Melanthrix the Mage (5 page)

CHAPTER FOUR

“I CAN DO AS I PLEASE”

Anno Domini 1205

Anno Juliani 845

The King of Pommerelia was drunk, drunk,
drunk!
, gloriously drunk and in love with himself and his destiny and his power!

This had been the happiest day of his thirty-eight years, and he was determined to relish every last moment of it. All about him the room glittered with promise, ev­erything pointed to his great and glamorous and ever-grasping future. Four walls might restrain this hall, he thought to himself, but they surely did not constrain him or his ambitions one little bit, not at all. He would show them,
he would show them all
, exactly what he was capable of, now that he had come into his own.

He glanced to his right, and took note of his idiot father, demanding mother, silly brother, insipid sons, and uglier daughter. All were unworthy of this, his great night. To his left, he noticed, his scrawny little wife gab­bled at her not-so-scrawny entourage, none of them making or having any more sense than a barnyard full of flighty fowl.
Squawk, squawk, squawk
, they jabbered,
cluck, cluck, cluck, blither, blather, bother.
Not worth a pail of warm horsepiss, any of them. And to think that
he
, His Royal Highness the Rightful King of Hinterpommern and Vor­pommern and All the Pommerns in Between, actually derived from such mis­erable stock. Well, they'd soon be cackling to another cho­rus, if he had his way.

He peered straight across the great hall at another longtable crawling with the hairy beasts who called them­selves the nobility of Kórynthia.
There
, just at the center, he could see the dreary old dog himself, balefully watching the proceedings with his all-seeing eye, and barking every so often at his pack of supercilious sons, who went running pall-mall to fetch his well-chewed bones.
Woof, woof, woof!
He had to lick their paws for now, oh, he understand that little fact all too well, but soon, yes, very soon, they would all be baying at the moon, would be howling a very differ­ent tune, and he would be the one leading the pack! A smile crossed his face as he contemplated exactly what he had in mind for the old king and his mangy hounds. A few leashes and lashes would do wonders for their dispositions, he knew.

A third longtable, ranging to his left, displayed to rather poor advantage Their Most Petit Sovereignties, the d-duke and d-d-duchess and d-d-d-daughters and all the d-d-d-d-dinky little lords of Mährenia the Minor-Pip-on-the-Map, a pimple of a state if there ever was one, whose “rulers” had presented themselves at this august gathering to set their seal on the “grand alliance” that would finally and forever finish the Walküre line. As if
they
could con­tribute anything worthwhile to the coming campaign, other than their toy soldiers and pipsqueak nobility.

Finally, there on the “right side” of the hall he could see the long, lazy line of the lords spiritual, all of them sitting up as straight on their seats as forbidden sins: the Thrice Holy Patriarch of Paltyrrha and All Kórynthia (ho hum, ho hum), together with his equally dreary metropolitans and archbishops and bishops and priestlings and protopresbyters and all that drivel, each of them damning this or prohibiting that, as if anyone ever listened to the old farts anyway. Gad, how stultifying that a man of
his
grace had to waste his valuable time bowing and praying and begging the help of these leeches upon the resources of the state. He'd like to put a few them out on the front lines and see how they'd fare when the Walküres started charg­ing them with their lances leveled at their gullivers. He giggled at the thought of that fat little sissy, Archbishop Sisíny, writhing on the spit of an enemy spear.

He intermittently noticed (without really noticing) the retainers and lesser nobles flitting in and about and be­hind his table like burly bumblebees, waiting for a chance to cross-pollinate their many masters and mistresses, and thereby harvest, they hoped, a little honey; but only for a moment, because such passing moments were all he seemed to possess on this fine inaugural day. Suddenly the huge, flapping banners celebrating the arms of state and church caught his bloodshot eyes with their vibrant, beckoning hues.

Oh glorious day
, he thought,
oh irreplaceable day, now slipping away!

Then his attention was diverted by the macaronic performers scattered around the alternating black-and-white tile squares at center stage: jugglers juggling, clowns cackling, scantily-draped dancers dipping (ripe for the plucking they were!), fire-eaters tossing their brands high and high and higher into the air (one of them missed and set his own hair aflame!), gymnasts swinging and jumping hither and yon and in between, singers awarbling their warbles (whatever
they
were), and
oh!
so many others, far, far too many for him to count or even comprehend in this, his wretchedly glorified estate of grace. Every so often they would exchange places, and he tried to renumber and remember them again, but it was all too much, just too confusing for whatever it was that was in his mind. He re­ally should stop them all, he thought, he really should order them to
cease and desist!
; but that would take too much en­ergy now, just to levitate from his throne into the air, yes it would, and he didn't really have anything left, after all the contemplation of his gloriosities.

