On an impulse, she pulled the feather from her cap and tucked it carefully into the strap of his helmet.
“That’s an easy promise to keep, Rhie,” Nikolaí said, kissing her gently on the forehead. “Be kind, lovely sister.”
He stepped back and looked her over, as if wanting to impress the memory of her golden hair and bright blue eyes deep into his soul. Then he turned, mounted his horse with a jangle of spurs, adjusted his helmet so the feather was cocked at a jaunty angle, grinned his boyish, lopsided smile, and back over his shoulder tossed the words: “Remember me!” before riding up the boulevard to the palace.
She never forgot that day as long as she lived.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“AN INTERESTING CONCLUSION”
That evening, Otakar Count of Myláßgorod hosted a celebratory banquet to honor the king and his sons, the high councilors of state, and the officers of the Royal Army. The hall of the citadel was not nearly as large or sumptuous as that of Tighrishály Palace in Paltyrrha, and the food served there, while palatable, certainly not as well prepared, but both seemed like paradise to men who had been living on the road for several weeks, and who knew full well that this was likely to be the last civilized meal that they would consume for months.
Count Otakar was a sour-faced little man of some forty-five years. Nothing in life had ever pleased him except the acquisition of money, of which he had extorted more than his fair share from his unwilling peasants and noblemen. He had never married—the wags insisting that he’d never found a dowry large enough or a woman small enough to suit him—and so his heir was his boisterous cousin, Lord Zygmunt, who sat immediately to his right, as was his due, but to whom the count never deigned to speak a word during the entire meal.
Instead, Otakar drank flagon after flagon of cheap vinegary wine, growing increasingly dour as the evening wore on, and his guests consumed more and more of his precious food and drink.
Finally, he rose dutifully to his feet.
“A toast!” he squeaked, his flinty little eyes darting about the musty old hall. “I give you Kyprianos, King of Kórynthia and Overlord of Pommerelia!”
“King Kipriyán!” the lords all exclaimed, downing yet another round of drinks.
One could almost see Otakar toting up his expenses, cup by cup.
The king stood in turn to offer a counter-toast, to “Otakar, Count of Myláßgorod and Lord of Bölha!”
And they drank to that and to fifteen other worthies.
Otakar groaned out loud. This will bankrupt me, he thought to himself, even though he had purchased the cheapest provisions that he could find. He quietly burped, and rubbed the dull pain in his belly. Maybe too cheap, he thought. He had a terrible gyomorrontás of the stomach.
No one paid any attention to the count, though, until he suddenly slumped over into his cousin’s lap. Lord Zygmunt angrily tried to push him away, before belatedly realizing that something was seriously wrong with Otakar.
“Help!” he yelled. “Help! I need a doctor here!”
Fra Jánisar offered his services immediately, but quickly realized he was too late.
“Count Otakar is dead!” he said.
“Dead!” The word flitted around the room from nobleman to soldier, like a bee buzzing from flower to flower.
“Dead!” The whispering never seemed to stop.
Arkády immediately took charge of the situation, pulling Jánisar to one side.
“What is it?” he asked quietly.
“Poison, I’d say, from the look of him,” the doctor said. “Can’t be too sure unless I cut him open, but my gut tells me poison.”
“Then keep this to yourself,” the prince ordered.
“Of course,” Jánisar said. “What do you want me to do with him?”
“Let his heir handle the arrangements,” Arkády said. “I don’t want any cutting on the body. Officially, this will be considered a natural passing. Unbalanced humors, heart, whatever. I’ll report the real cause privily to the king.”
“Very well, Highness,” the physician said, grumbling, and went back to his late patient.
But Prince Arkády had no intention of telling his father what had really happened, for fear of what it might do to the king’s confidence. Instead, he carefully reviewed what he knew of the situation, and decided that one of three things must be true. Either Zygmunt had determined to move up his accession date by ten or twenty years, or one of the count’s subjects had thought to get an early tax rebate, or their insane killer was involved. But this was a straightforward murder, caused by the insertion of a physical medium into Otakar’s food or drink, and so it might actually be traceable.
