'Ware the Dark-Haired Man

by Robert Reginald

  “Oh, yes, Auntie Rhie,” the girl replied. “I had lots of fun there.”

  “Did you mention her name to anyone?” her aunt continued.

  “I told Ouisa,” Rÿna ventured. “I tell her every­thing.”

  “Who’s Ouisa?” the queen inquired.

  “Would you like to meet her?” the little girl chirped. “I’ll go get her.”

  Grigorÿna rushed off and came back a few moments later, dragging the rag doll in one hand.

  “This is Lady Louisa Doroféa,” Rÿna exclaimed, forcing the doll to bow. “She’s the Vasílyissa of Pargamón.”

  “Where’s that, Rÿna?” asked Brisquayne.

  “Oh, somewhere far away to the east, I think,” the girl stated. “I’m not too sure.”

  “May I see her?” the queen insisted.

  When the princess handed the doll over, Brisquayne centered herself on her psai-ring, and suddenly dived into the eyes of the image. The rags twisted in her closed hands, trying to escape the probe, but the queen held on tightly. She was relentless in her pursuit, chasing the thing ’round and ’round the interior of the doll’s head, until there was an audible “squawk” and rip, and out popped a small, coal black toad.

  It jumped before anyone could react, then leapt again, heading right under a low table. Arrhiána tried to move the furniture away, but Brisquayne stopped her.

  “You’ll never catch it,” the queen sighed. “It’s gone already. Once you lose sight of the bloody things, they’re impossible to find again. It’s already gone back to its master.”

  “What was it?” Rhie asked.

  “A little bit of nastiness from the east,” Brisquayne noted, smiling slightly. “They call them ifrits. Think of them as minor dæmons, and you’d be close enough. Some­times, if you know just how, you can catch one and bind it to yourself and make it your slave. That’s what this was: someone else’s pet. I think we can all guess whose. And there was something further, Rhie.”

  She picked up Louisa, who had fallen to the floor during their minor drama. The queen held the doll face-up on her palm, so they could see the two shining, emerald crystals sewn as eyes onto its forehead. She ignited a flame on the rings of her left hand, breathed the word “árnyék,” and then reached with her five fingers into the space be­tween the two “eyes,” pulling out of the doll’s head a larger third one. It was dark green and pulsing, like the heart of a chameleon, and it looked alive.

  Brisquayne threw it to the floor, uttered the word “halál,” and crushed it beneath her foot. Arrhiána thought she heard a thin scream fading into the distance.

  “Something different?” Arrhiána inquired.

  “‘Different’ is the right word to use,” the queen agreed. “They call them xixiegui yanjing, and they come from the land of the yellow men, a long, long ways to the east. There are two different agencies at work here, Rhie.”

  “Spies spying on the spies, eh?” Arrhiána com­mented.

  “It rather looks that way,” Brisquayne said.

  “But what about Ouisa?” Rÿna cried.

  “She’s just fine,” her aunt stated, handing the doll back to her. “She was just a little sick, that’s all, and now she’s all better again.”

  “Can I go play now?” the little girl asked.

  “Of course you can,” Arrhiána allowed.

  When Rÿna had left, the princess posed another question.

  “Is there any way of tracing these ‘things’ back to their starting points?”

  “There probably is,” the queen indicated, “but it’s way beyond my knowledge or abilities.”

  “Could there be more around?” her granddaughter asked.

  “Possibly,” Brisquayne nodded. “I’ll check her other toys over the next few days. But this kind of thing is insidious. Whoever put these little trinkets here could eas­ily withdraw them, leaving no trace, and then reinsert them somewhere else when our guard is down again. There are supposed to be stringent rules that forbid the cross-use of magical elements from other traditions, but enforcement is often lax. These things are surprisingly easy to come by if you know where to ask for them. There’s a marketplace in Kharrákh....”

  The door suddenly popped open, and the steward appeared.

  “Very sorry, highness,” he intoned, “a visitor to see you.”

  “Who is it, Mögh?” Arrhiána asked.

  “Some personage named Élla. That is all she would say, highness,” he stated, clearly displeased, “together with some minor cleric called Athanasios.”