Then he perked up again and tried to catch the eye of the pretty Mährenian princess perched just to the right of her royal father, but she kept her face and lips most duti­fully cast down.

“Lift up your bright ey'n,
ma
petite karlina
,” he muttered unto himself, “and I'll show you a few things about improving the relations between our houses.”

A pity she was promised to that Kórynthi bratwurst
, he mused.

That prompted an idea of such a lascivious nature that he laughed out loud, causing some of his family and retainers to eye him queerly.

“I can do as I please,” he shouted back at them. “I'm the king now. I
am!
”

The newly-minted Queen Pulkhériya, perched im­mediately to his left, began honking like a goose in re­sponse to the mimes mimicking their meaningless, mindless routines.

God's breath!
he thought.
She even eats like a fowl, pick-pick-picking at every little thing in front of her. No wonder her bosoms are so small.

He belched quite loudly and wiped his mouth on his greasy sleeve.

“More wine!” he yelled at the morons serving him. “More food!”

More power!
he shouted to himself.

None of them understood anything, but they would soon enough! A king had to rule or be ruled—he'd learned that by watching his father—and he was determined never, ever,
ever
to follow
that
particular example.

He raised up on his stool and farted a royal blast, and once again suffered the supreme enjoyment of seeing a look of disgust impress itself on his dear, dear wife's too-thin face. He turned to her, smiled, and deliberately stuck out his tongue, grinning even more when she turned her head away.

CHAPTER FIVE

“MIND YOUR MANNERS!”

Over at the Mährenian table Duchess Johanna caught King Humfried ogling her young daughter and shuddered, frowning in her distaste and disgust.

What boors these Forellës are
, she thought
. What­ever was Ferdy thinking when he made an alliance with these uncouth easterners?

She looked around the room, her mouth pursing with her displeasure.

And these furnishings: why, nothing matches any­thing else! In Zaragossa we could have taught these bar­barians a few lessons. Now, if
I
were running things....

She suddenly spotted something out of the corner of her eye, abruptly thrust her husband back in his seat, and leaned her firm bosoms right across his chest.

“Rosanna!” she hissed, “straighten up, girl! You're a Kürbis! Start acting like one!”

To her left her other daughter started giggling over her elder's misfortune.

“Quiet!” their mother said, killing them both with thunderbolts from her eyes. “Mind your man­ners!”

Duchess Johanna then looked across the room at the Kórynthi clergy, and frowned again.

But the worst thing
, she thought to herself,
is that we'll have to bow and scrape now before these heathen churchmen.
They
chant and coo all this Greekish lingo that none of us can understand, instead of good honest Roman­ish. Oh, dear Lord Almighty, how I wish that I was back again within the warm embrace of Andalusia, listening to the heated homilies of good Archquisitor Sylverio. Our Holy Roman Cæsar would know what to do with the
antipa­pistos.
He'd burn them all!

A tear rolled down her right cheek. She daintily and tastefully wiped it away with the linen nappy she al­ways carried in her sleeve. Thank Jehovah that she had had it changed for a new one just before leaving on this arduous journey.

Directly across the hall from her, Timotheos Metropolitan of Örtenburg spotted Johanna looking at Humfried, and slyly canted his head to one side.

“Athy,” he said softly over his shoulder, “who's that woman in blue near the center of the Mährenian table?”

Archpriest Athanasios, a man of some forty years, quickly stepped forward and squinted a little.

“I believe that's Duchess María Juana, called Jo­hanna, consort to Duke Ferdinand,” he whispered. “She hails originally from Zaragossa. Her father was Hereditary Prince Rómulo. If you recall, he's the one who was killed in that nasty jousting accident at the Saint-Boeuf Fair in Austrasia. Of course, some folks don't really believe that it
was
an accident. After his younger brother Pelayo suc­ceeded to the throne, ten or more years ago, he quickly packed Johanna off to Mährenia as Ferdinand's second wife. They say that the duke can't visit the garde-robe without her permission.”

“She doesn't seem too happy about the proceed­ings,” Timotheos said.

Athanasios laughed out loud.

