'Ware the Dark-Haired Man

by Robert Reginald

  The Albánys carefully lowered the sword onto the table in front of the tomb, pointing towards the altar, then gently removed the sheath without touching the blade, and exited the church. The Patriarch assumed a position be­tween the table and the tomb, at the point of the sword, while the King-to-Be, the Hankyárar, and the grand vizier stood at the hilt. The four Pillars of the Realm, which is to say, the Moving Guard, glided to each of the four quar­ters—Athanasios to the right of Great Tighris’s tomb, Mail­hoc directly opposite in the North, Andruin behind the Padishah, and Kiríll at the far end of the tomb.

  The Thrice Holy Timotheos chanted: “Glory be to Thee, God the Father, glory be to Thee, Eternal Son, glory be to Thee, Holy Spirit, by whom all is sanctified. World without end.”

  The congregation responded: “Amen.”

  Incense began swirling above the congregation in patches of strongly scented fog, making patterns knowable only to God.

  Then the patriarch spoke again, lifting his hands to­ward the air above their heads: “I call upon thee, Holy Konstantín, to stand rightly with us in joy and gladness at this killijálay, to sanctify thy servant, Arkadios.”

  A wind began to whine through the church, lifting the hair of the men and the coverings of the women and stirring the solemn robes of the monks. A glow began forming in front of their eyes. Athanasios’s arms lifted in­voluntarily behind him and stretched into something else, light and feathery and almost weightless. His legs grew, his body lengthened, his face changed in ways that cannot be described. He saw and did not see, he felt and did not feel, he heard sounds that were not sounds, he breathed the air of another plane that had no air, he knew suddenly whom he had become. Through eyes that were not his own he watched his brethren, the Saints Pëtr, Andréy, and Ignáty, take form, standing there ten feet tall, as silent and strong as the Pillars of the Church they represented.

  And then Timotheos spoke again:

  “Lord and Master, Our God, who has established in Heaven the orders and armies of angels and archangels to minister to Thy Glory, grant that with us there may enter those holy intercessors who serve and glorify Thy good­ness. Shelter us under the shadow of their wings, drive away every foe and adversary.”

  Then he carefully pressed the tip of the sword with his right index finger, drawing a drop of blood.

  “‘And the star came and stood above where the child was’,” he continued. “Make beautiful, O Lord, this instru­ment of Thy will. Thy glory has covered the heavens, and the earth is full of Thy praises. Strengthen now Thy ser­vant Arkadios, clothe him with beauty, remem­ber him with Thy blessings. For when Thy servant Tighris did walk upon this earth, he promised to nurture his sons forever. Send down Thy Holy Spirit to watch over us. Give us a sacrifice of Thy praise and bless Thine inheritance.”

  Then the patriarch reached behind him with his right hand and touched the monument with his blood.

  “Holy Deathless One, come thou forth from thy tomb!” he shouted.

  The crowd gasped, for at that moment the tomb of Tighris rattled, and the lid slid back from the coffin. A shadowy, translucent figure garbed in strange robes and an­cient armor slowly rose upright.

  And it seemed to King Arkády that the form of his ancestor then turned to him, and asked: “Why have you come here? Your father still resides amongst the living.”

  “Because he broke covenant with the land,” the king replied.

  “So he did,” Tighris stated. “But yet he abides.”

  “He would have destroyed Kórynthia,” Arkády noted. “I could not allow that to happen.”

  “And what would you do that is so different, oh King-to-Be?” his ancestor inquired.

  “I will build in this land a place of prosperity for all who wish to come here,” the king declared. “I will pre­serve the peace, and oppress neither the few nor the many.”

  “These are worthy aims,” Tighris continued, “but what will this accomplish that has not been done before? The king who follows you and the king who follows him may not be cut from the same piece of string. There is a dark stain in our line that cannot be eradicated, for it is the other side of the transit mirror in which you see yourself reflected. The great talents which I have given unto you and yours also carry with them equal potential for use or abuse. Certain of my children have been warped into something abominable and hideous in the sight of God and man. Those who cannot master themselves will ever use their powers for evil. So tell me, oh son of Tighris, what you will do to preserve the land forever.”

