It seemed to the old king that the face of the Archangel Gabriêl began transforming before him, changing to the image of his daughter Sachette as a woman-girl of thirteen years.
He tried to turn his eyes away, tried to shout a universal “No!,” but the angels gave him no mercy, forcing him back to the searing icons of his memory. He saw himself kissing the girl and stroking her, and he remembered, oh yes, reveling in the excitement of tasting forbidden fruit, and then, oh God, then, as she suddenly realized that something was terribly, horribly wrong with her dear Papá, he recalled the girl dashing from him in terror, and running headlong into the stone pillar, knocking herself unconscious. And when she woke, oh Kipriyán the Conqueror, aye, when she awoke, her world had become a world of eternal blackness, a blackness that he alone had smeared all over her delicate soul. His loathing for himself reached new heights.
“He has put aside the cares of this world,” the patriarch continued, “he has need of them no more. Therefore, Kyprianos von Tighris, we take from thee thy riches, for they mean nothing in the Kingdom of Heaven.”
A monk removed the belt of diamonds from atop the ex-king’s living body.
And Kipriyán remembered the field of grotesquely charred corpses that was Killingford, recalled the destruction that he had caused, the widows he had created, the houses he had rendered extinct, the tens of thousands of accusing souls now pointing their fingers at him (he could see them, every one, hovering just behind the spirits of the angels of God!), and all to satisfy his own hunger, nay, his lust for power. Oh, he remembered every little detail, all right!
“We take from thee thy titles and thy honors, for thou art mere clay before the Majesty of God.”
The emblazoned cloth-of-gold was removed.
Then the ex-king recalled what his grandmother and his great-uncle had done in his name, and what they had told him, and what he now knew to be true, that he had never, ever been the consecrated King of Kórynthia, but had only sat in the place of another who had been unjustly deprived, and he blasphemed, oh, he squirmed, and “sister” Mösza called to his soul from the depths of Hell itself, saying, “Come to me, my brother, yes, come to me in the Pit of Demons.”
“We take from thee thy sight, thy breath, and thy speech, for thou dost not need them in Heaven.”
The Thrice Holy Timotheos traced the sign of the cross in chrism on the former king’s forehead, nose, and lips, burning him with the holy oil.
Ayyyy!, he cried to himself. And Kipriyán the ex-king, he who was surnamed the Conqueror, knew the bitterness of what he had become and whom he had wronged, and how he had used them all, every one, to further his own ambition, and he raged, yes, he raged at the restraints, because, he knew, if freed, by perdition’s gates, he knew he would do it all over again!
I defy you, God, Kipriyán yelled into his gag. I defy you all!
“And we take from thee thy power, for it is not thine to keep, but belongs to another.”
The patriarch closed his eyes and placed his left hand on Kipriyán’s breast and the right on the sword, and then a glow began to engulf them both, running quickly through the spectrum of colors. Timotheos’s face changed and briefly assumed the form of ancient Tighris’s, and then the light swept down the ex-king’s body, draining from it through Tighris-Timotheos into the Great Sword just beyond.
There was a collective sigh from everyone in the Church. It was over. Job’s Complaint sounded one plaintive lament as the family sadly filed out through the great bronze doors.
But it wasn’t over yet. As they brought the bound body of the old king out into the sunlight, and released his gag, he began cursing the patriarch and his own family in such a foul and filthy way that everyone there turned their backs on him, and said to themselves, and publicly averred, that nevermore would this be, that he was now as dead to their hearts as he had become to himself.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
“HE WAS NO LONGER A CHILD”
That afternoon, for the first time in many months, the Metropolitan Athanasios found his way back to Land’s End in the maze at the heart of the Hanging Garden of Queen Landizábel. The air was warm and still, the skies clear. The weather mages had been busily at work during the preceding week to make certain that the girding of King Arkády with the sword would proceed without difficulty on the morrow. Tucked under the priest’s arm was the folder containing the results of his family research.
This annus horribilis was finally, mercifully winding to a close. The year that had seen so many deaths, as well as the deposition of a king and the passing of a revered patriarch, was about to become history.
