With great dignity the Countess Tirÿna rose to her feet, and came quietly over to Maurin, hugging him very tightly. They could see her shoulders shaking with sobs. Then she turned a tear-stained face to the multitude.
“I’m sorry, dear Maurin,” she managed to choke out, “but Wyvin’s right. There’s so much to do now, and we cannot allow a lapse in government at this crucial time. Someone must take charge. If you will not be named Count, then you must at least be Regent, and I do so nominate you, pending confirmation by the king.”
Count Maurinos peered around at the semicircle of faces waiting for him to do something, and then looked for the dear image of his wife. When she came over, he pulled her close under his shoulder.
“God will testify that I did not seek this honor,” he stated, “but I also do not have the right to reject the responsibility.”
There were ragged cheers from the crowd.
Then he turned to Countess Tirÿna, and kissed her gently on the forehead.
“Cousine,” he said, “you will never want for anything as long as I live. Your daughters will have dowries, and all of you will always have a place in my heart and in my home. I do so swear, upon my honor as a Markstadt. So help me, God.
“Now, my dear friends and cousins,” he continued, “we have much work to do. Please sit with me, and I will tell you what I can of your menfolk. I am counting upon all of you to help us through this difficult time.”
And history has recorded that Maurinos III Count von Kosnick was one of the greatest representatives of his line, a fair and generous ruler whose name has ever been venerated as an exemplar of the best that a man can be.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
“SHRIVE ME BEFORE I DIE”
On the Feast of Saint Asaphos, the fourth day after Killingford, the broken remnants of the Kórynthi army finally reached Saint Paulinos’s again. But instead of the neatly-tended orchards, vineyards, and gardens that they had found on their previous visit, there was nothing left save burned fields, gutted rooms, and the scattered remnants of their baggage.
Of Prince Norbert, now the Forellëan heir to the throne of Pommerelia, who had been sent back to the abbey with five hundred men on the second day of the battle, in order to provide additional security for the women and the supply trains, they saw no sign. After much searching, one of the scouts discovered a burial pit a half mile away, and in it they found the rotting bodies of several hundred Kórynthi soldiers. Norbert’s corpus was not among them. It took some uncomfortable period of time to determine this with any certainty.
With the death of the patriarch several days before, and the loss of half of the Holy Synod at Killingford, the Archpriest Athanasios was now the senior surviving member of the church on the expedition. The events of the previous week had thoroughly shaken the cleric. Never had he seen such carnage or so many terrible injuries, and never had he so doubted the mercy of his God. But he had spent himself in his work, trying to help as much as possible the handful of physicians who were still functional, and he had been present to comfort Patriarch Avraäm when he had finally succumbed to his last attack of the heart.
The old churchman had removed his inscribed signet ring, and had handed it to Athanasios.
“My brother in Christ,” he had said, “put this emblem on your finger to take to Metropolitan Timotheos. He’s a good man and a strong man, and he should lead the church after me, if those old fools have any sense at all. Tell him also that I commend you to him as successor in his see. Give me your blessing, father, and shrive me before I die.”
The priest had done both, gladly.
Now Athanasios was being asked to serve the role of church representative on the War Council, until another could be appointed. They had cleared one of the less damaged rooms in the abbey, and erected makeshift benches there.
“My friends and brothers,” Prince Arkády said, “I don’t have to tell you what a parlous state we’re in. We have roughly five thousand men left; a third of these are injured, some quite seriously. Supplies are low, and we’ve found nothing here to eat. Prince Norbert and his stepmother, sister, and sister-in-law are all missing and presumed dead or captured. The king’s tent is burned, and the transit mirror destroyed. We carry with us the remains of my brother, Prince Nikolaí, as well as Prince Ezzö, King Humfried, Patriarch Avraäm, Prince Pankratz, Lord Tivadar the Hankyárar, Lord Navkráty, and many others—may they rest in peace!—pickled in brine and preserved in stasis.”
He paused, visibly moved.