Arkády quietly ordered the count’s plates, cups, and utensils sequestered, sending them to Jánisar for later examination. He also had the servants, servers, and nearby chairmates of Otakar questioned by experienced Psairothi, and decided to interrogate Zygmunt himself.
The new Count of Myláßgorod was happily receiving the condolences of his equally happy subjects, and assuring them that, yes, the tax burden would be eased a bit, a little bit, in the very near future, which made them pleased with the quick transition of government. Arkády groaned to himself: any of them would have had considerable justification for wishing Otakar buried deep within his grave.
“Count Zygmunt,” the prince said, “I wonder if I might see you for a moment?”
When the count motioned his new friends and supporters to one side, Arkády added a little more forcefully: “Privily, if you please.”
Zygmunt shrugged, and begging pardon from his guests, led the prince, accompanied by several of his guards, out of the main hall down a dingy corridor, and into the late count’s more intimate reception salon.
Arkády glanced around the dark-paneled room, which was rather plainly adorned with a set of old, faded, and somewhat threadbare tapestries. The tattered hangings had obviously been there for some time, their once brilliant colors now bedimmed with grime and neglect.
Zygmunt gave instructions to the men at the door that they were not to be disturbed.
Arkády wandered over to one of the hangings, and looked at it more closely, shaking his head in disbelief.
“This is one of Jaél’s pieces!” he said, as Zygmunt turned back into the room. “They depict the ancient flight of the Psairothi from Atlantis, and the subsequent sinking of that continent beneath the waves. If they were cleaned, they’d be priceless!”
The prince gazed at them in wonder.
“There’s not more than a dozen of his tapestries known to exist. We only have one at Tighrishály, and here you have a whole room full of them! See”—he said, pointing to the shield carried by one of the warrior kings of Atlantis—“note the scarab symbol. Jaél used it to mark all of his work.”
Arkády then walked around the room, looking at each of the coverings individually.
“Why, they tell the whole story of our race,” he said further. “Jaél is supposed to have been another descendent of Mikhaêl Dêmotês Phôstêridês, the founder of the Tighris line and all of our world.”
“I had no idea of their value, Highness.” The new count yawned, trying not to show his utter lack of interest. He brightened with a sudden thought.
“You’re certainly welcome to have them if they would mean something to you,” he said. “I intend to refurbish this entire building, and I would probably be disposing of them in any case.”
And it couldn’t hurt to do the king’s son a service, Zygmunt reflected, now that he was moving up in the world himself.
“Done!” Arkády said. “Save them for me and I’ll see that they’re removed to Paltyrrha for restoration as soon as possible.”
He cleared his throat.
“However, I need to talk you about something more urgent,” the prince continued. “I had your cousin’s body examined by the king’s physician, Fra Jánisar Cantárian, and he came to an interesting conclusion. Count Otakar was poisoned.”
“Wh-what
!”
If Zygmunt was faking his astonishment, Arkády was unable to detect it.
“Why, I had no idea,” the count said.
He put out a shaky hand and grasped the corner of a nearby desk to steady himself.
Arkády looked him sternly in the eye.
“You understand that we must be sure of what happened,” he said, “and yet there must be absolutely no hint of scandal breathed about this anywhere. So what I tell you here today must remain a secret.”
“I, uh, I swear, Highness.”
Zygmunt clearly saw the implications, and just as clearly wanted nothing to do with them.
“Anything you say,” he said.
“...And we must be certain,” the prince said. “Therefore, I request permission to touch your thoughts, to ensure that you had nothing to do with your cousin’s untimely passing. You do understand the reasons.”
Arkády could see the count visibly gulp with nervousness, as he weighed his alternatives.
“I’ll do whatever you want, Highness,” Zygmunt said.
“Very well, then,” Arkády said. “Just relax, and let me touch your forehead with my psai-ring, so!”