He looked back upon the past twelve months with almost a sense of amazement. So many friends gone, so many new ones made, his carefree existence vanished, and new responsibilities added. And, finally, a possible ending to his quest for himself and his origins.
Athanasios sat down on the stone bench under the queen’s statue and opened the folder, spreading his work around him.
What did he really know? he thought to himself. What could be inferred?
His mother, the Princess Mösza, had been with child during the year 1164, as a generation of handsome young Kórynthi soldiers was marching off to another, earlier war in Pommerelia. Then had come the disaster at Dürkheim—how familiar this sounded!—and the news of the deaths of King Makáry and his two eldest sons, both without surviving heirs.
The third son, the young Prince Kyprianos, had been made king under the joint regency of his grandmother, Dowager Hereditary Princess Zubayda, and his great-uncle, the Prince-Bishop Víktor, until he had come of age some five years later.
Princess Mösza’s condition had then been uncovered by the regents—it could scarcely be hidden—and she had been packed off to the Emir of Tôrtous, where she had borne a male child, Maksím. The boy had been taken from her several years later by Arik Rufímovich (now the Patriarch Timotheos), while in the service of the state, and then deposited at Saint Svyatosláv’s Monastery, where he had been given the name Afanásy.
This much was certain.
But why? Why keep everything so secret? Plenty of illegitimate Tighrishi had been sent to the abbey or the convent, without so much as a comment being expressed by anyone in the royal family. What made the difference in his case?
It had to have something to do with his father. He reviewed his original list of soldiers from the Gardes Élites, and decided that the only two who might have mattered were Prince Néstor or King Karlomán, the elder two sons of King Makáry. If Mösza had had an incestuous relationship with one of these boys, her nephews, who were only a few years removed from her in age, then any male offspring of this couple, illegitimate or not, would have had a claim to the throne of Kórynthia in advance of King Kipriyán’s.
He re-examined the evidence of the torcs. The only names from this short list that matched the symbols he had seen on his torc was that of Néstor, then Hereditary Prince of Kórynthia, and his wife, who would have been the logical recipient of Néstor’s memorial. Athanasios tried to recall what he remembered of the fate of Princess Diávola. She had suffered an accident of some kind, of that he was certain, a fall perhaps, or something else very unusual.
He sighed. The only way that Mösza could have gotten the memorial meant for Diávola was to dispose of her rival for Néstor’s affections. Perhaps that was the real reason for her exile.
And had Athanasios been acknowledged at that time by the palace, then the priest would have been declared the true king of Kórynthia, not King Kipriyán, his uncle. He shook his head in sorrow. All of this—the great war, the deaths of so many men, the deposition of the king—had occurred because of one woman’s pride and fear and desire for revenge. Her anger had eaten out her insides, and left nothing but a shell of hate behind. She had never even been willing to acknowledge her son directly, although she had carefully positioned herself, in the guise of Doctor Melanthrix, to nurture his career and ta
ke her vengeance upon the man who sat in the place her son should have occupied.
The priest felt suddenly nauseated. He had never desired such a role in life, in fact would now find it utterly abhorrent to his existence. He had neither the temperament nor the patience to rule a kingdom, and he was wise enough to know that much about himself. Even now, he feared being inadequate in his new role of administrator of a major archdiocese. He would do the best that he could, but he was no Timotheos.
He gazed into the serene eyes of Queen Landizábel, and he realized that his real father, by any measurement that could be made in life, was Arik Rufímovich, he who had taken the boy Afanásy by the hand, and who had kept him from straying down the path that Mösza had wandered. Arik had watched over him, nourished him, cherished him, given him advice, showed him the way, had spent time with him whenever the boy needed it, even when the soldier-monk had had very little latitude of his own. Arik had been his father and the Church his mother, and Athanasios felt no regret at the thought. He had been blessed by God as few in the world ever have been.
