Melanthrix the Mage (6 page)

CHAPTER SEVEN

“GUARDS! GUARDS!”

King Kipriyán then rose from his seat and motioned for silence.

“Let it be proclaimed before the world,” he said, “that on this day the Kings of Kórynthia, Pommere­lia, and Mährenia did pledge their joint honor to regain that which is theirs, and that to this end we shall proceed to­gether against Barnim Duke of Walküre and all who sup­port him, whatever the cost.”

Prince Arkády handed his father a decorated vellum scroll dangling with official seals, which the monarch un­folded and read in his loud, commanding voice:

“Kyprianos
iii
King of Kórynthia, Overlord of Pommerelia, Mährenia, Morënë, and Nisyria, unto Barnim
iii
Duke of Walküre and Pretender of Pommerelia.

“Sirrah!

“It has come to our attention that you have failed to render proper homage unto your overlord in Kórynthia. Therefore do we charge you forthwith to proceed to our city of Paltyrrha no later than the first day of May next, and together with your sons and grandsons and noble fiefs make proper obeisance and submission to your lawful king; failing which, we shall take such steps as may be necessary to ensure your fealty, and shall....”

His words were cut short by a flash that seemed to come from nowhere. For a moment Kipriyán stood absolutely still, a look of great astonishment coming over his face. Then his hand dropped the parchment into the bowl of soup on the table before him, and he abruptly sat back into his chair, gazing down in wonderment at the crossbow bolt jutting straight out from his chest, a bright crimson stain spreading quickly across the front of his best tunic. One of the Mährenian princesses—the pretty one—suddenly screamed as if her world were ending, a long, high, tremulous falsetto that seemed never to end; and some­one—one of the Forellës, perhaps—began shouting, “Guards! Guards!”

Prince Arkády cried out urgently for the king's physician, then placed his hand on his father's brow, trying to send him strength through their psychic link. After­wards, everyone marveled at how fast the joy of celebration had turned to utter horror.

Fra Jánisar Cantárian, physician to the court of Kórynthály, came running to the longtable, his bag of im­plements flapping at his side. With the help of the king's sons, he brushed aside enough dinnerware to have fed a hundred men for ten years, letting the exquisite pieces smash into oblivion on the hard tiles beneath. They carefully lifted the wounded man onto the empty table.

“Quickly,” Jánisar said, “cut away his tunic, here and here, and someone save these medals. My prince,” he shouted at Arkády, “I need your help and that of your siblings. Call them and link their rings to yours immediately.”

Even as he spoke, he was plunging his right hand into the entry wound, probing the damage with his mind to see what had to be done to save the king's life. The wreck­age was appallingly severe, with the right lung deeply pen­etrated and one vein nearly severed. Somewhere a woman was sobbing inconsolably.

“Shut her up,” he said, “or get her out of here.”

The jingle of armor could be heard as the King's Guards poured into the room, searching for the instigator of the attack.

Fra Jánisar bumped into the ungainly figure of Doctor Melanthrix trying to see past him.

“Get back, you dog,” he said. “Give us room to work.”

Then to Arkády: “My lord, are you ready? Good! Link to me now and give me your power, so.”

He showed the prince mentally what he wanted him to do.

Then Fra Jánisar breathed a prayer of supplication to Saint Panteleêmôn the Physician and tugged the bolt backwards, carefully sealing off the damaged sections with his
iatrodaktylios
, or healing ring. Bit by bit the arrow was retracted, and slowly but certainly the doctor used the en­ergy of the princes to assist with the operation. The bolt was hot to the touch by the time it dropped loose upon the floor.

“Stay within the link,” he said. “The king has leaked much of his fluid, and I must augment it with your young life force.”

He again drew on the combined mental vigor of the royals to siphon some of their vitality into Kipriyán's de­pleted body, using his own mind as a conduit. They were strong, he knew, and they wouldn't miss what they had given.

“He will live,” Jánisar finally announced to the re­lieved multitude, and a series of subdued cheers swept to the outer reaches of the crowd.

A moment later the king's eyelids fluttered and he regained consciousness. His voice was weak but alert.

“Did they catch him, Arkásha?” he gasped.

Prince Arkády roused himself from his stupor.

“Let me check, father,” he said.

Sergeant Éfron Poliodór was already standing by with a report.

“No one has been found, Sire,” he said. “But the search continues.”

“Very well,” the king said. “Order a council meeting for tomorrow morning, Arkásha, with all reports to be made by then. I'll attend if I can. In the meantime, let the festivities continue in my absence. You will preside. I can do no more.”