As he spoke, Arkády dove in swiftly, thoroughly exploring the man’s mind, but found nothing very deep there, certainly nothing out of sorts, other than the usual banalities and conceits common to most men. He was amused to confirm that Zygmunt had long dreamed of succeeding to his present position, but had absolutely no idea of what to do with his new-found power, now that he had suddenly acquired it.
“I’m satisfied,” the prince said, withdrawing his mind from the other’s thoughts. “Now, tell me what you remember of Otakar’s actions before the banquet.”
But try as he might, Zygmunt could contribute nothing of value to the investigation, since he had had little to do with his cousin on a daily basis; quite the contrary, they had avoided each other very deliberately. Arkády finally gave up and dismissed the much relieved nobleman, assuring him that he would have no further need of his services that day.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“WHY ARE YOU TORMENTING ME?”
Later that evening the prince received a more detailed report from Fra Jánisar. He was dismayed to hear that a telltale had indeed been recovered in the mind of one of the serving boys, who had obviously been compelled to put a drop of something lethal into Otakar’s cup before giving it to him.
“What can you tell me about the poison?” Arkády asked.
“Common stuff,” Jánisar said. “The murderer could have acquired it almost anywhere in the local area, could have distilled it himself, in point of fact, with a little knowledge and some equipment, which I’m convinced he had. No, there’s nothing here that will lead us to anyone else. Once again he’s covered his tracks completely.”
“We’re not getting anywhere with this, Ján,” the prince said, combing his fingers through his hair in frustration. “We’re always forced to react to things, we never initiate them. The killer’s always one step ahead of us. Is there anything we can do to draw him out?”
The physician sighed deeply.
“Without knowing the motivations for his actions,” he said, “we’re rather like that tiny ant you see there on the floor”—he pointed with his thumb to one of the parquet squares—“who wanders around in loops and in circles, endlessly questing, but knowing not what he seeks, until at last he happens upon a dead beetle or a crumb of food. Then he’ll mark the spot and hurry on back to his mates, so they can join the feast.
“We’re also running to and fro in aimless meanderings, and we’ll continue to do so unless we can think our way out of this conundrum by somehow ‘rising above the floor,’ thus gaining a new perspective, or until we stumble upon the ‘crumb’ of knowledge.”
The doctor stood up, scratched his head, and yawned wearily.
“Well, let me think about the problem and report back to you,” Jánisar said. “I have an idea that might work, but I need to check on something first.”
“And I need to get back to my men tonight,” the prince said. “I’m sorry for keeping you so late.”
As he turned to leave, he accidentally stepped on the ant, utterly crushing it and the bit of food it carried.
Arkády had decided on their arrival that morning that he would not remain with Kipriyán and the other officers in the citadel, as attractive an option as that might be. Someone had to watch over the nearby camp, and the king was better left to his rest in the castle.
When he reached his tent, the prince quickly called for Father Athanasios, and ordered him to take down a letter to be delivered to Princess Arrhiána in Paltyrrha. As he dictated, he reviewed the events of the day. It was obvious to him that their mysterious tormentor was still at work, and that he had traveled with them all the way from the capital. That fact reduced the number of possibilities considerably, unless he was an outsider, which the prince greatly doubted.
“‘Further’,” Arkády dictated, “‘I am convinced that the intent of the killer is not just to disrupt the workings of the court, but to instill a malaise into the very heart of the government itself. These acts are intended to humiliate all or some of us, and in the process to generate chaos. I am filled with the greatest forebodings, dear sister, and I ask you to pray most earnestly for our father, for your brothers, and for this, our enterprise’.”
Arkády indicated with a sweep of his hand that he was finished.
“Sign it as usual, if you please, and drop it into the dispatch pouch for delivery tonight.”
“Yes, highness,” the archpriest said, and bowed gracefully before withdrawing.
