'Ware the Dark-Haired Man

by Robert Reginald

  When he appeared, Kiríll took the initiative.

  “You were responsible for maintaining Lord Gorázd’s schedule?” the prince inquired.

  “Yes, highness,” Monck replied, “for the past twenty years.”

  “With whom did he meet this morning?” Kiríll asked.

  “Because of the council meeting, he had only one appointment scheduled for this morning,” the servant noted, “with the Bishop Varlaám.”

  “What!” shouted the prelate, rising in his place. “That’s a vicious lie!”

  “You see the man standing there,” Kiríll stated. “Is that the person you saw enter your master’s apartment this morning?”

  “Yes, it is, highness,” Monck avowed. “I have no doubt whatever.”

  “Thank you,” the prince acknowledged. “You’re dismissed.”

  Then he turned to Varlaám.

  “Sir, do you wish to recant your story?” the prince inquired.

  “I was not there,” the frightened bishop replied. “I don’t know what else I can say.”

  “Then where were you?” Kiríll asked.

  “In my cell at Saint Theophanês’s,” Varlaám re­sponded, “praying and preparing for this meeting.”

  “Did anyone see you there in the hour prior to tritê?” the prince continued.

  “I don’t believe so,” the bishop said.

  “Then I order your arrest for the murder of Lord Gorázd and others, subject to confirmation by the king.”

  He looked at his father, who nodded his acquies­cence.

  “Guards, seize him!” Kiríll ordered.

  “Wait! I didn’t do anything,” Varlaám frantically pleaded. “Majesty, help me, please!”

  “Melanthrix, probe him,” the king ordered.

  “No! I...,” the priest protested, but before he could speak further he was abruptly jabbed with the “szósz,” a drug that tended to dull the mind and put the recipient into a sound sleep.

  Melanthrix’s thin white face suddenly loomed over Varlaám’s wide, pink one, and the priest’s brown eyes seemed to melt and retreat under the cold blue orbs staring down at him. They sucked out his soul from his brain like a yolk being drained through two small holes in an eggshell. One could almost hear the spirit slurp as it de­flated.

  The prelate’s body abruptly went limp, and Melan­thrix looked up, his demeanor cool and satisfied.

  “We regret to inform you,” he stated, “that the Bishop Varlaám is guilty as charged. Alas, that he perished during the interrogation.”

  “Take him away,” Kipriyán ordered the guards, “and bury him in unhallowed ground in the potter’s field.

  “Grand Vizier,” he continued, “whom do you sug­gest as Varlaám’s replacement for the office of Locum Tenens of the Holy Church of Kórynthia?”

  Doctor Melanthrix paused for a moment, as if to consider carefully the problem.

  “Ah,” he said, “as to that, we have another church­man resident on this council, and certainly one as worthy as the late Varlaám. We commend the Archpriest Athana­sios to your majesty’s consideration. Indeed, God Himself showed His approval this morning, when Athanasios saved your majesty’s life.”

  “So he did!” the king agreed, suddenly pounding the priest on the back.

  “I agree!” he ordered. “Record it, Melanthrix.”

  Athanasios was dumbfounded by this turn of events. To have gone from simple priest to acting head of the Church of Kórynthia was beyond anything he had ever an­ticipated or sought. He thought to protest the appointment, particularly since he was sitting in the place of the true pa­triarch, but then he recalled the fate of several others who had so recently taken a stand against the king, and decided better of it. He would bide his time, and seek a way to re­store his friend Timotheos to his proper place.

  “Further,” added the king, “I hereby appoint the Grand Vizier, Doctor Melanthrix, to be Lord Governor of the City of Paltyrrha, and on this day I have created him Lord Fértö, with his fief situate in the County of Marrhás.”

  Kipriyán motioned to Athanasios, who passed along the appropriate decree of appointment and letters patent to the old philosopher.

  “Kudos, Lord Fértö!” the king announced, and fol­lowing his lead, all present thumped their breasts in accla­mation.

  “This meeting is adjourned!” Kipriyán declared.

