'Ware the Dark-Haired Man

by Robert Reginald

  The ancient House of Langendoss had fallen on somewhat reduced circumstances of late, due to the pro­clivity of its titleholders to wager their fortunes annually on the running of the horses at the Nördmark Summer Fair. Alas, their judgment of horseflesh was as limited as their sense of business, and so the current count found himself suddenly without the means to present himself most appro­priately to the world at large. Fortunately, what Swithven lacked in acumen was more than offset by his charm and good looks, and his casual savoir-faire and saturnine ap­pearance captivated all of the ladies whose presence he chose to grace. Now he was sniffing after bigger game, and responded with a barking laugh at some would-be wit­ticism from his unsuspecting bride-to-be.

  He slyly glanced to his left, smiling and raising one perfectly trimmed eyebrow at one of the ladies at the next table, where some prime horseflesh of a very different na­ture was presently on display. He had noticed the king’s sister, Princess Arrhiána, earlier in the evening, beautifully dressed in a scooped-out gown of pale blue satin that dis­played to great advantage several of her prime assets.

  Ah, he thought to himself, if only....

  Further down the king’s table, Lady Mála nudged her fiancé, Prince Kiríll, and nodded towards the Forellës. The prince spotted Langendoss’s leer, smiled to himself, and then pulled out a long, curved dirk, with which he pointedly began cleaning his fingernails. He caught the light from a nearby chandelier on his knife, and flashed it across Swithven’s perfect eyes. The count looked over quickly, then started when he caught the prince’s hard glance, and lowered his eyes back to his plate. King’s pri­vate preserve, he thought to himself, and laughed again at one of Ezzölla’s jokes.

  Across the room, Lord Maurin was poked awake by his wife, Lady Nolána.

  “Did you see that?” she asked, “why, that old repro­bate, Langendoss.”

  “What?” Maurin said.

  He had obviously missed whatever little drama she was referring to. He yawned again. Normally, he had no problem downing tankard after tankard of cheap soldiers’ ale, but all these toasts and all this fancy wine had just been too much for him.

  “Well, have we had enough of playing courtier yet?” she added.

  “All this folderol,” he exclaimed, shaking his head. “Gad, I get tired of these games. I sometimes feel like we’re just so many pieces on a checkered board, being moved ’round and ’round by all of these ‘great men.’”

  She laughed. “We’re all pawns, my dear,” she noted. “But you’re not supposed to become aware of the fact.”

  “Well, it’s too much for me!” Maurin stated. “I want to go home again, where I know who I am and how things stand, and where I can play the game on my own terms, without all of this ‘high drama.’ I need to under­stand the rules if I’m to have an advantage.”

  “Oh,” Nolána replied, “I thought you already did have an advantage.”

  She smiled up at him sweetly, and bumped his mus­cled thigh with her warm, soft one.

  He grinned back at her. “Seems that I do!” he ac­knowledged. “But what good’s an advantage if you never get a chance to exercise it?”

  “I see, good sir,” she said, “so it’s exercise you want now, is it? Well, I think we may be able to accommo­date that request, too, a little later in the evening.”

  “I hope it isn’t too much later,” he retorted. “I’m apt to fall asleep on you.”

  “I don’t think so,” she mused, smiling again. “I think we can take care of that little problem just fine.”

  “Before we go, Lána, I’d like to say goodbye to Father Athy,” Maurin stated. He pointed to the table housing the lords spiritual. “I can see him just over there, to the right of the patriarch.”

  She sat bolt upright, and laughed out loud.

  “Oh, you mean ‘The Hieromonk and the Donkey,’” she said. “That tale just gets funnier every time you tell it.”

  “Please don’t repeat that to Father Athy, oh please,” Maurin pleaded, his face abruptly turning red. “If he ever found out that it was me, I’d die of the humiliation. The troubadours have even made it into a ballad, I hear.”

  “Really?” Nolána squealed. “Oh, you must have them play it for us sometime.”

  But Patriarch Timotheos, who had been watching the repartee at a distance, spoke softly to the metropolitan sitting on his right.

