'Ware the Dark-Haired Man

by Robert Reginald

  “Do you really think all of this is needed?” Kiríll asked.

  “Perhaps not,” his brother replied, “but better to be prepared.”

  “I agree,” Arrhiána said. “The mood in the capital isn’t good. There’s much grumbling about the rationing of foodstuffs, and about the prolonged absence of the men­folk. I think we have to be careful. And in the country, the farmers are upset because so much of their reserve has been confiscated, and because of the lack of help in plant­ing new crops. Many of their women have had to go into the fields to assist.

  “What about tomorrow?” she continued. “Can fa­ther still function?”

  “I don’t know, Rhie,” Arkády stated. “He does seem a little better these past two days, but I can’t predict what he’ll say when put on center stage. All we can do is hope his better instincts reassert themselves and carry him through. He has to be seen and heard by the public. Peo­ple will simply not wait any longer for news. But what he’ll actually do....”

  CHAPTER TEN

  “IT ITH FORBIDDEN!”

  In another realm of existence entirely, one which cannot even be precisely described or delineated, the ifrit called Bezarduardakus was complaining quite vociferously to the King of the Ifrits, one Razafandrianavalonamerina, about its present assignment.

  “It ith forbidden!” it emphasized.

  “And how dost thou find thyself in thy present predicament?” the king inquired.

  “Not my fault!” it replied. “The witch thtole heart of Bezarduardakuth.”

  “Thou art a fool,” the king spat. “Thou knowest the trickery of these humans, and yet thou allowest one to en­trap thee. Still, thou art right about the law. Who is this mortal?”

  “Möthza offthpring of Karlomán,” it squealed.

  “The name signifieth nothing,” the king noted. “What is its cognomen?”

  “Not know,” Bezarduardakus admitted.

  “Ssst,” the king hissed.

  The little ifrit shrank back from its monarch, utterly terrified, but it wasn’t quick enough, for the king grabbed it around the waist and began to squeeze, turning it upside down over its own great mouth.

  A drop of green fluid oozed from the creature’s lit­tle head, and dribbled down onto the king’s black, forkèd tongue. The monarch’s huge mandible moved back and forth in obvious relish.

  “We know that flavor,” Razafandrianavalonamerina hissed. “We shall honor thy request. Thou art released from that one’s service. In recompense whereof, thou art deprived of thy separate existence for ten thousand years.”

  Then the monarch popped the little toad into its gullet, and crunched down on the tasty ort. It burped. It was good to be a king.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “ALL HAIL, KING KIPRIYÁN”

  On the first day of July, which is the Feast of Saint Ioulios the Martyr, the best-attended court in years was held in the Great Hall of Tighrishály Palace. Promptly at tritê, the new Hankyárar, Lord Frigyes Zsitvay, called the assembly to order, and the king marched to his throne in procession, flanked by Prince Arkády, Prince Kiríll, Prince Zakháry (who had arrived via viridaurum from Myláßgorod the previous evening), plus Prince-Regent Andruin and Princess-Regent Arrhiána.

  King Kyprianos iii was magnificently cloaked in his best finery, covered with an ochre-and-black linen tunic and shalvar, its only decoration an embroidered Tighrishi tiger. A black silk sash was wrapped tightly about his waist. In his manner and bearing, he was the embodiment of the Kórynthi monarchy.

  “All hail, King Kipriyán,” intoned the Hankyárar.

  “Hail, King Kipriyán!” came the unanimous re­sponse from the throng.

  Then the king rose from his throne, and held his hand high for silence.

  “My lords and ladies,” the great voice boomed, but was drowned out in continuing huzzahs.

  “My lords and ladies,” Kipriyán began again, “I have the honor to announce a grand victory at the Schilling­-Ford....”

  “What?” mouthed Prince Zakháry to his brother Kiríll.

  “...We have met the Walküre,” the king continued, “and he is ours. King Barnim is dead!”

  His words were whelmed by cheers.

  “His son, King Walther, will soon be dead!”

  The rafters shook with thunder, while Princess Ar­rhiána shrugged her shoulders at Prince Arkády, as if to say, “What’s he doing?”