“However, on the good side, we are apparently not being pursued by the Pommerelians, except for raids by the irregulars, and so we must assume that they have suffered losses comparable to our own. Also, many of our horses were saved, so we don’t lack for transportation. I have ordered our surviving scouts and other volunteers to ride constant patrols, particularly to the south, to try and locate any word of Junior or the other survivors. Already, we’ve stumbled across twenty men hiding in ravines near Killingford, and have brought them back safely.
“I propose that we wait here two more days,” he said, “and then begin the long trek home. Any comments or questions?”
“What about the king?” Prince Kiríll asked. “Shouldn’t we ask his opinion?”
Arkády sighed. “King Kipriyán was severely shocked during the final attack at Killingford, and has not been himself since then. He blames the Dark-Haired Man for what has happened, and believes that we should press our advantage now that we’ve beaten the Pommerelians. Does anyone support this position?”
He pointedly gazed around the room at the surviving council members. Kiríll looked down uncomfortably at the floor.
“Barring any disagreement, we will proceed as outlined,” Arkády said. “This council is adjourned.”
As they drifted away to their posts, Father Athanasios inadvertently overheard Prince Kiríll talking with his brother, Prince Zakháry.
“I hear that Papá is still being tended by that charlatan, Melanthrix,” said Zakháry. “Damned insolent bastard. That’s the only thing wrong with the king.”
“Not so loud!” Kiríll said, “Arkády might hear you. He’s the one who’s letting that quack treat father with his potions. I hear Melanthrix was responsible for the failed working.”
“What!” Zakháry said. “I thought Humfried suggested that.”
“Oh, he did!” his brother said. “But it was Melanthrix who showed him how to do it, and it was Melanthrix who was watching constantly from the battlements. I say that he fudged it, brother, he soured the magic, and then he blamed poor Humfried when it all went wrong.”
“Well, if that’s true, then I wonder what else he’s done,” Zakháry said. “I don’t like the way he hangs around Arkády’s family, either. He’s got Kásha’s wife jumping every time little Ari has one of his attacks. You know, he didn’t start having these ‘fits’ until Melanthrix showed up.”
“Yes, and that’s not all,” Kiríll said. “There was also the time....”
But they had drifted too far out of Afanásy’s range for him to hear the rest, and he couldn’t follow them without being too obvious. Instead, he sought out Prince Arkády.
“Highness,” he said.
“Yes, Father Athanasios,” the prince said. “I’m rather busy right now, so unless it’s important....”
“I thought you’d like to know about something I just heard,” the priest said, and proceeded to tell Arkády about his younger brothers’ conversation.
“Hmm,” the prince said. “There’s nothing I can do about it now, but I’d like you to keep your ears open, father, and report any further discussions of this type. In the meantime, there’s something you can help me with. Tonight I want to try contacting my sister Arrhiána in Paltyrrha, and we’ll need a number of Psairothi adepts in the link to get enough power to reach her at that distance. I’m thinking of using you, my brothers, several of the doctors, and anyone else you can suggest as part of the chain. Meet me here at sundown.”
Late
r that day, as darkness fell over Saint Paulinos’s, nine mages met in the same room that they had been using for the council meetings. They sat together in a circle. After they had centered themselves, they grasped the hands on either side of them, making certain that their rings were touching, and then waited for Prince Arkády’s guidance.
Using their combined energies, the prince mentally reached out towards the east, trying desperately to touch Arrhiána’s mind through the leys.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
“ANYTHING COULD HAVE HAPPENED”
Back in Paltyrrha, the princess was scrolling through a collection of verse in the old tongue by the ancient poetess Åyyá, when the page she was reading blurred, and she had a glimpse of a darkened ruin and nine men in a circle. She felt a nagging itch in the back of her consciousness, and tried to focus on the source, but without success.
Again, the group from Saint Paulinos’s tried to transmit a message, and again they failed to make contact. Finally, they gave up.
“We’ll try once more tomorrow,” the prince said, as they went their separate ways.