  “Athy,” he said, “who’s that pretty woman over there next to Count Kosnick? I can’t quite make her out.”

  Metropolitan Athanasios squinted at the distant longtable. Ironically, as he sprang into middle age, he was finding his longer sight becoming much clearer, even as he experienced more difficulty in reading simple scrolls up close.

  “That’s Lady Nolána,” he noted, “the new countess. I’ve only met her once. She seems like a very fine lady, full of life and laughter.”

  “You must introduce me later,” the primate indi­cated.

  He rubbed his eyes, trying once again to peer across the room, and Athanasios suddenly realized for the first time that his friend and mentor had grown old, just in this last year.

  Is this what the burden of office will do? he asked himself. Is this what I will become?

  He had a vision then of a long line of mitred men standing in rank, perhaps a hundred or two hundred in all, fading away into the distance on both sides of their table, and he realized that he was seeing the past and future patri­archs of Paltyrrha, from the very beginnings of the Holy Church in Kórynthia into some unforseeably dim future.

  “What is it, Athy?” his mentor asked.

  “Nothing, Arik,” he replied, smiling at his father. “Nothing at all.”

  The hieromonk marveled at the resonances between this scene and the one held here exactly a year ago to the day. But where that banquet had marked the beginning of a twisted venture into warmongering and the useless deaths of tens of thousands, this new one promised a renewal of life and faith itself.

  Perhaps, after all, there was much to look forward to in this new year. Perhaps all of the death and destruc­tion and despair that he had witnessed this past twelve­month was for some good purpose, even if that purpose was known or knowable only to God. He would trust in that future and in that God, because to do anything else would be to give in to the despair that had claimed his mother and old King Kipriyán.

  There were many different roads to choose in life, and many different possibilities. Here, in this room, he could see around him the joy and tragedy, the comedy and triumph, that filled man’s very existence. Here were sto­ries of passion and betrayal, of faith and hope, of every good and ill thing that humanity could possibly devise. This was his play, and these were the players. Not pawns to be moved on a board, but real men and real women, to cherish and love and break bread with. Life was very good.

  His attention was diverted by a singer who stepped to center floor, and began a quiet, unaccompanied piece that soon had captivated everyone. No one knew who she was or where she hailed from, except that her name was Lady Milyutÿnis, and that her hair was black and long and swayed in time with the music.

  And this is what she sang in a voice that surpassed all sweetness:

  One generation passes away,

  And another takes its place,

  One great king gives up his sway,

  And another joins the race.

  Oh where has my Ambrózy gone?

  A primate goes to his reward,

  And another takes his place,

  A dark-souled mage defies the Lord,

  And vanishes without a trace.

  Oh where has my Ambrózy gone?

  The kings, they say to war we go,

  And tell each man to grab a sword,

  My love runs off to beat the foe,

  And perishes at Killingford.

  Oh where has my Ambrózy gone?

  Oh why must we repeat our chord,

  And bless each man who dies?

  But I remember Killingford,

>   Where dear Ambrózy lies.

  Oh where has my Ambrózy gone?

  One generation passes away,

  And another takes its place,

  One bright sun has set this day,

  And never shall I see his face.

  Oh where has my Ambrózy gone?

  One great soul has passed beyond

  The shining shore of never,

  Oh where has my Ambrózy gone?

  The earth abides forever.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  “I HAVE COME FOR YOU AT LAST”

  To everything there is a season,

  And a time to every purpose under Heaven.

  —Ecclesiastes

  Anno Domini 1219

  Anno Juliani 859

  On the Feast of Saint Sylbestros in the xivth year of Arkadios ii King of Kórynthia, a mounted monk swathed in muddy green robes and a brown greatcloak paused before the massive gate of Saint Svyatosláv’s Monastery in Zán­drich. With the sigh of a man who has reached his ultimate destination, he leaned over his saddle and banged his iron-tipped staff on the bronze doors. His breath steamed out from under his hood, billowing up in white clouds under the pale golden moonlight.

  A small hatch in the adjoining wall popped open and a rough voice yelled down: “Who seeks entrance to Holy Svyatosláv?”