  Arkády was taken aback, for this was not the cere­mony he had been expecting. But he thought very hard about the problem, before finally admitting, “I do not know. But I will try to find a way.”

  “That is, at least, an honest reply,” Tighris said.

  There was a hint of gentle laughter in his voice.

  “Very well, my son,” he continued, reaching out with his arm to touch the new king upon his head, “you’ll do.”

  Now, all of this happened in the merest instant of thought, while time itself ceased to exist, so that no one watching the proceedings saw anything untoward, or was even able to blink a single eyelid.

  And then the spirit merged itself with the form of the patriarch, who intoned:

  “The grace of God, that always strengthens the weak and fills the empty, does here appoint Arkadios ho Tigridês to be your lawfully girded king. Let no man challenge the will of God. Let no man doubt the choice of Tighris. Prepare thou the girdle.”

  The Hankyárar brought forth an empty scabbard and belted it around the King-to-Be’s waist, whispering in his ear, as was the cus­tom: “Remember, lord, that thou art mortal.”

  Then the form of Tighris touched the great scimitar and a ripple of silver light flowed from his finger into the weapon. “If thou hast the power,” he said, “Then pick up thy sword!”

  In one smooth motion Arkády grasped the scimitar in both hands and pointed it straight up at the dome above. A beam of purplish light sprang from the tip of the weapon, penetrating through the roof into the sky where the crowds outside could see the proof of his empowerment, the beam slowly changing colors through the entire spectrum. Within the church it seemed as if the stain spread from where it touched the inside of the onion-shaped dome slowly down around its skin, eventually coating the interior walls with a fine shimmering glow; and outside it was the sky itself that seemed to take on a range of pastel colors, very like the shimmering of the Great Northern Lights.

  “Axios!” shouted the grand vizier, “he is wor­thy!”

  Three times the words echoed through the church and the crowds outside.

  “Axios!” the princes and lords roared in a grand huzzah of acclamation.

  “Axios!” the metropolitans all concurred.

  The light slowly died, and the huge stone lid on the tomb of Great Tighris gradually closed itself. Then Holy Timotheos said:

  “We do beseech thee, Lord, with humble mien to spare our Great King Arkadios, Second of that name, for three times thirty years, that with a clean and understanding heart he may rightly speak the word of faith as Guardian of the Realm. Preserve him in health, O Lord, in honor and in length of days, faithfully dispensing Thy word of truth. Fill him with the Holy Spirit and the grace and wisdom that he needs to govern the realm.”

  The King Arkády responded: “I will offer to Thee incense and rams. All my garments smell of myrrh, aloes, and cassia. Let my prayer be as incense in Thy sight.”

  Then he carefully laid the Great Sword of Tighris back on its table.

  The Hereditary Prince Arión approached with the smaller Sword of State, sinking to his knees and handing it to his father with these words: “My lord king, accept this gift beyond price, given to us until the end of time.”

  The king sheathed the sword, replying: “Peace be unto thee, my son, peace be to all the lords of the land and to all the children of the church. I do anoint thee my law­ful successor. Lord, make him this day a sharer in Thy mystic su
pper. For I will not reveal Thy mys­teries to Thine enemies, nor like Judas give Thee a kiss, but like the thief I say to Thee: Remember me, O Lord, in Thy king­dom. Remember me.”

  Finally, the grand vizier brought the Crown of State on its cushion of velvet, handing it to the Thrice Holy Pa­triarch Timotheos. The king bowed his head before the living symbol of God on earth, and received his temporal crown, the ancient diadem of plain hammered gold that has adorned the brows of Tighrishi kings since time immemo­rial.

  Then a choir of monks sang their song of rejoicing, and the newly-consecrated King and his entourage exited the rear of the Church, contin­uing up the Boulevard des Tombeaux Tighrises to pay homage to the monuments of their ancestors.