The hieromonk picked up his papers, and put them back in the folder. He had no need for such things now. He was no longer a child, and so he should put away the conceits of a child. It was time to be about his father’s business.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
“I WILL NOT REVEAL THY MYSTERIES TO THINE ENEMIES”
I have raised a monument more enduring than one of brass, and loftier than the pyramids of kings; a monument which shall not be destroyed by the consuming rain, nor by the mad rage of the north wind, nor by the countless years and flight of ages.
—Horace
Anno Domini 1206
Anno Juliani 846
On the first day of January, which was also the Feast of the Blessèd Virgin Mary the Mother of God, the city of Paltyrrha and the citizens of Kórynthia celebrated the installation of a new king. New Year’s Day had long been the traditional date for the girding of the monarch at the Church of Saint Ióv in Kórynthály, and it also marked the official beginning of the annointed one’s reign.
The day dawned clear and warm in Paltyrrha. For weeks the mages had labored to produce the mild temperatures and cloudless skies that greeted the multitudes that morning. This was the first such girding in some four decades, and the crowds looked forward to it with great anticipation.
The King-to-Be was roused an hour before dawn, and escorted to the traditional milk bath to purify his body and soul for the events to come. No food or drink had passed his lips since the previous day.
Four of his family and friends had been chosen to shield him in all his innocence, unprotected as he was from outside influences. These included the Princes Kiríll and Andruin, Metropolitan Athanasios, and Mailhoc Hereditary Lord Vydór, eldest son of the grand vizier. It was their privilege to become the King-to-Be’s moving guard.
Athanasios donned the red tunic studded with rubraura that signified his role as Hagios Kônstantinos, who takes precedence over his three brethren in the killijálay as patron saint of the House of Tighris. They took their stations surrounding King Arkadios—Kiríll in flavaurum-touched gold as Holy Petros in the front, Andruin in viridaurum-flavored green as Holy Andreas in the rear, Mailhoc in albaurum-sprinkled white as Holy Ignatios to the left, and the metropolitan to the right—and began synchronizing their psai-rings.
This technique required a great deal of training to master, and was generally practiced only by those adepts of a certain age of life, from the years of fifteen to forty-five. Before that time one’s control was insufficient to maintain a link for long, but the process used up so much energy if sustained for any length of time that only the relatively young had the stamina to continue the protection beyond a short period.
“Prôtos,” Athanasios said, setting his controls in place.
“Deuteros,” replied Kiríll, linking his psychic energy with the first.
“Tritos,” added Andruin.
“Tetartos,” said Mailhoc.
Now came the difficult part. The King-to-Be, as the one being protected, had to center the magical hood over himself: “Hê-nô-me-nos,” he breathed, a syllable at a time, as he gathered together the four strands of their souls one by one and wove them into a single unit. A faint, milky-white shadow suddenly popped into the air above them.
The King-to-Be’s servants now covered his frame in a simple, lightly-woven white linen tunic and shalvar, overlaid by a white woolen zuban coat, its only decoration an embroidered Tighrishi tiger etched in ochre. A black silk sash was wrapped tightly about his waist, the fringed ends hanging free to the left. Finally, they brought in the pure white leather stivalia and harness and fitted them to the monarch with silver clasps. A comb was run quickly through his unruly hair. He looked at each of them somberly and nodded. They were ready.
They proceeded very deliberately through the corridors of Tighrishály Palace, moving at a steady, even pace so they would not lose contact with each other. Although they could in theory have maintained the link for a distance of about ten paces apart, the closer they were to each other and the more regular the spacing maintained, the easier it was for each to keep focused on his task. They had all practised this very delicate balancing act for many weeks.
At the entrance awaited the great carriage of state, all gilded in gold and lapis lazuli and drawn by four matched pairs of white Ras ash-Shamra stallions, with postilions astride the near four. The steeds snorted and stamped their feet, tossing foam with each swing of their heads in anticipation of their activity.
As was his privilege, Athanasios preceded the King-to-Be into the carriage and out the other door, there to perch precariously on the step. Mailhoc took a like position on the left, Kiríll mounted the driver’s box, and Andruin the rear of the carriage.
