The Dowager Queen Brisquayne, standing in the second row next to Princess Arizélla, spoke quietly into her ear.
“Where’s Teréza’s bier?” she asked.
The princess glanced quickly around, then spoke out of one corner of her mouth: “The synod’s divided over burying her in consecrated ground. Some of the old fussbudgets are calling her a suicide, and Timotheos isn’t willing to fight them until an election is held.”
“Don’t they understand she was mad with grief?” the queen whispered.
“All they know is that she was dancing bare-assed on top of the Tower of Glass, and then splattered herself all over the pavement down below, in full view of an impressionable little girl.” Arizélla shook her head slightly. “I expect they’ll bury her quietly up in Bolémia.”
“Well, I for one want to be there,” Brisquayne stated.
“So do I,” the princess agreed.
Someone behind them whispered “Shhhh!” although when Arizélla turned around, no one would catch her eye.
Afterwards, the congregation would normally have been led forward to view the bodies, but given the rather charred state of the Forellës, the Locum Tenens had decreed that all the caskets be left closed. Instead, the celebrants were paraded past a small memorial to all the dead, and asked to donate funds towards the construction of a much larger structure celebrating the deceased of Killingford. Over a thousand staters were collected that day.
Then all of the survivors trooped back to Tighrishály Palace, where a feast was held on the broad green lawn behind the structure. Everywhere signs of normalcy were displayed: a musical group, mounds of fresh food, servants, entertainers, and nervous laughter.
Princess Arizélla nudged Dowager Queen Brisquayne in the ribs.
“I should have stayed in Dnéprov,” she said. “Look at them, trying to pretend nothing has happened, while discontent breeds among the masses in the streets like maggots swarming in piles of offal. This is civilization?”
They saw Princess Ezzölla laughing uproariously at someone’s half-baked attempt at a joke. King Kipriyán was also smiling, clearly enjoying himself for the first time since Killingford. In his massive hand was a huge flagon of ale. Already he was flushed with good humor and alcohol.
“They’re like ghouls,” the princess continued, “feasting off the dead. Don’t they understand that tens of thousands have perished from their follies?”
Brisquayne’s mouth was a thin red line.
“They don’t want to remember, Élla,” she said. “They might have to deal with reality then. And they’ll be right back at it as soon as they can get another army together.”
The old queen snorted. “I’m afraid I find all of this somewhat distasteful. I wonder if two middle-aged ladies might have more fun dunking their feet in a muddy pond out back of my Tamásház, while sipping glasses of white wine.”
“I wonder,” Élla replied, suddenly grinning for the first time. This was like the old days.
They were just turning to leave together when the king spotted them, and came over, his face breaking into a smile.
“Cousine,” he yelled, “cousine, please stop.”
Kipriyán dragged Arizélla over to a small dais near the back of the Palace, and called for attention from the crowd.
Then he motioned to Gorázd Lord Aboéty, who pulled from his sleeve a rolled-up scroll. Unfolding the parchment, the Grand Vizier read:
“Kyprianos iii King of Kórynthia, Overlord of Pommerelia, Mährenia, Morënë, and Nisyria, doth hereby proclaim the following:
Whereas Humfried v King of Pommerelia did perish most bravely on the battlefield of the Schilling-Ford on the xviith day of June in this, his accession year;
And, Whereas his son and successor, King Norbert i, was foully captured by trickery and executed on the xxivth day of June in this, his accession year;
And, Whereas said Norbert left no other relations in the male line, but only a half-sister, whose rights of succession to the throne have been disallowed;
Therefore we, Kyprianos iii, do endorse the succession to the Throne of Pommerelia of the Princess Arizélla, eldest daughter of His Highness Kazimir, late Hereditary Prince of Pommerelia, and do acknowledge her as a fellow sovereign.
Given on the vth day of July in the xlist year of our reign.
Kyprianos Vasileus
“My lords and ladies,” he boomed in his commanding voice, “I give you Arizélla i, the new Queen of Pommerelia!”
There was some scattered applause and huzzahs from several quarters.