  The Great King Arkadios ii had finally come home.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  “WE’RE ALL PAWNS, MY DEAR”

  That evening, a sumptuous banquet of celebration was held in the Great Hall in Tighrishály Palace in Pal­tyrrha.

  On the east wall of the hall was ranged a longtable filled with some of the surviving members of the royal family. At the center sat the new king, Arkády, flanked on the right by his eldest son and heir, Hereditary Prince Ar­ión, and by his wife, Queen Dúra, on the left. Other spots at the table were occupied by Princess Rÿna, Prince Siegfried, Princess Numméla, their governess, Lady Márissa, Princess Arrhiána, Zakháry Duke of Mährenia, Prince Kiríll, Prince Andruin, and Princess Sachette. The Dowager Queen Polyxena had chosen to remain in Kóryn­thály to care for her husband. The younger two children were returned to their nursery following the opening re­marks.

  Across the hall was set another longtable, which wrapt itself around to the Pommerelian side, and was filled with the chief nobility of Kórynthia, including Valentín Count of Arrhénë and his uncle, Sándor Count of Yev­patóriya, Rufín Count of Susafön, Zhéleva Countess of Görgoszák, Maurin Count Kosnick, Attila Lord Vydór and his son, Lord Mailhoc Vydór, Ladislav Count of Zándrich, Paul-Bernhardt Graf von Luristán, Bonica Countess of Myr­rhás, Zygmunt Count of Myláß, Issakhar Count of Westmark, Mála Baroness Teuschpach, General Rónai Lord of Borgösha, General Reményi Lord of Karkára, and their consorts, among many others.

  A third, much shorter table was placed along the left side of the hall, and included the pretender of Pommerelia, Queen Ezzölla, together with her es­cort, Swithven Count of Langendoss. Also at her table were seated her cousine and heir presumptive, the Princess Ariélle, together with her consort, Albián Graf von Spírrë, and their two sur­viving sons, the fifteen-year-old Hereditary Graf Balthazár and Lord Deménty. Riél, as she was called in the family, also descended from the late Prince Dominík, third son of Gér­man iv von Forellë, late King of Vorpommern, in the days of yore when that country had still been independent of Pommeralia. King Gérman’s wife had been Króya Princess of Kórynthia. Another member of the family, Mordán Count of Leigrés, was also seated at the Forellë table.

  Completing the square on the south was a fourth longtable, where the lords spiritual sat, including the Thrice Holy Timotheos, Patriarch of Paltyrrha and All Kórynthia, together with all twelve of the Metropolitans and Archbish­ops comprising the Holy Synod.

  A throng of servers, retainers, and guards hovered behind the tables, awaiting a word from their patrons and masters. Banners flaunting the arms of state and church covered the walls. Scattered around the tiled floor on the alternating black-and-white squares were performers, pan­tomimists, troubadours, and theatricians. Every so often they would exchange places to vary the entertainment from table to table. In one corner was ensconced a group of players, their instruments producing a series of light airs designed to soothe the savage beasts.

  “My lords and ladies,” shouted King Arkády, “a toast!”

  He raised high his chalice.

  “Vive la Córynthe!” he proclaimed.

  “Vive la Córynthe!” was the response.

  Then Duke Zakháry rose in his seat.

  “Vive le roi Arcádie!” he boomed.

  “Vive le roi Arcádie!” they all agreed.

  “Vive le duc du Moravie!” Prince Kiríll yelled.

  “Vive le duc du Moravie!” came the reply.

  And the congratulations and toasts continued for at least another hour, until everyone was properly cheery.

  Then King Arkády motioned again for silence.

  “I have the great pleasure to announce,” he intoned, “the betrothal of the Hereditary Count Balthazár Al­biánovich, second in line to the Throne of Pommerelia, to my eldest daughter, the Princess Royal Grigorÿna Arkádiyevna.”