“She has a reputation of not being happy about much of anything,” he said. “Rumor hath it that she vig­orously opposed the treaty of alliance between Mährenia and Kórynthia, mostly on religious grounds. She's a staunch cæsarist. Uncharacteristically, she failed to sway her husband's mind, despite several very loud and public at­tempts to do so; and thus she sits there pouting her displea­sure out for anyone to see. I suspect that old Ferdy will pay a fearful price for his wayward willfulness.”

Both men chuckled at the thought.

“What's your assessment of our new pretender?” Timotheos asked.

“Well, he's certainly a cheerful monarch, isn't he?” Athanasios said. “I'd say he's in particularly good spirits this evening.”

“Indeed,” the metropolitan agreed. “I wonder what our good King Kyprianos thinks of all this?”

But good King Kipriyán was troubled in his mind: everything was going well, rather too well, in fact. As he gazed around the room with his one good eye, he noticed Humfried guzzling another flagon of the Fontana brew and leering at the female guests.

Gad,
he sighed to himself,
the man is incorrigible. The damned Forellës always were insensitive louts.
We'll have to keep a tight rein on
that
one. Well, time to get the thing started.

He caught his eldest son's eye, and said “come hither” with a quick sideways jerk of his bushy head.

Arkadios, Hereditary Prince of Kórynthia and Duke of Paltyrrha, was just thirty years of age, but seemed older. His frame was slight and his stature middling. His face was illuminated by a pair of crystalline blue eyes, shining intensely with a keen intelligence that missed nothing. His light brown hair had a curl to it that kept flopping forward onto his brow, but that was the only untidy thing about him. His reddish-brown beard was cropped close to the skin, and contoured along the jawline, giving him a rakish look.

Kipriyán nodded to himself: he liked the face, and he admired the man within. Here was a prince who knew exactly who and what he was, and who accepted the idea with great good grace.

I have done this one thing well
, the king thought to himself.
If all else fails, I have at least sired a worthy heir
.

“Father?” Arkády whispered softly at the king's shoulder, startling the older man out of his reverie.

The prince shared his sire's distaste for the House of Forellë, but very carefully kept his opinions to himself. Humfried was, after all, his own first cousin, son of the Old Pretender Ezzö and Arkády's Aunt Teréza, and it was not the heir's place to challenge his king's policies. He lightly touched his father on the shoulder with his
psai
-ring, immediately establishing a practiced link.

We'd best begin the festivities,
Kipriyán thought to his son,
before yon kingling finds his way into Slumberland
.

The king flashed his son an image of a braying ass with Humfried's face.

Arkády choked down a laugh.

On my way, lord father
, he said psychically.

CHAPTER SIX

“TO SKIM WITH WINGS
THE PATH OF THE ÆTHER”

The prince carefully extricated himself from the group of servers and courtiers surrounding the monarch, and made his way down the left side of the longtable. Arkády was clothed in a striking white tunic enchequed with the crouching tiger from the Tighrishi coat of arms. 'Round his waist he sported a broad silver belt secured with an ornate buckle fashioned as a
tughra
swirl that, if held to the light, spelled with its shadow-cast the word “Tighris.” The strap itself was embellished with incuse lettering in the Hellenic tongue, reproducing the motto first writ down by Iôv the Magôteros, mage and saint: “
Psairein pterois oimon aitheros
,” which is to say, “to skim with wings the path of the æther.” These were the words, beyond “I believe,” “I love,” and “I serve,” that had shaped the entire course of his character, and that he followed faithfully until the very end of his days.

After stopping briefly to pay his respects to the an­cient patriarch, who gave the prince his blessing by kissing him on the forehead, Prince Arkadios entered into the realm of the Forellës. He heartily greeted the Old Pre­tender, former King Ezzö, a bearded man of some sixty years, and his consort, Countess Teréza, who had always treated Arkády with respect. He thought he caught some flicker of recognition in the old prince's eyes, but these days, one could never be too sure.

Their second son, the goateed Prince Adolphos, also embraced Arkády with genuine affection; for although poor Dolph never seemed to understand much more than the chase and the hunt, he was kind-hearted to a fault, and well liked by everyone at court.

Prince Pankratz, the new monarch's heir apparent, coldly bowed his head without comment, while Norbert or “Junior,” the second son, exuberantly saluted his cousin and kissed him on both cheeks.

Arkády noticed with amusement that “King” Hum­fried was much too absorbed in his own pleasure to rec­ognize the presence of his relative. He reached out and touched the latter's arm, sending him the mental message,
Cousin, it's time to begin.

The monarch started, pulling back his gaze from the crouching cat wavering on the opposite wall, which had been enchanting him by lunging back and forth at some mythical beast; and rather carefully pulled himself to his feet, adjusted his clothing, and brushed Arkády's hand loose from his shoulder.