  Afterwards, Father Athanasios followed Melanthrix out into the hall.

  “Congratulations, Melánty,” the priest offered. “Are you sure you’re all right? You look very tired to me.”

  “Kudos to you, Athy,” Melanthrix replied. “We have, perhaps, been burning the midnight candle too many times. And all this violence, it takes its toll upon every one of us. Soon, we hope, very soon it will all be over, and we can rest again. It seems so long since we’ve been able to sleep all the night through, and feel refreshed again the next day. But we do appreciate your concern. No one else much cares about us except the Princess Grigorÿna and Prince Arión.”

  “Surely that’s not true,” Athanasios said. “You must have other friends.”

  “You know the answer to that question better than we,” the philosopher stated. “We gave up our personal life many years ago to pursue our studies, and when we re­turned to the real world, we found it very much changed, and ourselves along with it. Now, we have only our pur­pose left, and those few individuals who seem to appreciate what little we have to offer. But enough of us. We are only an old fool who has not very long to live. Tell us in­stead what you have been doing with yourself.”

  Athanasios then talked in general terms about his quest for the origins of his existence.

  “I’ve seen some progress,” he continued, “but for every twist and turn that I make, for every advance, I either come to some ending that I didn’t expect, or what I find makes no sense to me, and leads me nowhere.”

  “Why is this search so important to you?” Melan­thrix inquired. “What possible difference can it make if you discover that you are the son of a king or the son of a sheepshearer? Are you not who you are...inside?”

  He punctuated the remark by stabbing Athanasios in the breast with his long, alabaster forefinger.

  “Oh, I’ve talked about this with Arik, too,” Athana­sios responded. “It’s just that for me, somehow, my life seems inextricably tied to the past. I can’t even explain it very well. I have this sense that if I knew who my parents were, I’d suddenly have a much better picture of why I am, and that it would make all the difference in the world to me, that it would clarify things, somehow.”

  “Why should that be?” Melanthrix posed.

  He cocked his head as if listening to the spheres, to some unseen music that no one else in the world could pos­sibly hear.

  “I don’t know, Melánty,” the priest admitted. “It matters to me, I guess. Perhaps if I find the answers to my questions, I’ll be able to answer your question.”

  “Well, should you fail to find an answer to either of our questions,” the old man stated, “you can be our child, for we would be proud to acknowledge you.”

  Athanasios laughed out loud.

  “I bet you would, you old reprobate,” he responded. “Come along now, let’s go find some food. You can join me for dinner and tell me of your plans for my continued fostering.”

  “So we shall, my boy, so we shall,” said the philoso­pher, as they walked off together.

  From a shadowy alcove in the hall, the brothers Kiríll and Zakháry watched with fitful jealousy, waiting for the devil to find his way back into Hell.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  “WHAT YEAR IS THIS?”

  Late that evening, after the king was carefully se­dated by Polyxena, the queen took herself to the Chapel of Saint Hyakinthos, where she met with Patriarch Timotheos and Archpriest Athanasios. Joining them were the Princes Kiríll and Zakháry, and Captains Kérés and Fösse, with ten each of their men. All but the priests and queen were heavily armed.

>   “I again ask all of you,” she said, “to understand full well what we attempt to do here tonight. Some would dare call it treason. I dare to call it patriotism. The reasons will not matter if we’re caught. Are you with me?”

  There were rumbles of agreement from all of them.

  “Then please bless our enterprise, holiness,” she begged.

  Timotheos touched each of them with sacred water, and then gave them his special benediction.

  “It’s in God’s hands, now,” the queen iterated.

  The patriarch led the way to a private alcove in his apartments in the abbey, where they transited a few at a time to the Chapel of Saint Ambrosios the Base, located within the Keep of Legalsó Vár in northwest Paltyrrha, near the city wall.

