Melanthrix the Mage

by Robert Reginald

  Arrhiána snorted.

  “And, of course, hunting is more important than your daughter’s well-being! Then please let me take her, Arkády. Sometimes we womenfolk have more of a sense of how to deal with these things anyway.”

  “All right, all right, Rhie.”

  Arkády put both of his hands in the air in surrender, as he so often did with her.

  “You win, little goose, you always win.”

  He laughed out loud, a delightful sound to Arrhiána. It was good to hear him laugh for a change.

  “Besides, it’ll do her good to get away from this place of sickness,” he added.

  “And you go have your fun with your hunting and horses and men’s games, brother.” Arrhiána smiled lov­ingly back at him.

  “Dear sister, what would I do without you?”

  He shook his head, still grinning.

  “Now I must run, or father will really be mad!”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  “A MEDIUM RAT”

  After their noonday meal, the Princess Arrhiána and her niece, the Princess Grigorÿna, prepared to transit to Saint Ióv’s Church in Kórynthály.

  Arrhiána shooed Márissa away, and supervised her niece’s choice of dress herself. Together, they settled on a favorite of Rÿna’s, a pale blue satin dress embroidered across the bodice with delicate pink rosebuds, and trimmed about the waist and sleeves in fine Bremenburgan lace. The effect was charming, setting off her bright blue eyes and golden-red curls.

  Arrhiána had brushed Rÿna’s hair out carefully, combing through the tangles, and smoothing her charge’s wild tresses.

  “Ouch!” the little princess said, as Arrhiána applied the brush. “Ooh, Auntie, that hurts!”

  “That was a big rat’s nest, wasn’t it, Rÿna?”

  Arrhiána tried to be a little less vigorous in her at­tack.

  “Is this one for a baby rat or a medium rat?”

  “That was a medium rat,” the little princess said, then added, “Oh, I wish I didn’t have to comb my hair out ever, or wash it, neither. Márissa always hurts when she washes it. Sometimes I wish I was a boy, so I could cut my hair short, like Ari and Siggy.”

  “Ssst, dearest, you don’t wish that at all. Girls are much more special than boys, don’t you think?”

  Arrhiána gave her niece a final pat, and let her get down from the chair.

  “Ready, now? Shall we go?”

  Arrhiána had chosen a gown in royal blue today, sedately cut and trimmed in a pale cream which emphasized her alabaster complexion. She had thankfully given up black, more than a month having passed since poor Dolph’s death. With all that had happened, she had decided not to return to a brighter palette just yet, however. She was an arbiter of fashion and decorum at court, and she took this role seriously.

  Arrhiána wrapped herself in an ecru shawl knit from the fine Arrhéni wool gathered from her own flock of sheep. She bundled Rÿna in a miniature pink version which she had brought her niece as a special gift when she had returned to court in February.

  Holding her niece’s tiny hand tightly in her own, Arrhiána guided her onto the transit alcove, and twisted the leys for their short journey. A few moments later, the two stepped out into the vestibule of Saint Ióv’s Church in Kórynthály.

  “Thank you, Captain Kérés,” Arrhiána nodded, as the Gardes Élites sprang to attention.

  Giving him a letter marked with Arkády’s seal, Ar­rhiána explained her request to the young officer, and she and Rÿna exited from the church through the great bronze doors and out into the brilliant afternoon sunlight. In the distance to the east, Arrhiána could see clouds beginning to roll in from Arrhénë. It promised to rain later.

  Surrounded by their bodyguards, they stepped from the brick-paved courtyard to a broad, tree-lined avenue be­yond. From there they set out to walk the short distance to the house of Dowager Queen Brisquayne. As they strolled, Arrhiána pointed out some of the landmarks to Rÿna, chat­tering happily with her over the beds of sweet-smelling spring flowers beginning to push their brightly-colored heads through the rich, dark loam.