And then they were off!, moving down the Avenue du Saint-Constantine to Paltyrrha-by-the-River, where the barge was waiting.
The superbly fitted white caïque was decorated in ochre and black encrusted with gold, topped by a raised canopy of scarlet velvet embroidered with Tighrishi tigers, and fringed with golden tassels positioned to act as their swinging tails. Great Arkadios took his seat upon the golden throne, sitting straight and stolid and silent; below and beside him his shadows flanked the King-to-Be on all four quarters.
As they moved upriver one could hear the “swish-swish” of the twenty-eight massive oars as they pulled through the brown waters of the River Paltyrrh, the beat of the master’s drum providing an almost hypnotic accompaniment to the barge’s sensuous glide. Following them in procession were other craft containing the Hereditary Prince-to-Be, Queen Dúra, Princess Arrhiána, Princess Sachette, Queen Ezzölla of Pommerelia, the lesser adjuncts of the House of Tighris, and all of the high lords of state and their retinues.
The air was scented with perfumes from the flowers especially grown for the occasion. As they passed near the Quai de Saint-Basile, the Royal Guard stood rigidly at attention, bared kiliçs held smartly in their right hands in salute to their liege and master. The huzzahs of the sailors lining the decks of the multitude of small boats and barges moored on both sides of the Paltyrrh River resounded again and again over the water, echoing off the walls and buildings on either side.
Some five miles upriver the procession of boats docked at the Quai de l’Amirauté, where the Padishah Arkády alighted with his escort and was welcomed by a band of trumpeters, their bronze instruments flashing in the light of the morning sun as they blew a glorious fanfare of exaltation.
There awaited the king’s favorite steed, a black stallion called Daïs, or Firebrand, which had to be restrained by its handlers from rearing and plunging until the calming sphere of the Moving Guard enveloped it. The bridle seemed woven of liquid silver, and heavy silver medallions adorned nearly every surface of the high-cantled saddle, gleaming in the sunlight against the perfection of a beautifully woven, red woolen blanket of intricate design. The destrier quieted immediat
ely as its master mounted.
Then the King-to-Be proceeded up the cobbled Avenue des Rois, still flanked on all sides by the Moving Guard, and closely accompanied by a squad of armed Circássi soldiers. Tens of thousands of well-wishers lined the way, many of them waving ochre-and-black pennants that had been distributed to them earlier in the day.
At the Church of Hagios Ióv, the Chief of the Hankyár Derviches, Frigyes Lord Zsitvay, kissed the monarch on his left shoulder, and the Thrice Holy Patriarch Timotheos welcomed the procession into the holy see of the Tighrishi. The celebrants left their shoes at the entrance and slipped on cloth sandals, walking the prescribed twelve paces forward in company with the Hankyárar of Konyály, whose privilege it was from time immemorial to gird the sword of Tighris on each new king. Grand Vizier Attila Lord Vydór greeted the king with a salute, and in the name of the lords and people of Kórynthia bowed low to kiss the hem of the king’s zuban.
In the center of the church, directly beneath the great dome, lay a black marble tomb covered with mosaics of onyx and a thin layer of fretted silver as delicate as the lace of a woman’s gown, which contained the relick’d bones of Great Tighris, founder of the royal house which yet bore his name.
For the purposes of killijálay, the investment ceremony, the patriarch and the twelve metropolitans of the Holy Synod had placed a ceremonial table of finely-polished walnut draped with a cloth of purple velvet at the head of the tomb. The sounding of a single clear note from Job’s Complaint signaled that the hour of hektê, or sext in the Roman tongue, had arrived and the girding should now commence.
Six great Albány guards slowly entered the Church bearing the sword of Tighris on its solid silver salver. Fashioned of a bronze-gold alloy, the scimitar was as long as a man is tall, curved at the end and weighing some fifteen stone, sheathed in black metal encrusted with rubies, emeralds, sapphires, opals, and lapis lazuli. The hilt was cunningly wrought into an intricate twirl of metal; when passed in front of a light, it created a shadowy tughra spelling out the name Tighris.
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