“Wait,” Arizélla sputtered, clearly not expecting this. “I....”
But before she could say anything else, Kipriyán embraced her with his bear hug, and kissed her soundly on both cheeks. Then he presented her once more to the multitude.
“Again, I give you Arizélla Queen of Pommerelia!” he roared.
He glared around at the party-goers, daring them not to clap. Slowly, carefully, the applause grew. Then the king motioned to the group of musicians to strike up La Marche Forellée, and led the new queen unwillingly around in a circle, almost like a dance, introducing her to this or that noble, or this or that widow thereof.
Queen Arizélla grew increasingly angry as the promenade continued, but felt trapped by circumstances. She caught Brisquayne’s eye at a distance, but the dowager queen just shrugged her shoulders. There was nothing she could do to help her friend.
The new monarch was forced to remain at the celebration for another two hours, smiling at and pandering to her newly-found supporters, and getting steadily drunker as the afternoon progressed.
At least some of the time was put to good use, she thought to herself.
Then, when she was good and soused, she managed very prettily to vomit the day’s leavings all over the elegant gown of some count’s wife, and daintily made her exit, still smiling.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“DO YOU ACCEPT THIS ELECTION?”
On the next morning, the Feast of Saint Monenna, the Holy Synod of the Church of Kórynthia met in solemn prayer in the Chapel of Saint Hyakinthos, an adjunct to the Cathedral of Saint Konstantín, to elect a successor to Avraäm iv, late Archbishop of Paltyrrha and Patriarch of All Kórynthia.
Only six members of the synod had survived Killingford: Timotheos, Metropolitan of Örtenburg and All Nördmark and Locum Tenens of Kórynthia; Mêtrophanês, Metropolitan of Aszkán and All Arrhénë; Konôn, Metropolitan of Sevyerovínsk and All Zándrich; Kyriakos, Metropolitan of Podébrad and All Westmark; Eudoxios, Metropolitan of Susafön and All Susaföniya; and Zôïlos, Archbishop of Veszprém and All Velyaminó. Bishop Varlaám sat with the Synod as a non-voting secretary.
Metropolitan Timotheos gave the simple invocation.
“Lord,” he said, “we pray to Thee most humbly, that Thou wilt give us a sign. Impart unto Thy humble servants Mêtrophanês, Timotheos, Konôn, Kyriakos, Eudoxios, and Zôïlos the wisdom and clarity to choose well the next shepherd of Thy flock. Amen.”
“Amen,” they repeated.
Then Archbishop Zôïlos nominated Metropolitan Mêtrophanês for patriarch, and Metropolitan Konôn proposed Metropolitan Timotheos. The Locum Tenens asked if there were any further nominations, and when he received none, directed that the election proceed, with Varlaám appointed to count the ballots.
Timotheos put six consecrated hosts into a bejeweled chalice, and covered it with its silken veil.
“Bishop Varlaám, please read the rule,” the Locum Tenens ordered.
Varlaám pulled out a small book, opened it about a third of the way through, and intoned:
“8.iv.α. To elect a Patriarch, each Psairothi Metropolitan shall vote by impressing the chosen symbol of his candidate upon one of the consecrated hosts in the covered chalice.
“8.iv.ß. The votes of two-thirds of the Holy Synod shall be necessary to validate an election, together with the acceptance of the duly-elected candidate.”<
br />
“Very well,” Timotheos stated. “You may begin.”
One by one the hierarchs came forward, knelt to the chalice and prayed, and then touched the receptacle with the ring of his index finger. Then each prayed again, and returned to his place.
When five votes had been cast, Timotheos himself came forward, and bowed in humble prayer. After letting forth an audible sigh, he also tapped the chalice.
Then Varlaám placed two smaller silver chalices next to the ornate gold one, and carefully and reverently held up each host to the light so that it could be seen by all before putting it in its proper place. Three of the hosts were marked with the fox of Mêtrophanês, and two with the owl of Timotheos; one was blank.
“We do not have an election,” the Locum Tenens intoned.