  There were cheers of approval on all sides, particu­larly from the much diminished table of the Forellës, for the marriage of state signalled to them the continuing sup­port of Kórynthia for their ongoing cause.

  “Furthermore,” the king smiled, “It is my great honor to announce a second betrothal tonight, this time of my younger brother Prince Kiríll, Count of Arkádiya, to Mála Baroness Teuschpach.”

  This was clearly a love match, and the ladies of the court were not lax in showing their pleasure at the procla­mation.

  “Axioi!” they shouted, “they are worthy!”

  “Let the couples come forward and be blessed by the patriarch,” the king continued.

  Prince Kiríll and his love and Lord Balthazar and his intended came to center floor, the players withdrawing to the corners, and Patriarch Timotheos joining them a moment later.

  The cleric intoned, “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 blessed. 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,” he continued, “do I sanctify the promises that are fearfully and wonderfully made here tonight. 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 two lands rejoice in festivity. Amen.”

  The couples returned to their places, and Timotheos rejoined his old friend Afanásy, sitting just to his left.

  Then the king spoke again.

  “These are but the first of many such ceremonies that you will see this year,” he indicated. “I have asked the patriarch to preside over the joining of five hundred couples in the Cathedral of Saint Konstantín on the first day of June hence. The Conference of Reconciliation was but the initial step towards the reunification of the land. We must all strive to help each other, to build new bridges to those around us. One of these structures will be known as Saint Vasíly’s Bridge, and it will mark the first time that Old Paltyrrha and New Paltyrrha will be permanently joined to­gether. It is these connections, between man and wife, between old city and new, between the land and its people, that will help remake our kingdom into an earthly paradise once again.

  “Vive la Córynthe!” he added, and huzzahs rang unto the very rafters of the building.

  The king sat down and turned to his eldest son, Hereditary Prince Arión.

  “How are you feeling, my son?” he asked, putting a comforting hand on the lad’s thin shoulder.

  “I’m all right, Papá,” Ari assured him, “just a little sleepy.”

  He stifled a yawn. The day had been a long one for the six-year-old.

  Arkády felt a slight tug at his sleeve, and looked down into the upturned face of his eldest daughter, the Princess Royal Grigorÿna. She was clad in a sheer silk shift of palest green, which emphasized her reddish-gold hair and fair coloring.

 
; “Oh, Papá!” she whispered, her bright blue eyes shining like twin sapphire crystals in the reflected lights. “It’s just like a fairy tale!” she said.

  The king looked over the top of his daughter’s titian curls, and caught Dúra’s eye. His wife smiled back at him. Their little girl was now betrothed.

  Rÿna squeezed her father’s hand again, and gazed out at all the beautifully dressed and coiffed lords and ladies. She decided right then and there that in the future, she would seat her most noble doll family at longtables placed in a square, rather than in one or two rows facing each other, as she had done in the past.

  Yes! she reflected, that would be much more useful.

  Down the longtable to King Arkády’s right, the Princess Arrhiána was talking to her younger sister, the Princess Sachette.

  “Have you made any decisions yet?” she asked.

  “Yes, Rhie,” the younger woman said, “I’ve de­cided to go back to the convent later this month, but not to linger idly in my cell all day. I want to work with the crippled soldiers of Killingford, particularly the blind. Many of the survivors of the war were severely burned, and those who returned badly need our assistance. I’ve had to fight some of the same dæmons which now plague these men, so maybe I can do them a little good.”

  “I know you can,” Arrhiána agreed, “and if there’s anything that I or the palace can do to help, please tell me. To start, we can send you wagonloads of medicines and bandages, as well as additional physicians.”

  “Most of these men just need someone to listen to them,” Sachette noted. “If I can do that much, then I’ll have contributed something of value to the world.”

  Arrhiána glanced to her right as a burst of raucous laughter came from the Forelli table on the north side of the hall.

  The newly-minted Queen of Pommerelia, Ezzölla i (long may she reign!), was having a gay time with her cur­rent beau, Swithven Count of Langendoss, an effete gen­tleman of some forty years of age.