He closed his eyes in weariness and slid into darkness, and for the first time in his life Arkády could picture his father as an old man. The thought shook his very soul to the core, but quickly faded. The prince or­dered the ser­vants to bear the monarch to his chambers. As they carted the king away, Arkády could hear Kipriyán thanking Jánisar for saving his life.

“Sergeant Poliodór!” the prince said.

When the man appeared, Arkády ordered: “You will search this room and its annexes again and again until something or someone is found. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sire,” was the guard's frightened response.

“All guests are to be screened by high-level Psairothi as they leave; any who refuse to submit will be stripped and searched manually, no matter their rank. See to it.”

“At once, Highness,” he said, and sped off, toss­ing orders left and right to his harried men.

Prince Arkády banged his fist on the table where his father had lain, and when every eye was upon him, said: “Honored guests of Tighrishály, noble princes and metropolitans. My beloved father and I deeply regret the insidious attack that has disrupted our festivities tonight. By the grace of God, good King Kipriyán has been spared. He wishes that these entertainments should continue. I therefore ask that you return to your places; and when you retire later this evening, that you graciously submit your persons to an examination, so that we may uncover this would-be assassin, if he should still be hiding among us. Now let us bow our heads for a moment and thank the good Saints Konstantín and Vasíly for saving the life of our noble king.”

The crowd clasped their hands together, while Patri­arch Avraäm led them in a prayer of thanksgiving. The prince then motioned to the tunesmiths crouching in one corner.

“Music!” he commanded, and soon the strains of “Redsleeves” were filling the hall. Servers again began making their rounds, refilling the empty goblets and cups with their prime vintages.

But the atmosphere had become strained, even when the jugglers and their compatriots began making their way again to the center of the cross-hatched floor. Not even a rousing rendition of “The Magic Tale of Harvanger and Yolande” could force more than an occasional smile from the celebrants. Instead, everyone was talking, talking,
talking
about the events of the evening, and what they might portend for the future; and they all agreed that the signs were not so good in that regard.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“MELANTHRIX
ASTROLOGOS
!”

For the newly-minted Humfried
v
, King of Pom­merelia, Hinterpomerania, Schreckenhorn, Scopus, Grau­denz, Zirrhose, Champerick, Nippsachen, Düngerbrötchen,
et cetera
,
et cetera
,
et cetera
(long may he reign!), who just that morning had been invested with spur and sword at Saint Konstantín's by the Patriarch and couped with the
colée
by King Kyprianos himself, the day that had begun with such promise, veritably the happiest of his life, had now ended in total disaster. As the midnight hour ap­proached, he continued to empty goblet after goblet, and sank further and further into despair. Surrounding him he could only see bad feelings and evil prospects.

Ruined!
, he shouted to himself,
ruined, ruined, ru­ined, the enterprise is ruined!

He had to do something, he knew, he had to find
some
way to counter the downturned faces he saw peering back at him.

Then he spied the spidery form of Doctor Melan­thrix out of the corner of his eye, and he remembered something he had heard once about how the old sooth­sayer had saved King Kipriyán from disaster near the beginning of his reign by prophesying that monarch's great deeds to come, and how everything that he had spoken then had ac­tually come true. Could lightning indeed strike twice? In his besotted introspection and despair, it seemed to him the only possible solution to his problem.

So Humfried called out in his most noble, his most regal voice, “Melanthrix
Astrologos
! Stop!”

Doctor Melanthrix jumped when his name was called, swiveling almost in mid-stride.

“Whatever do you want?” the philosopher asked in his soft but penetrating voice.

When confronted with the soothsayer's piercing blue eyes, the pretender suddenly lost his train of thought. It was all he could do to avoid stumbling over his own tongue. He wanted to do nothing more at this point than run away, but he managed to concentrate very, very hard on performing this one task, not wishing to look the fool before the hordes of nobles crowding the great hall.

“Tell us of the year to come, good sirrah. Tell us of our future glories. Tell us of the great victories that we shall celebrate here in this very room a year hence.”

“You do not know what you ask,” the astrologer said. “'Tis the turning of the night. There are things abroad in the æther which must compel the truth. You do not want that truth.”

But King Humfried would not be dissuaded.

“Good, good, good!” he cried out, grasping at any possibility to save face. “Tell us about everything that you see in
our
grand future....”

“This is the wine speaking,” said the mage. “Go to bed and leave Doctor Melanthrix in peace.”

But the king continued without interruption, as if he had heard nothing.

“...Tell us about how the Walküres have tried to murder King Kipriyán. Tell us how Barnim the Pretender shall finally be destroyed.”

His loud remarks were now gathering the attention of others in the assemblage, who were watching the ex­change and even urging him on, for most believed the Walküri monarch responsible for the unprovoked attack that they had just witnessed.