  Kérés in the meantime dispatched several of his men and a jinrikisha to the convent to fetch the Princess Sachette hence in response to the order signed by the hereditary prince.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  “IT FEELS LIKE A BUTTERFLY”

  “My dears!” said Granny Brisquayne, as she welcomed her two young guests with kisses and hugs, “oh, what a pleasant treat this is for me. Oh, let me look at you both. What a pretty dress, Rÿna. Why, Rhie,” the old woman burst out in amazement before thinking, “I do be­lieve she’s the image of Mösza, isn’t she? She’s going to look just like her, don’t you think!”

  Arrhiána stiffened, and looked from her grand­mother to her niece.

  “I, I’m not sure, Granny,” she said, hesitating. “I never really knew her.”

  “Who’s Mo-Moëssa, Granny?” the little girl asked.

  Granny laughed a little uncertainly, recalling what she had told Arkády and Arrhiána during their earlier visit.

  “Why, she was your great-great-aunt, my dear. That was a very long time ago, of course.”

  “Where is she now?” Rÿna asked.

  “Why, I just don’t know!” Brisquayne said, less vibrantly this time. “She didn’t tell me where she was going, did she? Now,” she added, changing the subject, “I wonder if we might have some sweets around here for good little girls. Hmmm. Emöke!”

  “Yes, lady,” said the servant, abruptly appearing at the door to the salon.

  She was a rather plain little serving girl with a pinched, frowning face, wearing a dark, severely tailored gown and crisp, white apron.

  “Ah, there you are, Mokey! I haven’t seen you for hours and hours,” the old lady said. “Bring some cakes and candies for my little great-granddaughter, and tea for the princess and me,” she added, glancing at Arrhiána, who nodded.

  “Very well, lady,” Emöke said dully, ducking her head as she plodded her way down the hall.

  “I give up on her,” Brisquayne said, with a resigned shrug of her narrow old shoulders. “Heaven knows I try to teach them some manners, but it’s quite impossible. And do they ever thank me for it? No, of course not.

  “Oh,” she said, quickly changing the subject again, much to Arrhiána’s amusement, “did I remember to tell you that I’m leaving next week?”

  Arrhiána nodded affirmatively.

  “Of course I did, silly old me,” Granny said. “I must go south, you know, for the birthing of my great-grandchild. Let me see, that’d be your second cousin, Rÿna,” pulling the little girl to her side and pat­ting the child affectionately.

  There was a sudden commotion at the front of the house, and the queen’s doorman appeared to announce the arrival of Princess Sachette, called Sister Vibiana in con­vent. She entered accompanied by Captain Kérés, who guided her to a chair, then withdrew, bowing respectfully to the ladies.

  “Chette!” Arrhiána said, “how good to see you again so soon.”

  “Oh, thank you, Rhie, for getting me out of that place, even for a brief time.” Her sister smiled. “Thank you, thank you.”

  Arrhiána moved to her sister’s chair, and embraced her fondly for one long moment.

  “I don’t think you’ve talked with Kásha’s daughter Rÿna in quite some time, have you?” Arrhiána said.

  She stepped to one side and urged her niece for­ward.

  “Is my little angel truly here?” Sachette stretched out her arms. “Oh, may I see her?”

  “Of course you may, dearest,” her sister said. “Rÿna, stand very still, please, and let your aunt touch your face with her hands.”

  Like a sculptress feeling the shape of the clay that will soon become a work of art, Chette ran her hands gen­tly over the child’s soft, flowing locks, then moved to the front of her head, quickly outlining her brow, eyes, nose, cheeks, and mouth, and leaving nothing but love behind.

>   “Oooh,” said Rÿna, “it feels like a butterfly.”

  Sachette giggled.

  “You have such a beautiful face,” she told the child. “I can see you in my mind’s eye.”

  “Now, touch her right palm, Chette,” Arrhiána said.

  The young woman allowed her two hands to flow down, following the contours of Rÿna’s arm, until they fi­nally settled on her outstretched fingers.

  “Well, Rÿna,” she said, “I think all five are still there.”

  The little girl laughed gaily, a sound like the tin­kling of silver bells.

  “But what’s this thing here?” Sachette asked.

  “Oh, something just stung me in the garden today,” Rÿna said.

  “Well, that wasn’t very nice, now, was it?”

  Sachette continued to explore with her fingers the curves and valleys and swirls of her niece’s palm, the leys of her life.