  “Brother Kyprianos von Thánátü,” he replied. “Hieromonk of Most Holy Epiphanios, who seeks present audience with the worthy Archimandrite Ludwík t’Örvös.”

  “Holy Svyatosláv embraces you,” the voice replied, “and the monk Zôsima welcomes you to our simple home. Enter this place of God in well-deserved peace.”

  Then the visitor was led through the gate, and taken to an anteroom off the abbot’s quarters, where Abbot Lud­wík joined him a half hour later.

  “Welcome, Brother Kyprianos,” the cleric stated. “How may I help you?”

  The visitor pulled a paper from the arm of his robe, and handed it to the abbot.

  “This pass gives me the authority to see the hi­eromonk Pantaleôn, who is under your care,” the man said. “You will note that it bears the seal and signature of the Thrice Holy Patriarch.”

  “This is highly unusual,” Ludwík commented. “The hieromonk has had no visitors since arriving here, and I was ordered to allow none but our own brethren access to him.”

  “Who gave you that order?” Kyprianos asked.

  “The patriarch,” the abbot admitted. He examined the document thoroughly once again. “This does appear to be in order,” he stated. “I will make the appropriate ar­rangements for you to meet with Brother Pantaleôn on the morrow.”

  “With all respect, archimandrite,” the visitor stated, “I wish to see him now.”

  “But it’s evening!” Ludwík exclaimed, aghast at the notion. “Our brethren are saying their prayers, even as we speak. Ours is a working community, Brother Kyprianos. We retire early and rise early. It’s out of the question.”

  “Again, with due respect, Abbot Ludwík,” the monk insisted, “this document gives me that right. Or did you fail to note the words, ‘Brother Kyprianos speaks and acts with our authority,’ just above the patriarch’s signa­ture. I will meet with Brother Pantaleôn within the hour, and privily, if you please, right here in your antechamber. Also, neither you nor your fellow monks will disturb us. Is that clear?”

  “Perfectly!” the prelate spat, disgusted at this raw display of power. He sent Brother Hovhannês to fetch old Pantaleôn, and then withdrew.

  A few moments later the elderly hieromonk was de­posited at the entrance to the antechamber, and Hovhannês slammed the door shut just behind him with a pointed “bang.”

  “Wh-who are you?” came the tremulous voice of the blind man. He felt with his hands in front of him, trying to penetrate the emptiness of the air.

  “Let me help you,” Kyprianos responded, taking the outstretched arms, and leading Pantaleôn to the abbot’s very own padded chair near the fire.

  “Ohhhh, it’s so warm in here,” the hieromonk breathed. “This is heavenly.” He leaned toward the fire, allowing the glow to warm his thin limbs.

  “I’m told, brother, that you enjoy an occasional game of les échecs,” the visitor indicated.

  “Yes, yes, I have played a game or two in my time,” Pantaleôn noted, “but no one here ever wants to sit down with me. They all have something else more impor­tant to do, all but me. And on the rare occasion when someone will play with an old man, well, they lose, and then they don’t want ever to do it again.”

  “I’ll play with you,” Thánátü offered. “Perhaps I can challenge your sensibilities more fully.”

  “Would you?” the hieromonk replied. “Oh, that would be glorious. Why, I’ll even offer you white.”

  “That is most generous of you,” the visitor said. “I accept.”

  There was a board and pieces already set up on a nearby table, and the traveler simply moved the entire con­figuration so that it was setting between the two men.

  “Are you ready?” Thánátü asked.

  Pantaleôn felt with his hands to establish the posi­tions of the two lines of eight pieces marking the black players, and then extended his senses across the board.

  “Yesss,” he hissed, “this will be no problem at all!” The old monk smiled to himself.

  Kyprianos moved his white pawn to king’s pawn four, and Pantaleôn reached out to play the opposing move. But when the monk touched his black counter, his hand was riveted to the board, and his eyes rolled upward into their sockets as a surge of energy swept up his arm into his body, momentarily driving out his consciousness. When he could see again, he had been transited somewhere else.

