At this time, and in this place, there was no one yet groomed to succeed her, although the number of would-be candidates seemed to proliferate almost daily. She had someone in mind, of course, but still....

Well, sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.

She would have to try the “Working of Recollection” if she wanted to get the details right about Killingford. It was so very important, both to her and to history (she believed), to do this one thing correctly, to preserve the story of those events so that others would never have to walk those killing fields themselves.

But even to attempt the spell was risking the loss of one's persona. She needed knowledge, and she needed help.

And suddenly she knew just where to get them!