  “It cuts across everything, Rhie, her whole line, here and here.”

  She held the tiny hand open so that Arrhiána and Granny could examine it more closely.

  “So I see,” Arrhiána said quietly, centering herself and keeping careful control over her emotions.

  “Who could have done such a thing to her?”

  “It’s a making,” Granny said, in a no-nonsense tone of voice.

  “A what?” both the younger women asked simulta­neously.

  “A making. It’s a kind of magical working they do somewhere in the east,” the older woman said. “I’ve only seen a few of them in my lifetime, and that was many years ago. Here, we’d call it a geas or a compulsion, but it’s not the same thing, really. It binds to the flesh and then stays there until called upon, if ever. Certain condi­tions have to be met for it to act. That’s about all I know of such magics, except that there are more things under the sun, Arrhiána, than you may have dreamt of in your phi­losophy.”

  “Can you remove it?” Arrhiána asked.

  Granny sighed and shook her head.

  “Only the one who imposed it can take it back. Eventually, of course, it will work itself out, do whatever it will do, and then fade away.”

  “What will it do?” Sachette asked.

  “Well, that I can’t answer, my dears,” Brisquayne said. “I wish I could.”

  “I’m scared, Granny,” Rÿna said. “I didn’t do anything bad, really I didn’t.”

  The old lady folded the child into her arms, patting her comfortingly for a moment or two.

  “I know you didn’t, child, and I don’t want you to worry about it. This will probably be nothing. It won’t hurt, it won’t change you, and when it acts, you won’t even know it happened. Now, let’s just see if we can find some of those sweets. Mokey? Where are you, girl? I swear, she’s as slow as syrup in January, that one.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  “WHO? WHO?”

  Later that same afternoon, King Kipriyán took his honored guest, Duke Ferdinand, hunting east of Kórynthály in the Börzsö Forest, a large, well-stocked game preserve maintained exclusively for members of the Royal House of Tighris. Accompanying them were King Humfried and his sons, the Princes Pankratz and Norbert, the Hereditary Prince Arkády and his brothers, the Princes Nikolaí, Kiríll, and Zakháry, Gorázd Lord Aboéty, Lord Feognóst, and numerous retainers.

  The day was brisk as they rode out, and the hunters wore heavy, double-woven woolen cloaks over sturdy leather hunting jerkins and breeches to protect themselves from the chill. The king looked especially regal astride his favorite black stallion, Marauder. The spirited steed plunged and reared, but Kipriyán kept firm control. He was a master horseman, and he took great pride and plea­sure in showing off his skills to his cohorts.

  Angry, dark clouds in the east threatened rain as the party entered the woods, and an invigorating breeze scented with pine and damp earth fanned their cheeks, which were reddened from the cold. Silver flasks of strong, searing liqueur were passed about, and there was an air of cama­raderie and good humor amongst the group, now that the negotiations concerning the alliance had been settled to ev­eryone’s satisfaction, everyone, that is, if King Humfried’s wishes were discounted.

  Because the hour was late, the king had arranged for a line of beaters to drive the animals through the trees to­wards the hunters. They waited impatiently for the game to come to them, armed with bows and lances, a few hundred yards inside the southern edge of the preserve. The neces­sity for silence kept the conversation low and desultory. Not long after they took up their station, a light rain began to fall, slowly soaking through the umbrella of leaves to drop onto their cloaks and gear. A mist began to rise in the underbrush.

  A crashing could be heard in the distance, moving closer, ever closer, and the king held up his hand in warn­ing. The men notched arrows into their bows, ready to let fly as soon as something—anything—moved. Suddenly, two panic-stricken does jumped right at them, seemingly from nowhere, snorting vapor out their twin nostrils like miniature dragons, their wild, white-rimmed eyes rolling here, there, desperately seeking a sanctuary which did not exist.

  The snick of bowstrings and whir of arrows filled the air. One of the deer crashed to the ground, mortally wounded, blood gushing from its mouth. The second, however, miraculously managed to escape its supposedly inevitable death, and was soon lost in the brush.

  “Damnation!” Kipriyán said. “Missed that one.”