  “Show them in, Mögh,” the princess ordered, trying to keep from laughing.

  “Very good, mistress,” he responded. “The Lady Élla, the Archpriest Athanasios,” he announced, then with­drew.

  “Arizélla!” Arrhiána exclaimed, rising from her chair and embracing her cousin.

  “Dearest Rhie, you haven’t changed a bit,” Élla replied. “Too damn many Ari’s in this family to keep them all straight. Arizélla, Arrhiána, Arión, even my cousin, Ariélle. And she had a daughter named Arilándra, now gone, alas.”

  She glanced into the corner.

  “My God, is that you, Quayne? Haven’t seen you in years. Put on a few pounds, huh? Well, haven’t we all?”

  “Élla, thank the Lord some folks never change,” the old woman replied. “You’re always a breath of fresh air in this dusty old palace of ours. Now just come over here and give me a kiss.”

  They hugged each other like the old friends they were, and then drew back a little.

  “What brings you to these parts?” the queen in­quired. “I’d heard you’d become a kind of hermit some­where.”

  “Well, I was!, too,” Élla said, “until that blasted priest rousted me out. Said I had to come back.”

  “Who?” Brisquayne asked.

  “Him!” Arizélla pointed to the doorway, where Athanasios was standing.

  “Good morrow, ladies,” he stated, bowing low. “I’m sorry to intrude.”

  “Oh, come on in, little priest,” Élla blurted out. “He’s just the most delightful humbug you ever did see, ladies. We had a great time in Dnéprov.”

  She raised her eyes suggestively.

  Father Athanasios blushed bright red. “I, uh...,” he mumbled.

  For the first time in a great many years, he had ab­solutely no idea of what to say.

  “Why, father,” the Princess Arrhiána said, totally amused at his discomfiture, “am I to understand that you....”

  “No, of course not!” he exclaimed, more hurriedly than he needed to. “There was never any....”

  “Any what?” asked Brisquayne, chuckling to her­self, keeping the game going.

  “I, uh,” he mumbled, looking miserably back and forth at all three women. “I really don’t know,” he finally admitted.

  “That’s pretty obvious,” the queen noted. “You must be a remarkable man, Father Athanasios, to get Élla to do something she didn’t really want to do. Why, the last person to accomplish that little trick was....”

  “Just never you mind, Quayne!” Arizélla snapped. “Not a word!”

  “Oh, all right,” Brisquayne agreed. “But I don’t think Rhie has heard that story.”

  “And she won’t, either,” Élla emphasized.

  “So, why are you here?” the queen continued.

  Arrhiána caught Élla’s eye and shook her head.

  “It appears I’m not allowed to say,” Arizélla said.

  “That bad, huh?” Brisquayne commented. “Well, it must have something to do with the war. Things must be going very poorly indeed to bring you all the way back to Paltyrrha, when you obviously didn’t want to come. Someone must have died. I know, I’m not supposed to say anything, and I won’t. I’m just an old gossip, you know. By the way, Élla, did you know Princess Mösza when she was at court?”

  “Mösza? Now that’s a name I haven’t heard in a long, long time,” Arizélla noted. “No, I didn’t know her except in passing. I was about thi
rteen when she disap­peared. I think Dowager Hereditary Princess Zubayda felt sorry for me after Papá was killed. A month or two later, when the funerals were over and we were getting ready to go back home, Zee told me I could go through Mösza’s things and pick out whatever I wanted from her wardrobe, but only if I’d take them to Dnéprov with me. There was also some jewelry, a couple of miniatures, things like that. I just helped myself. I asked Zee when Mösza was coming home, and got a one-word response: ‘Never!’ She wouldn’t say why, wouldn’t even talk about her after that.”

  “Do you know why she left court?” Father Athana­sios interjected.

  The woman looked at him in great surprise.

  “Not really,” Élla responded slowly. “I wasn’t that close to her. After all, she was a grown woman, and I was still a girl. I don’t even know for sure when she left. The last time I saw her was in May, when some of the women­folk went to Kórynthály for a fête sponsored by Zubayda. King Makáry and his sons were there, but Papá and Grand­papá were in Pommerelia. I remember that Mösza had had too much wine to drink, and she was laughing and carrying on with some of the men. Being only thirteen, I was fasci­nated with it all, of course. It’s strange. Al­though I stayed in Paltyrrha till fall, I never saw her in public again.”