The monk did not comment about the news Arkády was sending to his sister, and for that, the prince was profoundly grateful. Then he checked the picket lines once more, and surveyed the peaceful camp full of snoring soldiers wrapped in their bedrolls. Dismissing his aides, he prepared himself for bed, and hoped he would be able to sleep in spite of the thoughts churning through his head. As he drifted off, he heard a voice—perhaps it was his own—crying out, “God help us. God help us all!”
* * * *
Meanwhile, in his apartment within the citadel, King Kipriyán was still pacing the floor, nearly beside himself with fear and anguish. Another one of his nobles had died under mysterious circumstances.
“Why?” the monarch cried out repeatedly. “Why me?”
Doctor Melanthrix paced along with him, trying to calm his master’s terror.
“Perhaps the attack was not directed at you, majesty,” the philosopher said. “The Count Otakar was not a popular man, and he undoubtedly had many enemies....”
“But you’ve always told me that the Dark-Haired Man is behind this vendetta,” the king said.
“True,” the philosopher said. “However, we are not convinced that this is one of those occasions.”
Now he led the king toward the huge gilt bed piled high with feather-filled comforters.
“You will sleep much better if you drink one of my potions,” Melanthrix said, “and in the morning, you will feel yourself again. Please, Highness,” he urged, pushing the silver phial towards the king’s trembling lips.
“Oh, very well,” Kipriyán said, grimacing as he forced down the evil-smelling brew.
“Where do you get this foul stuff?” he grumbled.
“Our ingredients are both rare and pure, majesty,” Melanthrix said, “but for you, they represent our especial gift, our little contribution to the health of the state.”
He watched closely as Kipriyán’s eyes began to flutter.
“Now we see you becoming drowsy,” he said. “Very good. Just lie back upon your bed, and let the mist take you. You will feel rested on the morrow, and none of these cares will seem quite as awful then. Just sleep.”
He gently pulled the linen coverlet over the loudly-snoring king, blew out the beeswax taper by the bed, and watched, lost in thought, as the smoke curled up towards the rafters. Then, like a ghost, Melanthrix drifted
quietly out of the room, and was gone.
But the king of Kórynthia slept restlessly that night, bedeviled by dreams of the Dark-Haired Man, whose shaggy form kept stalking and killing his family and his friends one by one.
“What are you doing to me?” he cried out in his anguish. “Why are you tormenting me?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“THE MAN HAD A BAD STOMACH”
On the next morning, the Feast of Saint Ktêsiphôn, a solemn memorial mass was held in the ancient Cathedral of Saint Stachys the Apostle at Myláßgorod, for the repose of the soul of Otakar late Count of that region. Presiding over the service was Metropolitan Ismaêl, who had transited from Paltyrrha early that morning; he was assisted by the frail and elderly Patriarch Avraäm. Many present remarked on the latter’s haggard demeanor.
Since this was Ismaêl’s see, however, it was appropriate that he give the homily, and so he began:
“My Lord King, Most Holy Patriarch, my lords spiritual and temporal, I come to praise a man who was ever dutiful to his king, and who paid his tithe to the church most regularly. He was never one to seek the flattery or praise of other men, nor did he....”
And he droned on and on in that fashion interminably, like a honey-laden bee floating lazily on the breeze, while many of the older members of the congregation began fidgeting and shifting their weight from one foot to another, trying to find a comfortable position. They stood in rows according to rank in the crowded little cathedral, with the king and his sons and the metropolitans of the church in the first range nearest the altar, and the others bunched up uncomfortably behind them.
Ismaêl was relating a remarkably tedious anecdote about the late count’s little-known and -appreciated acts of charity, which none present had ever witnessed or noticed, when he paused, swallowed heavily, a look of puzzlement suddenly coming over his beefy face, and abruptly keeled over dead.
Metropolitan Timotheos rushed over to his colleague, felt for an absent pulse, and began giving him the last rites. The old patriarch began to sob inconsolably, and had to be led away to his quarters by Archpriest Athanasios. The king’s face progressively went white with shock, then red with anger, that the sanctity of the church should be so blatantly violated.
Killingford: The Hieromonk's Tale, Book Two Page 6