They then consumed the hosts, and returned to their cells.
Two hours later, before the midday meal, they balloted a second time. The result this time was two votes for Mêtrophanês and three for Timotheos, with one blank.
In early afternoon, they tried again, with the same result, and retired for two more hours.
During that interval of prayer and contemplation, the Metropolitan Konôn privily sought out his old friend.
“Arik Rufímovich,” he said, “I fear we are deadlocked, unless the sixth member of our group can be persuaded to vote. I know that the abstainer is you, and I understand why you do not want to be chosen on the basis of your own vote. I respect your humility, old friend, but I must tell you quite plainly that the future of the church is at stake. Avraäm wanted this, and a majority of the synod now desires it. You must make up the difference.”
Timotheos looked up at the icon of his patron, Saint Timotheos the disciple of Saint Paulos, tacked to the wall of his small cell, and crossed himself.
“Ah, Sávva Marínovich, we had good times together at Saint Svyatosláv’s, didn’t we?” Timotheos reminisced. “I would like very much to do as you request, but I can’t in good conscience promote my own ambitions, even if, as you say, the future of the Church is at stake. It is always at stake, no matter what we do. This is in God’s hands now. If it is His will that I assume this burden, then I will accept it. That is as much as I can do, my brother.”
An hour later the six returned to the chapel to conduct the fourth ballot. Varlaám’s resigned face tolled off the votes in order: “Mêtrophanês, Timotheos, Mêtrophanês, Timotheos, Timotheos.”
Then he pulled out the final ballot, and held it to the light. He stopped, and looked again. They all did. An owl was clearly impressed onto the center of the host.
“Timotheos!” he managed to blurt out. “The vote is four to two.”
The Locum Tenens sat there, stunned by the outcome. He had not voted! Metropolitan Mêtrophanês, senior among them, went through the ritual.
“Timotheos, Metropolitan of Örtenburg and All Nördmark,” he softly spoke, “you have been duly elected Patriarch of Paltyrrha and All Kórynthia by a lawful ballot of your peers. How say you: do you accept this election?”
Timotheos could not speak. His entire life had been leading him to this one crucial decision. Every fiber of his being was saying “No!” He absolutely did not want the responsibility of rebuilding the church during this period of devastation. So he forthrightly gave the synod his decision.
“Apodekhomai,” he said, “I accept.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“THRICE HOLY ART THOU”
The following morning, which was Sunday and the Feast of Saint Palladios, the Patriarch Timotheos iii was consecrated and enthroned at a solemn service held in Saint Konstantín’s Cathedral. Wearing only a homespun monk’s robe and rough sandals, the metropolitan prostrated himself face down before the altar of God, in a simple ritual that had not changed substantially in five hundred years.
“Arik Rufímovich,” Metropolitan Mêtrophanês intoned, “wilt thou accept this burden with an open heart and a fullness of faith?”
“I will,” he replied.
“Wilt thou be consecrated to the service of the Lord, and place no other wish before His?”
“I will,” came the response.
“Wilt thou preserve and increase His church, and defend it against all challenges, external and internal?”
“I will.”
“Remember, Arik Rufímovich, that thou art a man. Even as thou art given the power and the glory and the trappings of a king, so wilt thou be held accountable to a higher standard when thou meetest thy Maker. Dost thou accept this responsibility?”
“I do.”
Then the five surviving metropolitans laid their hands on the new patriarch, their combined rings flaring and overlaying one another with their auras, as the power surged through their hands. Each individual displayed a slightly different tint—pink, light blue, pale yellow, weak gray, yellow-green—but when they merged into the body of Timotheos, they became pure white.
“Thou art holy,” Mêtrophanês continued, “for thou representest the Father on earth.
“Thou art holy, for thou representest the Son on earth.
“Thou art holy, for thou representest the Spirit on earth.
“Thrice holy art thou. Therefore, do we consecrate thee to this sanctified office. Rise, oh patriarch!”
Then the five raised Timotheos to his feet, and began to dress him, first as a priest, then as a bishop, then as an archbishop, then as a metropolitan, and finally as patriarch.