  “Well, ladies,” Father Athanasios said, “I probably should get back to the abbey.” He bowed. “It’s been a pleasure.”

  “I expect it was,” Brisquayne agreed.

  The women all laughed. Athanasios just grimaced, and then departed.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “KILL HER, BEZARDUARDAKUS!”

  Late that evening, Mösza confronted the ifrit in her home in the Jabal Khaibár. The creature now had the ap­pearance of a hunch­backed little man about a foot in height. Its skin was black and covered with small bumps and pro­trusions. Its ebon hair was wound ’round its head into a turban-shaped mass, and held in place by two stubby horns, also black.

  “Mithrethth,” it lisped in its high, squeaky voice, bowing very low, “Bezarduardakuth hath failed.”

  “So it would appear,” Mösza agreed. “How did this happen?”

  “The witch Brithquayne,” it responded. “Thomehow the woman knew.”

  “Yesss,” she mused, “Brisquayne. She’s becoming a real nuisance, my little friend.”

  Then she turned back again to the ifrit. “You know the price of failure?” she asked.

  “Not my fault, mithtrethth!” the creature whined. “Merthy,” it pleaded, raising two little clawed hands in supplication.

  “You’re very fortunate that I’ve had a good day to­day,” Mösza stated. “Verry lucky. So, you want another chance, do you? Oh, all right.” She idly waved her hand. “Kill Brisquayne.”

  “Mithtrethth,” the miniature beast squeaked, “it ith forbidden.”

  The woman said nothing in reply, but walked over to a shelf. There she looked at the receptacles carefully, and chose one that had a little red pip in it. It was stop­pered with a lead seal embossed with the sigil of Solomon. This container she carried over to her work table, where a large candle was standing. She lit the wick with the ring on her finger, and began roasting the ifrit’s heart over the flame. She hummed a little ditty as she worked: “Alas, my love....”

  “Wait!” the creature screamed.

  Mösza looked around, but did not move her hand even an iota.

  “Bezarduardakuth will do it!” the ifrit squealed.

  She waited a half-moment more before finally re­moving the flask from the candle flame.

  “A little singed, perhaps, but still beating, eh?” she smiled. “I’m really glad we had this heart-to-heart. It’s just too bad that the course of true love never did run straight. Still, how nice that even a creature as debased as yourself can see the sweet light of reason. Why, it’s enough to give a poor woman hope. Perhaps I’ll even meet an honest man one day.”

  She put the container back in its place on the shelf, and muttered a few words.

  “There, nice and safe again,” she crooned. “We wouldn’t want our things disturbed, now, would we? Kill her, Bezarduardakus! Please do it soon.”

  “Yeth, mithtrethth,” the thing said, touching its head to the table. With an audible “pop,” it vanished.

  “Now, where are my sweetums?” she murmured, looking about the room. “Doggiewogs! Would my little doggums like some treaties?”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “ANY OLD FOOL CAN BECOME A KING”

  The next morning, on the Feast of Saints Peter and Paul, King Kipriyán and his two sons, with Lord Gorázd, Melanthrix, and Siméon, together with their bodyguards and en­tourage, rode out from Castle Karkára into Westmark in Kórynthia. After several weeks of unremitting heat and hu­midity, the weather had finally eased. The skies were overcast, and a light drizzle was falling as they exited the Szamár Gate.

  They continued down the Gálla Pass all morning, finally reaching the plain around midday. The sun now ap­peared from behind feathery clouds, but the air remained cool and clear, a refreshing change from Pommerelia’s sti­fling heat.

  “It’s good to be back on our own soil again,” Prince Kiríll noted.

  The road was broad and well-kept, marked at regu­lar intervals with granite milestones.

  For the first time since Killingford, the king showed some in­terest in his surroundings.

  “Prince Mikíta had a summer retreat near here,” he muttered, seemingly to no one.

  “Indeed, majesty,” Prince Arkády responded, “did you ever stay there?”

