Melanthrix the Mage

by Robert Reginald

  And then he proceeded to tell her the details of Ustín’s passing.

  Mösza stood there impassively, drinking in every drop of her nephew’s account.

  “And what else did you determine?” she asked.

  “Jánisar could identify no cause of death,” Arkády said, “although he suspects a failure of the heart. More curiously, a brief probing showed no signs whatever of mental activity remaining in the body. This conforms with an identical reading performed on the remains of Count Alexis immediately following his passing. It’s as if neither man was alive at the time of his translation. There were no residues, no memories, no thoughts of any kind. This is supposedly impossible save in one who has long been de­ceased; nonetheless, it happened. The physician could of­fer no explanation.”

  “Was the man murdered, or did he perish natu­rally?” she asked.

  The prince hesitated before replying.

  “Unknown,” he said. “I suspect murder, but Fra Jánisar remains noncommital. I believe that the absence of any discernible mental activity in the bodies is significant, an aberration typical of this killer. He mocks us. He goads us. But I could be wrong.”

  “Perhaps,” she said. “So, nephew, you want me to report your theories to the Covenant of Christian Mages. Welladay, welladay.”

  She abruptly tilted up her head and sniffed long and loud.

  “Hmmm,” she said, not waiting for an answer. “I suspect it’s about time for us to leave. The air down here is none too good, and I have other things to do. Be seeing you, my boy.”

  She put her left hand to her mouth, blew him a kiss, stepped backwards, and vanished.

  He looked around wildly, increasing the size of his ringflame to peer into the corners of the room, but she was gone. Perhaps she had never even been there. He shud­dered again. This place was unsettling. If he stayed here long enough, the grotesque images around him might start talking back to him.

  He turned around and moved two steps towards the alcove. His eye was caught then by the strange transit mir­ror hanging on the wall in front of him, which corre­sponded to nothing he had ever before encountered. First, its shape was oval instead of rectangular. He knew that such things were theoretically possible for these devices, but they were rarely encountered, being very difficult to construct and especially to balance. And this one was fashioned from an alloy of gold that he had never before encountered. That gold was present in the metal was evi­dent in the overall sheen of the thing, but it was dark, al­most black with age and with...something else. The rim was surrounded by a metallic artifact that had been cast in the semblance of a long, twisting serpent encircling the en­tire frame, its head, just there at the apex, devouring its own tail. He could almost imagine it moving into itself, inch by inevitable inch.

  An ouroboros! They never really died, he’d once been told, but waited patiently in place until someone actu­ally touched them. Then they sprang instantly alert and alive, ready to swallow body and soul the essence of any intruder.

  Arkády deliberately backed up a step and calmed himself. Then he fixed his destination in mind, and care­fully extended his ley-ring to touch the surface of the mir­ror, keeping to its center. It resisted briefly, and he almost panicked at the thought of being stranded in this place for all of his days, but he gathered together his energy, and connected the twisting lines in the æther. And then he too was gone.

  But the serpent just relaxed its posture, slipt the bounds of the great circle that confined it, and began mak­ing the rounds of the cavern, as it had done for a hundred thousand years or so, and as it would continue to do for a hundred thousand more. It was very patient. Sooner or later they would come back. Sooner or later they all came back. And then he would eat.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  “THEN IT IS SETTLED MOST AMICABLY”

  In mid-March, on the Feast of Saint Avraäm Kidunáya, Ferdinand Duke of Mährenia paid a second visit to Paltyrrha. Because of Archquisitor Bartholomæus’s strictures against the use of Werkzeugen, or vyéshchi as they were called in the east, he’d had to ride south from his capital of Lovíza to Lömmez, and thence across the border into Köstrzyn, where Brantho Herzog von Pärtenkirch maintained a transit mirror at Castle Paradis. The duke was an old friend of his youth, always willing to accomo­date whenever an advantage could be gained in return. Such was the ancient way of the Teutonmark.