  The servants dragged the bleeding corpse away from the scene of its demise while the men reloaded. The rolling fog had thickened now, reminding the king of the great Åvarswood, where he and three hundred of his men had been cut off and trapped by the barbarians some fifteen years before. That had been as close as he had ever know­ingly come to death, save for the attack on Marysday. The great, moss-wrapped trees and oozing, impenetrable mist had hidden the enemy until they were right in their midst. Then it had been every man for himself, in a swirling ca­cophony of thrust and parry, using the huge trunks as allies to guard one’s back. Just sixteen of the rangers who had started out that day to scout their way north had survived the ten-mile trek back to their main force. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  All at once three more deer were upon them, leap­ing through and over the underbrush and around the great boles of the evergreens. One doe went down immediately, bristling with arrows, kicking out spasmodically in her final agony. Her companion, a large buck, dark as a horse and sporting ten points at least, took a shaft deep in the muscle of its left shoulder, then swerved to avoid Humfried’s mount. The beast stumbled over a root as it turned, and drove its lethal antlers right into the belly of Kipriyán’s steed, one prong catching the king’s left leg in the calf. The com­bined ménagerie à trois crashed to the ground in an unruly heap, breaking Kipriyán’s right leg cleanly below the knee.

  Nikolaí promptly spurred his frightened mount for­ward and drove his lance into the beast’s heart, killing it in­stantly. Arkády leaped from his saddle, quickly drew his dagger, and slashed Marauder’s throat to stop his convul­sive kicks from further injuring the king. In his mind, he blessed the noble stallion who had served his father for so long and so well.

  Sleep soundly, old warrior, he breathed, sleep for­ever in peace.

  Together, he and Nikolaí carefully eased the inter­twined carcasses back from the monarch’s legs, holding them as still as possible to prevent further injury. Bless­edly, the king had lost con­sciousness from the pain.

  “Kir,” Arkády said, “ride to Kórynthály and alert Jánisar. Zack, summon the beaters. We’ll need help carrying father back to the wagons.”

  To Nikolaí, he said, “Here, help me stabilize his energy. Why did this have to happen now?”

  Overhead, a lone white owl watched the proceedings dispassionately from his aerie, one eye thoughtfully closed, knowing full well that the humans below were too preoccu­pied with their own petty concerns to bother with his.

  “Who?” he asked. “Who?” he repeated again. But no one both
ered to reply.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  “HE MUST TELL

  ME WHAT HE DID”

  In the wee hours of the morning, Prince Arkády was wakened from a sound sleep by a pounding on his door. As he tried to wipe the night haze from his eyes, his ser­vant quietly approached his bed.

  “Highness?” he said. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but....”

  “Thank you, Tyrvón,” the prince said, “tell them I’ll be there in a moment.”

  Arkády quickly pulled on a tunic over his night clothes, trying not to disturb Dúra, and hurried to the vestibule of his apartment. An obviously frightened officer stood there, his greatcloak dark from the rain.

  “Captain Kérés, sir,” the soldier said, saluting. “I’m in charge of the detachment at Kórynthály.”

  “What’s happened, captain?” the prince asked.

  “Uh, I didn’t know what to do, sir,” the officer said, ducking his head and shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “You see, one of my boys reported a disturbance in the tombs, and when I checked what was going on, well, I saw the king there.”

  “The king!” Arkády blurted out.

  “Yes, sir,” Kérés said. “I was as surprised as you are, sir, but the king’s the king, and it’s not for me to say, now, is it? But when I saw him crying and carrying on and such, and talking to someone who wasn’t there, well, I thought I’d better tell you right away. I mean, I’d thought you’d like to know, sir, seeing as how he was in­jured today and all.”

  He cleared his throat nervously before continuing.

  “Of course, sir, if you just want me to ignore this....”

  “You did exactly right, captain, and I won’t forget the service you’ve done me tonight,” Arkády said, lost in thought. “We’ll need Fra Jánisar and...no, belay that! Tyrvón, ask one of the ladies to fetch Princess Arrhi­ána, and have her meet me in the transit chamber down the hall. Captain, you’re with me.”