“All right,” Humfried declaimed quite loudly, “
all right!
I heard you the first time. You can go back to your kennel now,
Cousin
.”

Arkády bit his lip and bowed very formally, quickly withdrawing while pointedly wiping his hand on his tunic.

“
Részeg!
” he muttered under his breath, “
Drunk!
”

Humfried ignored him.

“A toast,” shouted the new monarch over the racket. “A toast!”

As the multitudes began to quiet, he raised his gob­let.

“I give you Kipriyán the Conqueror, Savior of Kórynthia, Destroyer of the Heathens, Barbarian-Killer, King of Kings, Overlord of Pommerelia, Mährenia, Morënë, and Nisyria.”

“Kipriyán the Conqueror!” the throng resounded, as the ruler of that name rose from his seat, his right hand raised high, to receive the accolades of the assembled lords and ladies.

After bowing most graciously to the throngs, Kypri­anos
iii
raised his own cup in turn, and proposed a counter-toast to Humfried
v
, rightful King of Pommerelia, on this, his most noble day of investiture.

The great lords pounded their tables with fists and cups and whatever else they could lay a hand upon, creating a din that surely must have reached all the way to the gates of Heaven and Hell.

Further toasts were drunk to Avraäm
iv
, Thrice Holy Patriarch of Paltyrrha and All Kórynthia and Pom­merelia; to Ferdinand
viii
, Duke of Mährenia and Ptolemaïs and Lord of the Prüffenmark; to Ezzö
vi
, late King of Pommerelia and Count of Bolémia; and to many others be­sides, both present and absent, living and dead.

Then it was time for the real business of the day to commence.

Duke Ferdinand of Mährenia rose in his place and motioned with his arms for silence, even as the attendants continued to make their rounds, refilling all of the empty cups that they could find.

“I have the supreme honor,” he said most sonorously, “to announce an affiliation of family between the Ducal House of Kürbis and the Royal House of Tighris.

“With the sanction of King Kipriyán, and the ap­proval of the Royal Councils of Mährenia and Kórynthia, I do hereby declare the betrothal of my eldest daughter, the Hereditary Duchess Rosanna, to that most worthy Prince of Kórynthia, Nikolaí Kipriyánovich, Count of Arkádiya and second son to King Kipriyán. I further state that it is my intention that these two worthies shall eventually succeed me on the Amethyst Throne as King and Queen of Mähre­nia and Ptolemaïs.”

“They are worthy!” shouted the assembled noble­men, again banging their tables so that the very rafters shook loose their years of accumulated dust.

“Secondly,” said Ferdinand, continuing to wave his hands, motioning for silence, “secondly, it is my fur­ther intent that my next younger daughter, the Countess Rosalla, shall be betrothed this night to the exalted Prince of Pommerelia, Adolphos Count of Einwegflasche, second son to former King Ezzö Count of Bolémia. With the con­sent of King Humfried and King Kipriyán, I announce with the ut­most pleasure that this noble couple shall be awarded the restored sovereign Duchy of Nisyria on their wedding day.”

“
Axioi!
” the throng said. “They are worthy!”

Ferdinand said: “Let the newly betrothed come forward and be blessed by the Thrice Holy Patri­arch.”

From their respective places five individuals moved to center floor, the two couples linking arms and facing the Patriarch.

Then the octogenarian Avraäm raised his hands on high and said: “A man shall leave his father and mother and shall cleave unto his wife, and they shall be one flesh. He who finds a virtuous wife finds a good thing, sayeth the Lord. Her price is far above rubies. The heart of her hus­band does safely trust in her. Her husband is known in the gates, when he sits among the elders of the land. Strength and honor are her clothing. In her tongue is the law of kindness. She looks well to the ways of her house­hold, and eats not the bread of idleness. Her children rise up and call her blessèd. Favor is deceitful and beauty is vain, but a woman who fears the Lord, she shall be praised. Give her the fruits of her hands, and let her own works praise her in the gates.

“Therefore do I sanctify the promises that are fear­fully and wonderfully made here today. O Lord, seal these oaths upon the true hearts of Thy children. Make their love as strong as death itself. Let every day that they live give praise to Him that created us. Let the Three Lands rejoice in fes­tivity. Amen.”

“Amen,” said the throng, clearly delighted with the spectacle, and the two sets of promised pairs and the Patriarch re­turned to their seats amid the cheers of their compatriots, shaking still more dust down from above.