  Ferdinand hated relying on the nobleman for any­thing, but in this, as in so much else in his life, he seem­ingly had no choice. For the thousandth time he cursed his inability to father a surviving male heir. All of his sons had died young, his elder and younger brothers had sired no children whatever, and his last male relative, his bache­lor uncle, Count Stanislaw, had perished some years be­fore, leaving Ferdinand’s two daughters equal co-heiresses to the Amethyst Throne under Mährenian law. Ferdinand had named the eldest, Countess Rosanna, as heir last year, but his wife still preferred the younger girl, Rosalla.

  It was a terrible thing to be married to a woman who felt that she could run his state better than he could, when she neither understood his countrymen nor sympa­thized with their traditions. In truth, he was less an abso­lute monarch of the Kórynthi kind than an arbiter of dis­putes among the Mährenian nobility. The Nußknacker had always promoted the independence of its barons, who were able to hide away in its mountain fortresses with almost complete impunity, if they chose to do so.

  Still, the old boundaries of Mährenia had gradually been chipped away by the continuous expansion of Pom­merelia, and when King Barnim had proposed just last year that Princess Rosanna be married to one of his younger sons, Ferdinand had been greatly alarmed. So now he was forced to eat and consort with these thrice-damn’d Ortho­dox kings. What was a man to do?

  Before stepping from the viridaurum mirror in Tighrishály Palace, he shook all over, a chill running up and down his spine. He hated traveling in this way. Then he patted himself down to make certain everything was yet intact.

  “Thank you, Sir Kiriák,” Ferdinand said, bowing most graciously to his Kórynthi escort.

  I mayn’t like them, he thought to himself, but no Kürbeiser will ever be caught acting discourteously to oth­ers.

  Waiting for him at the other end of the transit-route was Gorázd Lord Aboéty, the grand vizier, who saluted him.

  “My Lord Duke, welcome to Paltyrrha. The king awaits you,” he said, leading the way.

  Ferdinand paid closer attention this time to the dé­cor of the place, which bespoke a richness and luxury that poor Mährenia could only dream about. Along this broad, brightly-lit, sumptuously carpeted corridor, for example, were empaneled the colorfully tiled murals of some of the elder kings of Kórynthia and their exploits, the tales etched in cuneiform in the old tongue. Here he saw a captive count groveling in the dust before King Tighris himself, and over there he spied the unfortunate Arbogast, the noto­rious last sovereign Duke of Arrhénë, being executed to­gether with his family (all save one!) by a triumphant King Néstor. Most instructive, indeed. He was happy that Mährenia was located so far away from its new ally.

  They entered the chamber of the High Council of Kórynthia, although the only ones present on this occasion were the king, the Hereditary Prince, Lord Gorázd, and two of the Forellës, King Humfried and his father.

  More marriage games, the duke thought wryly.

  “His Serene Highness Ferdinand viii, Duke of Mährenia and Ptolemaïs and Lord of the Prüffenmark,” the herald said.

  At the majordomo’s indication, Ferdinand sat him­self at the head of a solid, highly polished black oak con­ference table directly across from King Kipriyán.

  Prince Ezzö was seated to Kipriyán’s immediate left. The late pretender stared vacantly across the room and out the window at nothing in particular, although he did glance up when the newcomer took his seat. Ferdinand had no especial love for the Forellës, but he thought he knew better than anyone else in the room just what the man was feeling; it was not easy t
o lose a belovèd son.

  Prince Arkády was located to his father’s right. He was neatly attired in a brown tunic striped with black and ochre, and seemed alert and prepared for the meeting to come.

  This was a man to watch, the duke acknowledged to himself, grudgingly admitting that the prince would make a fine king one day. And to think that he was just the eldest of five adult boys. Kipriyán was fortunate in his sons, in­deed.

  King Humfried was sprawled over two chairs at center table, just to the left of his father. His burgundy shirt was agape, clearly showing his hairy chest, and his hair was mussed. He belched once and yawned. Ferdinand caught a whiff of sour wine wafting down the table.

  Gad, the man was a pig!

  Outwardly, though, the Mährenian ruler kept his opinion to himself, and maintained a studied air of polite expectancy. Lord Gorázd hovered nearby, awaiting direc­tions.