  The “Hole,” as it was popularly called, had been built during the time of King Matvéy two hundred and fifty years before, to house both high- and low-security prisoners of the state. The more transient populace of the prison was located in the top layers, erected above street level, where the detainees could be easily moved in and out by their jail­ers. Sensitive clients, however, including political prison­ers, were housed deep within the bowels of the gaol, in sections mined far beneath ground level, where access could be tightly restricted.

  The queen’s entourage was dressed quite plainly, the patriarch and Athanasios being clothed merely as black-robed chaplains, and the princes outfitted as additional guards following the captains. The queen, of course, ap­peared as herself.

  Polyxena marched forthrightly out of the chapel, and straight to the first of a series of guard stations, duti­fully followed by the two priests and her security troops.

  “The Queen of Kórynthia to see Prince Arkády, Princess Arrhiána, and Princess Sachette,” she demanded in a stern voice, handing over a pass signed by the king.

  The sergeant on the other side of the iron gate looked askance at the little group, and pointed at them with the rolled-up piece of paper.

  “Who’re these?” he asked.

  “Two priests and my personal guard,” she replied.

  “And who are you?” she inquired.

  The sergeant squirmed and looked down again at the pass. He couldn’t read, although he would never admit that.

  “Umm,” he said, “sorry, majesty, I just have to ask certain questions. Please go right on through.”

  He unlocked the gate, and swung it open. As they passed the guard, Prince Kiríll suddenly hit him from be­hind, knocking him unconscious. They pricked him with a pin smeared with the “kókk,” which would keep him out for another few hours, and hid him in an alcove. One of their own guards traded clothes with him, pocketed the master keys, and took up the previous occupant’s station. Then they relocked the gate before proceeding, carefully pre­serving the pass.

  Prince Kiríll had been here several times before, in the role of gaoler, and he knew the general layout of the place.

  “They’ll be in two different wings,” he advised. “They keep the men and women separated. We need to go down seven levels on the left side to find Prince Arkády.”

  At Level Two they came to another guard station, this one staffed by two men.

  Again Queen Polyxena demanded entrance, handing over her pass.

  “This is dated a week ago,” the sergeant noted. “And it only allows passage for two persons.”

  “Oh, I never pay much attention to these things,” the queen replied, “and I don’t think anyone else does, ei­ther. The clerks write so many of them that they tend to repeat the same language. You know the rule, sergeant: I’m not supposed to go anywhere without my security de­tail. King’s orders. Of course, if you want me to bother him and bring him over here, I’m sure....”

  “Very well!” the guard acknowledged. “We’ll pass you through. Gensrick,” he ordered, “unlock the gate.”

  As soon as they had entered, their troop pulled out weapons, disarmed the two guards, drugged them, ex­changed clothing with them, dragged them off into an al­cove, and left two of their own sitting in their place at the entrance. Then they relocked the gate, and continued on down to the next section.

  The third and final security check was encountered at Level Six.

  The guard stationed there took one look at the queen’s pass, and gave it back to her.

  “Sorry,” he said, “this isn’t valid here. You have to have a special pass just for this section.”

  “Really?” Polyxena responded, batting her eyes. “Nobody told me that, and I haven’t had to use one on my previous visits. Of course, that was during the day, and you weren’t here then.”

  “Nevertheless,” the guard replied, “I can’t pass you through without the proper paperwork. Also, no weapons are allowed beyond this point. No exceptions. Sorry, but it’d be my job.”

  “But I came all the way here just to see my chil­dren,” the queen explained. “Can’t you let me in, or at least bring them here to see me?”

  “Well, as I explained,” the man indicated, “this is the high-security level, and we don’t allow anyone in here without a duly authorized pass.”

  “I certainly hate to get the king out of bed,” she whined, “but if that’s the way it is....”

  She turned and nodded slightly.

  “Highness,” the guard said, “I couldn’t even let the king....”

  There was a whir in the air and a flash in the dim light, and suddenly the end of a knife was sticking out of the man’s eyesocket. He slumped forward.

  Then Zakháry used his abilities to tease the keys out of the guard’s pocket. The locks here were protected against mental intrusion of any kind, and could not be picked except by mechanical means. He unlocked the door, and they trooped through. The patriarch immediately gave the guard an abbreviated version of the last rites. Again, they exchanged uniforms and dragged the body off, leaving one of their own in place.