The dean of the Holy Synod, the Metropolitan Mêtrophanês, placed upon their new leader’s right hand his golden ring of office, then turned to the congregation, and formally announced their new leader:
“Kos Kos Patriarkhês Timotheos!”
One by one the metropolitans made their submission in order of seniority, kissing the new patriarch’s ring, and they were followed by all of the attending clergy, including Father Athanasios, and then the secular world, represented by King Kipriyán and his family, and by the chief counselors of state.
Then the patriarch celebrated his first mass as leader of the church. All of the Psairothi present could see his body glow with joy as he raised the Body and Blood of our Lord Jesus Christ on high. Many of the celebrants wiped tears from their eyes as they accepted the bread and wine from his hands.
After mass, Patriarch Timotheos gave his special homily of inauguration.
“Most holy metropolitans, archbishops and bishops, most noble king, princes and princesses, my lords and ladies, people of Paltyrrha,” he began. “I come before you humbly as the new shepherd of the Church of Kórynthia. I am not worthy of this high honor, but I have accepted it with reluctance, knowing full well the arduous task that we face before us.
“My predecessor, the Patriarch Avraäm, blessèd be his name, was a great teacher and philosopher, an accomplished Psairothi who will be remembered long after the rest of us are gone. He once told me that the hardest thing for him about being patriarch was reminding himself each day why he was elected. It is far too easy, he said, to immerse oneself into the day-to-day details of running an administration, into the meetings with king and synod, into the ceremonials and pageantry of this holy office.
“‘I was not elected,’ he told me, ‘to do those things, however worthy they might be, but to minister to the people. Never forget,’ he added, ‘that the people are the church.’
“I shall try, my people, to learn from his saintly example. This is a time for reconciliation and rebuilding. Too long have we spent waging war on the nations around us. Too many innocent lives have been lost in our fruitless struggles to conquer other peoples. Let us come together. Let us mend our differences. Let us learn from the example of Jesus Christ to turn the other cheek. Let us love our brothers, whomever they may be. Let us....”
“Heretic! Traitor!” yelled King Kipriyán, pointing at the new patriarch. “He’s the Dark-Haired Man!” he shouted. “He’s a tool of the devil! He’s the Anti-Christ! Fake! Cæsarist!”
Patriarch Timotheos was taken aback by this outburst, but declined to respond. He blessed the congregation, trying to make himself heard over the king, and then turned his back and retreated to the sacristy, followed in order by the assembled metropolitans and churchmen.
A buzz of conversation swept through the cathedral:
“Appalling!”
“Madness!”
“Can this be true?”
Everyone was trying to observe the monarch and his family and what they would do.
Suddenly the Princess Arizélla was seen standing by herself just below the altar.
“How dare you!” she shouted, pointing her psai-ring right at the king. It glowed bright red. “How dare you accuse this holy priest of God! You’ve just slaughtered forty thousand men for no good reason than the furtherance of your own ambition. I’m ashamed to be accounted a Forellë. I’m ashamed to be connected to the House of Tighris. Someone in our family must finally say ‘no!’ to all this madness, to all this killing.
“I renounce my name. I renounce my house. I renounce you, Kipriyán the Cruel. I will spend the rest of my days begging God Almighty to forgive us for our hubris, trying to make restitution for what we have done to the poor people of Pommerelia. Go play your silly games, if you choose, but play them without me, o king.”
Then Arizélla disappeared into the crowd, and the king began shouting for his guards.
“Arrest her!” he screamed. “Stop that bitch!”
But the congregation surged into the aisles, and the guards could make no headway without violating the sanctity of the church.
By the time order was restored and the crowds began leaving, the princess was nowhere to be found.
The Archpriest Athanasios had been watching the entire scene from the sacristy with a growing sense of horror, and he immediately grabbed Arizélla, yanking her into a little-known side altar before she could be apprehended.
“Whatever possessed you?” he breathed, hurrying them both along a passageway. “He’ll kill you if he can.”
'Ware the Dark-Haired Man Page 6