But Princess Arrhiána sought out Princess Dúra.
“I think Arkády just tried to reach me,” she said, “but we couldn’t link up.”
“Are you sure it was him?” Dúra asked.
“Not positively,” Arrhiána said, “but the direction was right, and I don’t know who else it could be. You heard that the viridaurum in father’s tent has been inoperative for four days. I’m very worried about the situation there. The last we heard, they were anticipating a big battle somewhere north of Balíxira. Then nothing. Of course, anything could have happened to the transit point; they’re very difficult to keep operational when being moved around constantly. If this was Arkády, then he’ll try again tomorrow night, and we need to be ready for him. Can you gather together some of the ladies?”
“Sachette, maybe?” Dúra asked. “And I hear Brisquayne just came back: she’d be another possibility. Teréza and Polyxena could also be included.”
“Brisquayne’s back already?” Arrhiána asked.
“Oh, yes,” Dúra said. “Her new great-grandson was finally born, perfectly healthy, and she decided to return early. I’m not sure why. I saw her just briefly this afternoon before she transited to Kórynthály.”
“Then by all means invite her,” Arrhiána said, “and the others as well. I’ll see who else I can find. I do hope Papá and my brothers are all right.”
“Oh, Rhie, so do I,” Dúra said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
“HAVE YOU CONFIRMED THIS?”
The next day was the Feast of Saint Akakios the Martyr. At midday the scout Çévik asked to see Prince Arkády privately, and gave him the news that he had been expecting to hear.
“Have you confirmed this?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” the chief scout said. “I saw it posted myself in Balíxira.”
“You’ve done well,” the prince said. “Continue the patrols today, but have everyone here by tomorrow morning for further instructions.”
“Aye, Highness,” Çévik said.
He saluted briskly before leaving.
The prince called the council together again that afternoon, and wasted no time in apprising them of the new situation.
“Our scouts have obtained some information that you need to hear,” he said. “King Barnim was killed at the river, or died shortly thereafter”—“Praise God!” Prince Kiríll interjected—“and has been succeeded by his eldest son, Prince Walther. They’re calling Killingford a victory, saying that the invaders were defeated, but the truth, at least according to what Çévik believes, is that their losses were at least as severe as our own.
“However, before you rejoice too much, we’ve learned that Prince Norbert was captured together with his women, and that the prince will be tried for treason at Balíxira several days hence. I don’t have to tell you what the outcome of that trial will be. We don’t have the men to take Balíxira, even if the Pommerelian army had collapsed completely, which I can’t believe it has. We’re surrounded by hostile forces, we have minimal provisions and many wounded, and in my estimation, we need to get home. With the king incapacitated, I need to hear your opinions before making a decision.”
Prince Zakháry raised his hand.
“I’ve had a chance to examine in more detail the readiness of our forces,” he said, “and we’re just not capable of mounting much of a fight. We lost most of our gear at Killingford, along with our supplies and the cream of our soldiery. If we start home now, we should be able to locate foodstuffs along the way, either from our own wagons or from whatever the local farmers have left. The partisans are no match for us. If we wait, Pommerelia will be forced to come after us, and I don’t think either side wants that, just now. So I vote for a strategic withdrawal.”
He chuckled, but there was no humor in the laugh.
“I agree,” said Prince Kiríll. “We’ll be lucky to get our injured men back safe.”
There was no dissension.
“I also concur,” Arkády said. “Very well, on the morrow we’ll break camp. I want our engines and any surviving buildings here burnt to the ground, together with any non-essential supplies. Begin gathering them at once. Are there any other matters to discuss?”
Zakháry spoke up.
“I charge Doctor Melanthrix with treason,” he said, “for disrupting the working at Killingford.”
“I join with my brother,” said Kiríll.
Arkády sighed, and paused a moment before responding.