  The king motioned for silence.

  “Our great victory did not come without a price,” he said, bowing his head. “My brave boy Nikolaí died fight­ing the good fight.”

  Groans replaced the cheers.

  “King Humfried, Prince Ezzö, Prince Pankratz, Prince Norbert,” he added, “they were all destroyed by the evil workings of the Dark-Haired Man.”

  Now women and old men at court could be seen weeping openly. Princess Teréza collapsed and fainted where she stood. Princess Arizélla rushed over to comfort her, together with a physician.

  “The Thrice Holy Patriarch Avraäm perished from a stytche in his heart,” the king stated.

  “And sad to say,” the old monarch continued, “there were many other brave men who perished at the Schilling-Ford while fighting for king and country.”

  “Who?” called some.

  “How many?” questioned others.

  More cries of anguish filled the court.

  “But,” he noted, “their sacrifice shall not be in vain. We withdrew from Balíxira to save our men’s lives. Many had been injured by the wicked spells and trickery of the papist-loving Walküri. But we shall soon return. We shall always return, until the persecutors of the True Church have been rousted from the earth.”

  Kipriyán looked for Arrhiána and Andruin among the throng.

  “Son and daughter, you have done well,” he com­mended. “I do now resume the throne of my fathers. You are relieved of your service, Prince-Regent Andruin and Princess-Regent Arrhiána,” he noted, repeating the official formula.

  “This court is adjourned.”

  They quickly led him to an antechamber, where he collapsed from the strain, and was tended by Doctor Melanthrix.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “ARIZÉLLA, DAUGHTER OF KAZIMIR”

  Early that afternoon, in his cell at the Abbey of Saint Theophanês, the Archpriest Athanasios finally found time to examine the two torcs in detail. One had been his birthright, part of his possessions from his earliest days, and the other had been a gift to him from Princess Arizélla, having originally been presented to her by Dowager Hered­itary Princess Zubayda as a memorial to Arizélla’s deceased father four decades before. He also knew from Arizélla’s testimony that many other torcs had once existed, and might still exist, if he could but locate them.

  He turned the bronze rings over in his hand. Clearly, they had been forged by the same craftsman. Al­though tarnished now, they had once been fashioned of some shiny copper alloy. A wreath of victory circled the torc, intertwined with an ouroboros, the symbol of immor­tality. Cut into the interior surface of each ring was an in­cuse cuneiform inscription.

  He held both torcs to the light and closely compared the lettering. Much to his disappointment, he could find nothing in common between them. The single vertical wedge at the beginning of each inscription must be a name determinant; it was repeated again about halfway through each line. He knew from what Arizélla had indicated that her torc supposedly read, “Arizélla, daughter of Kazimir.” Presumably his ring followed the same pattern. So there were two names indicated on each torc, each preceded by the upright wedge. There also appeared to be another, sin­gle-character determinant between each wedge and the fol­lowing name, slightly different but obviously similar, per­haps indicating “Prince” or “Princess” or “Royal,” possibly with a sexual differentiation.

  However, there was no correspondence whatever between the single word connecting the two names on Arizélla’s torc and the word in the same position on his. Unfortunately, the script was not a
pparently alphabetical. The cuneiform signs must either be syllabic in nature, or somehow stand for an entire component of each word or name.

  The pattern on Arizélla’s ring was:

  [wedge] [royal?] [?-?-?-?-?]

  [daughter of?]

  [wedge] [royal?] [?-?-?-?]

  or fourteen signs in all. On his torc, the pattern was:

  [wedge] [royal?] [?-?-?-?]

  [son of?]

  [wedge] [royal?] [?-?-?-?]

  or thirteen signs altogether. Perhaps Arizélla’s torc read something like this:

  [name determinant] [royal #1] [Ar-ri-ze-el-la]

  [daughter of]

  [name determinant] [royal #2] [Ka-zi-mi-ir].

  Alas, there were no correspondences between Arizélla’s name and Kazimir’s name. Then he compared the inscrip­tion incised on his own torc:

  [name determinant] [royal #3] [?-?-?-la]

  [son of?]

  [name determinant] [royal #2] [?-?-?-?].