Melanthrix pointed one long alabaster finger at Humfried, freezing the king's heart.

“This is neither the time nor the place,” he said.

“I, King Humfried, fifth of that name, I order you to give us your true prophecy,” came the reply.

But Melanthrix deliberately turned his back on the pretender and strode away, only to be stopped by a guard.

“What?” the philosopher said.

“Very sorry, sir, king's orders, sir. You'll have to be searched, sir,” the man said.

“Searched?
Melanthrix?
Melanthrix reports only to the king,” he said.

But the crowd was growing angry at the mage's in­solence, and began taking up the insistent cry of: “Prophecy, prophecy,
pro-phe-cy
.”

The soothsayer looked around the room, more than a little frightened now for his safety, and muttered to him­self: “Fools. You are all fools.”

Then he shook himself free, moved to center floor, drew up his robes with whatever dignity he yet retained, and abruptly swept his hand around his head in a grand cir­cular gesture.

The princes and nobles quickly settled down to watch, as Melanthrix made a second sweep of his arm over his head. The hundreds of candles illuminating the hall be­gan going out in the exact sequence of the movement of his right hand, as if a curtain was being drawn across the inside of the room, until the darkness was complete.

Everyone gasped as a cold green flame sprouted from the sorcerer's head, forming a sort of halo that bathed the multitude in a flickering, almost sickly, emerald hue. From his right index fin­ger a bright red lance of light stabbed into the night, tracing the outline of a huge ruby triangle hanging high over center floor. Within that bound­ary vague images began to swirl and form, coalescing sud­denly into a panoply of rolling green hills. Over them came running the images of three young women, their faces turned away from the audience, being hounded like wild foxes by a pack of dogs accompanied by the hunt of armed men on horseback.

Doctor Melanthrix then began speaking in a flat, emotionless monotone:

“Three demoiselles do I see

Up and down the hills they flee

Chased around the wedding tree—

Kings and knaves and Forellës three.”

“What does he mean?” someone asked.

The crowds suddenly gasped as they heard the flut­ter of wings in the air, although they could see nothing un­til three great black birds emerged from the triangle and flew over their heads, sending gusts of wind everywhere.

“Three Forellës do I see

Caw, caw, cawing in a tree

All fly up, but none go free

Who can 'scape his destiny?”

Something dark and formless reached out from the triangle and grabbed the birds one by one, hauling them squawking back into the depths from whence they had come. Then the triangle cleared, so that it appeared as if one were looking at the southern approach of the Great Kings' Road to the city of Paltyrrha, flanked on either side by the large stone sculptures of the ancient Tighrishi kings.

“Three Tighrishi do I see

One is cloaked in infamy

One is crowned in great glory

One a king no more shall be.”

But an earthquake seemed to strike the triangle, shaking the statues to the ground with an audible roar, top­pling them one against another and shattering each and ev­ery one. The crowd cried out in collective dismay. A lone sculpture remained intact, and as it revolved on its axis, they suddenly saw displayed the image of Barnim King of Pommerelia.

“Three Walküri do I see

One is what he seems to be

Two shall find eternity

One shall stop the anarchy.”

Barnim's mouth gaped wide, issuing a miniature an­gel that quickly grew in size. The heavenly messenger pulled from his robes a board for playing
les échecs
, and set upon it the stylized images of the Patriarch of Kórynthia and the Archquisitor of Pommerelia facing each other, one dressed in black and the other in white. Separating them was the small image of a monk clothed in dark green robes, a man with two faces who gazed in opposite directions si­multaneously.

“Three archbishops do I see

Two struck down in agony

One shall perish peacefully

Checkmated eternally.”

Then the triangle vanished, and the bright green flame rose straight up from Melanthrix's head to the rafters high above, illuminating everyone in the room, and his voice rose correspondingly to a high, excited pitch.

“'Ware the Knave who cannot see

'Ware the Queen who would be free

'Ware the King, uncrown'd is he

'Ware the Demoiselles, all three!

'Ware the Dark-Haired Man to be

'Ware the Dead Man's prophecy.”

The magical torch was abruptly extinguished, leav­ing the crowd blinded by the dark, and when the candles were finally relit, Melanthrix was gone, nor could any trace be found of the man until the following day.

Prince Arkády then dismissed the banquet, and all went off to their rooms, buzzing and whispering and seething over the visions that they had experienced so un­comfortably that night; nor could any of them, not a one, find the rest that they sought, but tossed and heaved and shook in their beds like a yacht buffeted by the rolling waves of some great storm, never to find safe anchorage in this world, never to sail home again unscathed.