  “Ferdinand,” Kipriyán said warmly, “it’s good to see you again. You know everyone else here, I believe.”

  He swept his hand around the council table.

  The Duke of Mährenia bowed his head respectfully.

  “Believe me,” he said, “when I tell you that I am the fortunate one, my brother.”

  The king shuffled through some papers before him.

  “You’ve heard, I’m sure, of the unfortunate acci­dent suffered recently by Prince Adolphos, younger brother to King Humfried,” he said.

  “My daughter Rosalla was most grieved to receive news of the passing of her intended,” Ferdinand assured him. “We extend our deepest sympathy to her father and his family.”

  He bowed again towards Prince Ezzö, who lowered his head in return.

  “Indeed.”

  Kipriyán let a studied pause expand the momentary awkward silence that permeated the chamber.

  “Then perhaps she and you might be receptive to a furtherance of our alliance.”

  He turned to King Humfried, who straightened in his chair slightly.

  “Thank you, cousin,” the pretender said, smirking. “As you may know, our younger son, Prince Norbert, remains a bachelor. Therefore, to cement our future relationship, we propose an affiliation of family between him and your daughter. However, since this connection will reach closer to the throne than before, we will require a dowry of twenty thousand staters, in addition to the other terms al­ready proposed.”

  Ferdinand was privately amused; Humfried re­minded him of some of his robber barons.

  “With all due respect to our brother, and even as we acknowledge our desire to further the ties between us, we must remind you that Mährenia does not have the resources of great Kórynthia or even of broad Pommerelia. There­fore, we propose that the sum remain the same as previ­ously offered, ten thousand gold staters.”

  He smiled as he finished.

  Humfried went white, controlling his anger with obvious difficulty.

  “Those terms were adequate for our brother, of blessèd memory, who had no other prospects, but our son deserves rather more.”

  Ferdinand threw up his hands in resignation.

  “Alas, that we cannot provide more, but as the old saying is oft rendered, one cannot bleed blood from a turnip. However, let us propose the following alternative to our brothers of Kórynthia and Pommerelia, to wit, that the town of Cartágö in Pommerelia be given to the newly­weds of Nisyria, and the town of Dürkheim be granted as a wedding present to Prince Nikolaí and his bride in Mähre­nia. Should you both agree, of course.”

  He smiled most benignly once again, a cat among the sparrows.

  “I, I...,” said Humfried, caught completely by surprise.

  “Agreed!” said Kipriyán, banging his fist on the table. “Let it be written,” he ordered Lord Gorázd.

  Humfried had no choice but to acquiesce.

  “Then it is settled most amicably,” said Ferdi­nand. “Our daughter Rosalla and Prince Norbert, a most felicitous joining. Shall we drink to the occasion?”

  King Kipriyán clapped his hands, the door opened anew, and refreshments were served.

  “We’ll have the documents ready for signing after the banquet tonight,” he said.

  “Excellent vintage,” Ferdinand said, letting the golden contents of the crystalline glass catch the light. “Aztrookian?”

  “You know your wines,” Kipriyán said. “Now tell us, if you please, how your preparations are coming for the invasion of the Prüffenmark.”

  And they spent the rest of the meeting discussing the details of troop movements and rendezvous points.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  “THIS HAD TO BE HIM!”

  That same morning the Archpriest Athanasios fi­nally found the time to visit Saint Alexios’s House, the of­ficial archives of the Holy Church in Paltyrrha. He knew that Arik Rufímovich had joined the Silent Souls of Saint Svyatosláv between January and May of the year 1166. It should be a simple matter to confirm that fact in some offi­cial record. Although the chronicles of the order were kept at the mother house, as he himself had already witnessed many years before, copies of the accounts and master rolls of the brethren were presumably also sent to the patriarch each annum to ensure that the proper tithe was paid to sup­port the central government of the church.

  He found a series of bound leather volumes for the Silent Souls housed on a remote shelf in the archives, hav­ing entered the building, as usual, on the “Holy Metropoli­tan’s business.” Everyone here knew him, and no one paid the hieromonk much attention anymore.