“I will take your charge under advisement,” he said, “until we reach Paltyrrha. Now is not the time for recriminations. We need to find the best and quickest way home. That means that all of us must work together towards a common end. We have already sacrificed five-sixths of our force; we can’t afford to lose any others. The king should hear this accusation; if he is unable to, I will act on it at Tighrishály.”
The prince looked around the makeshift table, focusing particularly on his two brothers.
“I must ask you not to comment on this further,” he said. “In the meantime, I have an important task for each of you. We will try to reach our sister again this evening, but I suspect that the distance is just too great with the mountains intervening. It’s imperative that we make contact with home as quickly as possible, both to apprise them of our situation and to indicate what we will need for our men upon returning.
“Therefore, I am sending Prince Kiríll, Prince Zakháry, and Father Athanasios on a special mission. Tomorrow morning, at the same time we break camp, you will ride ahead on the fastest mounts we have, changing them at Karkára, and again whenever you meet with any of our men. Kiríll, you’ll take command at Karkára. Zakháry, you’ll assume command at Borgösha. Your tasks will be to secure our rear guard, get us supplies as quickly as possible, and clear the Skopélosz Pass so we can move our wounded through to the motherland.
“Father Athanasios, I want you to ride all the way through to Myláßgorod, and discretely inform Count Zygmunt of our situation. You will order him to secure his side of the Skopélosz, and to stop the flow of troops and wagons from the east. Then you will transit to Paltyrrha, and quietly and confidentially tell my sister and the Locum Tenens of the Holy Church what has happened here. Finally, after completing these tasks, you are further ordered to find and secure the Forellëan heir, the Princess Arizélla, and to bring her at once to Paltyrrha, with or without her cooperation.
“I will provide all three of you with the appropriate passes, and a special message for you, father, to take to my sister. You may commandeer whatever escort you need, but given the fact that there are irregular Pommerelian forces roaming everywhere, you might do better to emphasize speed over security.
“You will operate in total secrecy, and carry out my orders to the letter. Anyone opposing you will be considered traitors to the Kórynthi crown. Understood?”
“Yes, Highness,” they said.
“Very well,” Arkády said. “You’re all dismissed, except for Athanasios.”
He turned to the priest.
“Father,” he said, “I need you to take down a letter to Princess Arrhiána, and to prepare several passes.”
CHAPTER FORTY
“SOMEPLACE MORE PRIVATE”
Later that evening, the nine adepts at St. Paulinos tried again to reach Paltyrrha, but were ultimately frustrated by the tantalizing sense that with just a little more concentration, they might actually have broken through.
Back in the capital, however, Princess Arrhiána and her four ladies were able to confirm the contact, if not the message.
“Well, we do know they’re alive,” the princess said, “at least some of them. It was definitely Arkády.”
“But what was he trying to say?” Dúra asked.
“I just don’t know,” Arrhiána said. “I sensed an undercurrent of trouble, so I don’t think the news is good, whatever it is. All we can do is pray, and try again tomorrow evening.”
As the ladies prepared to depart, Dowager Queen Brisquayne stopped Arrhiána.
“I wonder if I might speak with you,” she said.
“Of course, Granny,” Arrhiána said. “I always have time for you. How was your trip to Neustria?”
“That’s what I wanted to discuss,” the older woman said. “I wonder if you have someplace more private where we could talk? Maybe even protected?”
Arrhiána glanced sharply at Brisquayne. This was most unusual. She had never known the woman to be more than a gossipy, ebullient busybody.
“Come to my chambers,” she said, leading the way. “How’s the baby?”
“My great-grandson is fine, and so are my children and grandchildren,” Granny said, while walking with the princess. “It’s nothing about them, although I guess maybe it is, in a way. I don’t know, anymore. I shouldn’t say anything else until we’re protected.”
In Arrhiána’s quarters was a small windowless room, a study almost, that she had carefully sealed against all psychic intruders, including some that weren’t Psairothi. It required the princess’s deliberate physical touch even to allow the passage of an individual other than herself into the space.
Killingford: The Hieromonk's Tale, Book Two Page 16