  He was standing on a flat plain hatched with strange crossmarks. Surrounding him on either side were his com­rades-in-arms, all dressed alike and ranged in two lines. His body was covered in black armor and his left hand gripped an upright sword. On the opposite side of the field he could see another group of warriors clothed from head to toe in white armor, also in two lines. Two of the sol­diers, one of each color, had already faced off in the center of the plain.

  Pantaleôn instinctively tensed, looking right and left for any danger to his king, then almost fled the field when he saw the long black hair writhing and moving as it hung behind his monarch’s helmet. The king’s head turned down and looked right at him, and Pantaleôn noticed that there were two red glowing spots where the eyes should have been.

  “What’s the matter, little king?” the monarch hissed, a forked tongue flickering out from the opening in his armor, “S-snake got your tongue?”

  And then the hieromonk would have run, run as fast as his legs could carry him, run anywhere but this awful place of death, except that he couldn’t. He was nailed to his square, unable to leave it, because it wasn’t his move. He was still looking at his terrible monarch when he no­ticed a movement out of the corner of his eye. A white metropolitan had moved in front of the white pawns onto the field opposite him.

  “Your turn, little king,” the black monarch said.

  Pantaleôn found himself moving diagonally to the dexter side of the board, attacking the piece. He could only move when it was his turn, and then only in ways pre­scribed by the rules; otherwise, he was stuck within the confines of his square. Men began to fall as the game pro­gressed, but here, instead of cleanly being re­moved from the board, they were struck down by the awful weapons of war, with limbs and heads being hacked off and blood spurting everywhere, and men and horses groaning their death rattles and crying piteously for help which never came. But still the game remorselessly moved toward its completion, as the number of players steadily diminished through deliberate murder and assassination.

  A white pawn moved within his range, and suddenly Pantaleôn lunged at it, wielding his sword with deadly ac­curacy, striking him down mercilessly. He stood there gloating while the soldier bled all over the square, crying out: “My brother, my brother, why hast thou forsaken me?�
�

  He would have continued his attack, but there was nothing he could do: he could not cross the boundaries sur­rounding him on all sides. He was doomed to repeat what he now knew was an old, old game.

  Despite the monk’s best efforts, the black king was soon besieged within a protecting ring of his few remaining warriors. Pantaleôn could hear the dark monarch raging as the noose drew ever tighter around them: “I defy you, I defy you all!”

  But as the white king passed nearby, suddenly Pan­taleôn swiveled with all of his strength, trying somehow to strike through the right wall of his square, but he could not move from his ever-fixed place. The face of the black monarch turned toward him, hissing, “S-strike the traitor down.” The remaining black warriors began closing in on all sides, and the monk knew he was doomed.

  “Why?” Pantaleôn cried out with all of his remain­ing strength. “Who are you?”

  Then the black king swept back his hood, finally re­vealing his hideous aspect.

  “I am the Dark-Haired Man, o Kipriyán the Con­queror,” he said. “I have come for you at last.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  “SHAH MAT!”

  The hour of departure has arrived

  And we go our ways,

  I to die and you to live.

  Which is better, God only knows.

  —Apology, Plato, quoting Socrates

  Anno Domini 1220

  Anno Juliani 860

  On the next morning, the Feast of the Blessèd Vir­gin Mary, the Abbot Ludwík finally found the strength to enter the antechamber, and there he beheld a most terrible sight. The monk Pantaleôn sat straight upright in his chair, a look of terror etched on his face, his right hand rigidly grasping the black king on the game board. The monarch was tilted to one side, as if about to fall over.

  “Shah mat’!” Ludwík exclaimed, and then called for Brother Hovhannês and Brother Thaddaios to help. The body was icy cold. This man had been dead for a long, long time.

  The abbot had the body secured and washed and taken to the Chapel of Saint Miráks, where a requiem mass would be said for the repose of the monk Pantaleôn on the very next day, with burial, as per the written instructions that Ludwík had previously received about this inmate, in an unmarked grave among the deceased brethren of the Silent Souls.