  Much to his disappointment, however, a full census of the brethren of Saint Svyatosláv’s was only reported de­cennially, in years ending with the number “5.” In the year i Kyprianos iii (1165), Arik was not yet a member. Ten years later, far down the list of seniority, was recorded one “Harikhos Rouphimou o hieromonakhos ep’ onomati Timotheou.” In between, the registers only noted occa­sional mentions of this or that postulant entering the order, interspersed with financial and other records. He suspected that these lists were incomplete, and in any event, failed to find Arik mentioned anywhere in the crucial years of 1165 or 1166.

  Something in the latter volume did spark his inter­est, however. In July of 1166 the Abbot Jován Csigály had noted a deduction from the annual sum due to the mother church in Paltyrrha, “of ten staters for the support of the child Afanásy.” Such subtractions continued through the year 1177, when the boy was removed by Arik from the monastery just in advance of the attack by the heathen in­vaders from Nörrland. The notations had stopped for six months in 1177 during the siege of the abbey, but the new abbot, the Archimandrite Phálen Domník, had faithfully recorded one final deduction early in 1178, reflecting ex­penses incurred in supporting the child during the fiscal year 1176/77.

  Since Athanasios had not come of age for a few more years, until about 1182 (he did not know his exact birthdate), he wondered if the Megalê tou Genous Scholê would record a similar deduction of expenditures, and went searching for the records of that institution. Sure enough, during the year 1177/78 the school had requested a rebate from the mother church for “the food, clothing, and educa­tion of the acolyte, Brother Athanasios, until he doth come of age.”

  This had been denied by the church administration, on the grounds that the child had already been accepted for advance training, and was thus ineligible for further finan­cial support. The Scholê had appealed, citing a record on page 344 of the Order Book of accession year Kyprianos iii, or the second half of 1164, stating that the child would not come of age until “the xxviiith day of December in the xviiith year of the reign of King Kyprianos iii,” or 1182, and was guaranteed an annual stipend until then.

  This had to be him!

  Alas, that also put his date of birth at December 28, 1164, thereby removing Arik’s sister Angela as a possible mother.

  However, here was a lead that he could follow fur­ther! Carefully replacing the volumes that he’d examined back on their proper shelves, he promptly hied himself, robes flying, out
of Saint Alexios and down the street to the State Archives in Saint Ptolemy’s House. There he impa­tiently went through the procedure of identifying himself and the documents he needed. As he waited for the young, newly-appointed clerk to recognize his official status, he took a few moments to steady his pounding heart and wipe the sweat from his brow.

  Finally, permission was granted. With hands shak­ing, Athanasios pulled the Order Book in question, hoping against hope that at last he would hold his birth record in his hands. But once again it was not to be. Page 344 had been very carefully torn from the volume. There were not even any remnants of the page left in the gutter! He felt quite sure that the sheet would have answered all of his questions. That someone had wanted to leave those ques­tions unanswered was now perfectly obvious to him. Who­ever he or they had been, they had carefully hidden him away, eradicating almost all trace of his existence from the written records.

  Not quite all, however. Then something else oc­curred to him. He went back to the Order Book, and checked the surrounding pages. Nothing. However, the brief index in the front of the book recorded several other page citations, evidently financial accountings or other mis­cellanea relating to the execution of the order. These also had been meticulously excised. So had the accounts from the Order Books for i Kyprianos iii (1165) and ii Kyprianos iii (1166).

  But in iii Kyprianos iii (1167), the expense noted for the support of the child by Saint Svyatosláv’s Monastery was carefully recorded, as were all the expenditures for Afanásy or Athanasios in subsequent years. And in the book for 1168, Athanasios almost missed the most impor­tant record, a supplemental accounting from November in which an extra reimbursement was requested for expenses incurred “for restoring the health of the sick child Maksím alias Afanásy.” Now he had a name!

  But despite several more hours of searching, he could locate nothing else, and finally had to run to the cathedral to say his scheduled mass. He made it a cele­bratio of thanksgiving.