  “In my youth,” Kipriyán stated. “Great-Uncle Vík­tor brought me here every summer after Papá died, until I came of age.” He sighed. “Then....”

  He was silent again for several hours.

  When they came within sight of the great ecclesias­tical city of Podébrad later in the afternoon, he bestirred himself once more.

  “While Víktor was alive, he ruled this place as a di­rect fief of the crown,” Kipriyán noted. “All of Westmark was his. He never wanted to be Regent of Kórynthia, and he returned here whenever he could. I remember that he sat me down once right across from him, not long before I attained my majority, and looked me straight in the eye.

  “‘Kyp,’ Víktor said, ‘any old fool can become a king. It’s just an accident of birth. This is especially true in your case. Don’t ever forget that God passed over sev­eral of your kin to pick you instead. You’re special. And it’s a great responsibility that He’s given you. Every time you make a decision, you affect someone else’s life. God will hold you accountable for that.

  “‘Your grandmother and I have done the best we could for you, but in the end, you have to make your own decisions. Not all of them will be easy, and you’ll have your share of mistakes. You’ll learn to live with those, or they’ll eat you up from the inside out. I’m not proud of everything I’ve done as Regent, but at least I can say that I haven’t sent too many men to their deaths. Maybe God will forgive me my other errors. You’re young, my boy, you’ll have a long reign. When you get to the end of it, I hope you can still look at yourself in the mirror. I hope you can forgive yourself.’”

  Then he began to cry. Arkády and Kiríll looked at each other in bewilderment, but when Melanthrix started to move his horse closer, Arkády shooed him back with a sweep of his hand.

  Later than evening they transited back to Paltyrrha.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “YOU’RE LEGALLY REGENT”

  The last day of June was a Sunday, the Feast of Saint Iórikos. The appearance of the royal family at the mass held at tritê in Saint Konstantín’s Cathedral was a cause célèbre in Paltyrrha, for only a handful of individuals had been aware of their return. The absence of the Princes Nikolaí and Zakháry and the Forellës was noted by the more astute, as was the presence of Princess Arizélla, and the haggard appearance of the king was considered a matter of great concern by the surviving elder statesmen. When the rising buzz of conversation threatened to d
isrupt the cele­bration of the Eucharist, the Hereditary Prince stepped for­ward and begged forgiveness of the Locum Tenens for this breach of etiquette.

  “My lords and ladies,” he intoned, “do not allow any words of disrespect to be voiced here in this holy place, lest ye be judged by a Higher Authority. The king will preside at a formal session of court in the morning, and will make an announcement at that time. Now, please, allow Metropolitan Timotheos to resume the service uninter­rupted.”

  This was sufficient to quiet most of the talk, and the mass continued. In his homily, the acting head of the church of Kórynthia spoke to the parable of the prodigal son, and how good it was for long-absent members of the flock to be welcomed back into the fold once again. His meaning was not lost on King Kipriyán, who glared back at him from where he was standing in the front row.

  After the service was completed, scores of the no­bility crowded around the royal family, looking for news of their sons and brothers and husbands, but Prince Arkády again begged for silence, and put off any responses until the following morning. Then, with the permission of the metropolitan, the prince quickly ushered his family back through the sacristy, and into the alcove there, and they used the viridaurum to transit to the palace.

  The king was bundled off to a well-deserved rest in his apartments, where Polyxena was waiting for him, while Arkády and Kiríll conferred with Princess-Regent Arrhiána.

  “Who’s stationed at Katonaí Field?” Arkády in­quired.

  “The Velyaminóli Brigade arrived last week, and we held them there pending further orders,” Arrhiána re­sponded.

  “Since you’re legally regent until tomorrow morn­ing, when the king officially resumes the throne,” the prince continued, “I would suggest that you send an order to the commander at Katonaí, putting him on full alert, just in case the news is not what the crowd in Paltyrrha is ex­pecting. They may decide to do something about it, and I don’t think either of us would like to see a riot erupt.

  “Kir,” he ordered, turning to his brother, “tomorrow I’d like you to position yourself at court so that you can ride quickly to Katonaí and take command of the Velyaminólis, if necessary.”