  Kiríll checked the master map.

  “This way,” he said, heading down to Level Seven.

  The stench in this section was almost overpowering, although one did become used to it after a time.

  The prince used his ringflame to compare the num­bers over the cells to the master list.

  “Sixty-eight,” he read. “No, that’s Rössvald. Ah, here it is, sixty-nine.”

  His brother Zakháry used the master key to unlock the door, and swung it back.

  “Kásha,” Kiríll whispered.

  “Kir! Is that really you?” his brother gasped.

  Then he was out and embracing his mother and brothers.

  “God, how good it is to see a loving face again,” he said with relief. “But, what about Rhie and Chette?” he asked.

  “They’re next,” Kiríll stated. “What do you know about your neighbors here?”

  “Almost all of them are political prisoners,” Arkády indicated. “If we want to get out of here alive, I strongly suggest you free as many as possible, and arm them. But be careful: the guards make regular patrols through this level. There should be another one coming by here in a few moments.”

  Zakháry ordered Kiríll and Kérés to take half the re­maining men and go to the righthand wing of the structure to rescue the women. Meanwhile, he and Captain Fösse and their remaining troop set about freeing the other pris­oners of Levels Six and Seven, beginning with Rössvald.

  The haggard old man staggered out of the cell, looking wildly around him, his gray beard straggling down to his waist.

  “What year is this?” he croaked, barely able to talk.

  “Year xli of King Kipriyán,” the queen replied.

  “My God!” Rössvald gasped, “I’ve been here nearly four decades.”

  “Who imprisoned you?” Arkády inquired.

  “The regents,” the prisoner noted, “I....”

  The rest of his remarks were lost as a guard came ambling around the corner of the passageway, saw them, and drew his sword.

  “To arms!” he yelled. “To arms!”

  Then he att
acked them, but the experienced Fösse cut him down immediately.

  “Come,” he said, “we need to move fast now.”

  More and more prisoners were now joining them. Fösse tossed the dead guard’s weapons to several of the younger ones, who obviously had just been recently incar­cerated, and were still in reasonably good physical condi­tion, certainly well enough to fight.

  One by one the cells were opened. Some of the de­tainees were incapable of walking, while others were dead. Several of the units were empty, including one supposedly inhabited by Zélénÿ, the well-known political satirist, who had left behind the detailed picture of a forest landscape drawn perfectly on one wall, a makeshift, burnt-out torch lying at its base.

  Then a half dozen guards suddenly attacked them from both sides, and they were fighting for their lives. When one of their own men, the soldier Pál, was injured, falling heavily to one side, a prisoner grabbed his weapon and stepped in his place. The six gendarmes were quickly overpowered, four of them being killed.

  Within an hour they held Levels Six and Seven, and all the prisoners there had been freed, including the Princesses Arrhiána and Sachette, and the Lords Vydór, Báltoff, Emming, and Beÿkö.

  It was Zakháry who brought them the bad news.

  “The alarum has spread to the upper levels,” he said. “I suspect the entire guard will be called out soon, if it hasn’t been already. They’ve got the passageway beyond the control gate at Level Six sealed off. There’s no possi­ble way we can get through.”

  “We can’t force it?” the queen inquired.

  “Remember,” Kiríll noted, “that this place was de­signed to resist sieges or rebellions, from any sector. The corridors were deliberately made narrow and easily blocked. No, we can’t escape back the way we entered.”

  “Then it’s over,” Polyxena stated. “Kipriyán will have us all executed, and a reign of terror will begin. God help our poor country!

  “Will they have sent to the palace yet?” she asked.

  “No,” responded Kiríll. “The governor here will certainly have been notified by now, and he’ll try to keep any word of the rebellion from spreading outside of this complex until he has us all in his grasp. Otherwise, ques­tions could be raised about how we got in here in the first place, and he could easily lose his head.”