  One symbol had been carried over from Arizélla’s torc to his ring! Also, there were three slightly different determi­nants indicating royal status. This didn’t help much.

  He scratched his beard. His torc just didn’t fit the pattern. He obviously needed more examples, and he needed to know the names of the recipients of each. But where to find them? He cast his mind back, and made a mental list of the surviving members of both royal houses in 1164. Kazimir had been killed in that year, but his fa­ther, Ezzö the Elder, had lived on until the following sum­mer, with Kazimir’s eldest son, Ezzö the Younger, suc­ceeding the grandfather in his pretensions. Kazimir had also been survived by a widow, Princess Mariámnë, and two daughters, Princess Arizélla, whose ring was accounted for, and Princess Ezzölla. Five memorial torcs could have been distributed to Kazimir’s family, and more might have been prepared after King Ezzö’s death in 1165.

  King Makáry had been killed at Dürkheim, leaving a widow, Brisquayne. Makáry had sired seven surviving children by his two wives: Hereditary Prince Néstor, who had been killed with his father; King Karlomán, who had died shortly thereafter of his wounds; Teréza, now the re­cently widowed consort of Prince Ezzö the Younger; Gen­thia, who had married Rufín Count of Arrhénë; and Brisquayne’s two daughters, Adèle and Sinthe, who had been infants at the time of their father’s death. Néstor had been married briefly before his untimely passing, but had left no children.

  Zubayda might also have had torcs prepared for her own surviving children: Khydeón, later Markos vi Patri­arch of Paltyrrha; Maríssa, wife of Chingíz Sultan of Juma’a; Margitélla, wife of Hardin King of Bremenburg; Mikhailína, wife of Dêmokritos Graf von Achaika; and Princess Mösza. Two other adult sons, Matvéy Count of Susafön and Menándr Count of Arkádiya, had died before their brother, Makáry. Memorial rings were probably also fashioned for Princess Zubayda herself and for her co-re­gent, Prince-Bishop Víktor. In toto, thirteen torcs could have been prepared for King Makáry’s family, although he admitted to himself that there could have been more.

  Some had undoubtedly been taken out of the country by their owners; others might have been lost in the four-decade interval since they were issued. But he would bet that Dowager Queen Brisquayne still had hers, and also knew where her daughters’ pair might be.

  He would pursue this with Brisquayne as soon as possible. In the meantime, he had a class to teach on “Spirit Taming” at the Scholê, and would be late unless he hurried.

  Athanasios whistled as he headed down the hall. There was nothing he enjoyed more than doing a little re­search, particularly when it dealt with his own possible past.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “I LOVE MY PAIN”

  At the palace, Queen Polyxena was trying to calm Princess Teréza.

  “They’re all gone, Xena,” the princess kept saying, “and they’re calling me to join them. I’ve dreamt about them for the last several nights. Even before the news came, I knew they were dead, all of them. They beckon to me in my dreams.”

  “Tréssa,” the queen begged, “let me take away some of the pain. Let me blur your memories....”

  “No!” the princess screamed. “No! I love my pain. I want to feel every lucid moment of my pain. Don’t you understand? It’s all I have left. I can’t even cry anymore. My tears have all dried up. My husband, dead. My sons, dead. My grandsons, dead. My only great-grandson, dead. Only sweet little Tína left alive, and I’ll never, ever see her again. The Walküri won’t let her go. They’ll marry her off to someone they can control.

  “Kipriyán understands. That’s why he brought Élla back to court. They’ve already written my granddaughter out of the succession. Don’t you think I know all this!” she shouted.

  “Maybe I’m not as quick as Arrhiána or as adept as Sachette,” she continued, “but I still know what’s going on. So what do I have left now? Pity, that’s all. Everyone looks at me like I’m some kind of wounded animal. I’m no longer the ‘Queen’ or even the ‘King’s mother,’ I’m that most embarrassing appendage, the royal widow, the pre­tender’s wife. Look at how they’ve treated Brisquayne all these years, how she’s had to become a self-effacing no­body. She can’t risk offending anyone, for fear that her little estate might be taken away from her. I don’t want that.

  “All of our sins, we’re paying for all of our sins,” she wailed. “Generations of sins. How many tens of thou­sands of innocent men, women, and children have died be­cause of our ambition? How many, Xena? And all so we could save the poor, benighted Pommerelians from them­selves.

  “We’re all hypocrites,” Teréza continued. “We say we want peace, and we spend the last thirty years at war. We say we love Pommerelia, and we spend hundreds of years trying to destroy it. We say we’re kings and queens, and the people just laugh at us. It’s all a lie. We’re a lie. And now we’ve received God’s judgment on our hubris. The House of Forellë has been rendered extinct in the male line, yea, even unto the fourth generation. Let it end here. Let us end here.”

  Then she ran off, and no further entreaties by Queen Polyxena would bring her back again.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “O COME TO ME”

  Later that day, the Princess Rÿna was playing house with her dolls in the Hanging Garden. The weather was perfect, the air warm and clear, with a breeze wafting through the trees, just strong enough to keep the earth from becoming overheated. She had seated her many playmates in three rows, all looking up at the central keep of Tighrishály Palace.

  “It’s almost time,” she noted, and took her own seat of honor among them.

  She gazed up at the Tower of Glass, so called be­cause several of the windows at the top featured colored panes, a rarity in such structures. Rÿna had visited the tower a number of times in recent years, making the long, winding climb to the top to see the Silver Bird, a robin sculpted by the great artist Rüssadir as if it was about to take flight. Why he had used the image of a robin, and for what purpose the image had been commissioned, and why it was posed in that position, no one really knew. He was known to have created many enigmatic works of art, and to have left them scattered at many different locations for the hoi polloi to admire.

  At the very top of the tower was an open platform from which one could observe the sights of the city, espe­cially at night. Now there appeared a woman dressed all in white, her pale face lifted up to the faint daytime image of the crescent moon. She climbed onto the lip of the low stone railing, and danced around the edge, singing merrily of youth and lost love and the tragedy of life. At one point she stopped, stripped off her shift, and let it drop over the edge. It twisted and turned in gay abandon as it drifted ever lower, a sprite upon the wind, like a ghost suddenly becoming visible where none had been before.

  The woman’s naked body gleamed brightly in the late afternoon sunlight. Rÿna thought she saw an aura of gold developing around it. She knew suddenly how to reach out with her own mind, and she touched the woman’s pretty eyes and face. The gold
ring on her finger glowed red.

  “Come to me,” the girl whispered, gently blowing the words one at a time into the air.

  “O come to me,” she said, watching them drift away on the wind.

  And still the woman danced, ever faster, ever more frenzied, ’round and ’round the lip of the tower, until she abruptly twirled to a stop, right on the edge, shaking with laughter, her glorious hair a-tousle, just above the point where Rÿna and her friends watched.

  “You are my chorus!” the woman cried. “You are my jury! You are my glory!

  “O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lass,” she added.

  “Come to me,” Rÿna said, putting her lips together and blowing.

  And so she did.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “FEASTING OFF THE DEAD”

  Four days later, on the Feast of Saint Noumérianos, a state funeral was held at Saint Konstantín’s Cathedral in Paltyrrha for the repose of the souls of the patriarch and the great lords of Kórynthia who had perished in the recent war. The returning Kórynthi army had finally reached Borgösha two days before, and the pickled bodies of the royals had been rushed to Myláßgorod, and then transited straight to the church in Paltyrrha. The service was presided over by Metropolitan Timotheos, acting in his ca­pacity as Locum Tenens of the Holy Church.

  Each of those being mourned was solemnly blessed in turn, his place in paradise being officially assured, be­ginning with the old Patriarch, Avraäm iv, as well as the deceased members of the Holy Synod, and continuing with Prince Nikolaí, King Humfried, Prince Ezzö, and Prince Pankratz. The body of Prince Norbert had not been recovered, having been ritually disemboweled and quar­tered, the parts being sent to all the major cities of Pom­merelia for display, but a symbolic casket had been set out for him, and it would be interred with the rest of his fam­ily. A second funeral mass would be held for the deceased Forellës in Bolémia on the following day.