After stopping briefly to pay his respects to the ancient patriarch, who gave the prince his blessing by kissing him on the forehead, Prince Arkadios entered into the realm of the Forellës. He heartily greeted the Old Pretender, former King Ezzö, a bearded man of some sixty years, and his consort, Countess Teréza, who had always treated Arkády with respect. He thought he caught some flicker of recognition in the old prince’s eyes, but these days, one could never be too sure.
Their second son, the goateed Prince Adolphos, also embraced Arkády with genuine affection; for although poor Dolph never seemed to understand much more than the chase and the hunt, he was kind-hearted to a fault, and well liked by everyone at court.
Prince Pankratz, the new monarch’s heir apparent, coldly bowed his head without comment, while Norbert or “Junior,” the second son, exuberantly saluted his cousin and kissed him on both cheeks.
Arkády noticed with amusement that “King” Humfried was much too absorbed in his own pleasure to recognize the presence of his relative. He reached out and touched the latter’s arm, sending him the mental message, Cousin, it’s time to begin.
The monarch started, pulling back his gaze from the crouching cat wavering on the opposite wall, which had been enchanting him by lunging back and forth at some mythical beast; and rather carefully pulled himself to his feet, adjusted his clothing, and brushed Arkády’s hand loose from his shoulder.
“All right,” Humfried declaimed quite loudly, “all right! I heard you the first time. You can go back to your kennel now, Cousin.”
Arkády bit his lip and bowed very formally, quickly withdrawing while pointedly wiping his hand on his tunic.
“Részeg!” he muttered under his breath, “Drunk!”
Humfried ignored him.
“A toast,” shouted the new monarch over the racket. “A toast!”
As the multitudes began to quiet, he raised his goblet.
“I give you Kipriyán the Conqueror, Savior of Kórynthia, Destroyer of the Heathens, Barbarian-Killer, King of Kings, Overlord of Pommerelia, Mährenia, Morënë, and Nisyria.”
“Kipriyán the Conqueror!” the throng resounded, as the ruler of that name rose from his seat, his right hand raised high, to receive the accolades of the assembled lords and ladies.
After bowing most graciously to the throngs, Kyprianos iii raised his own cup in turn, and proposed a counter-toast to Humfried v, rightful King of Pommerelia, on this, his most noble day of investiture.
The great lords pounded their tables with fists and cups and whatever else they could lay a hand upon, creating a din that surely must have reached all the way to the gates of Heaven and Hell.
Further toasts were drunk to Avraäm iv, Thrice Holy Patriarch of Paltyrrha and All Kórynthia and Pommerelia; to Ferdinand viii, Duke of Mährenia and Ptolemaïs and Lord of the Prüffenmark; to Ezzö vi, late King of Pommerelia and Count of Bolémia; and to many others besides, both present and absent, living and dead.
Then it was time for the real business of the day to commence.
Duke Ferdinand of Mährenia rose in his place and motioned with his arms for silence, even as the attendants continued to make their rounds, refilling all of the empty cups that they could find.
“I have the supreme honor,” he said most sonorously, “to announce an affiliation of family between the Ducal House of Kürbis and the Royal House of Tighris.
“With the sanction of King Kipriyán, and the approval of the Royal Councils of Mährenia and Kórynthia, I do hereby declare the betrothal of my eldest daughter, the Hereditary Duchess Rosanna, to that most worthy Prince of Kórynthia, Nikolaí Kipriyánovich, Count of Arkádiya and second son to King Kipriyán. I further state that it is my intention that these two worthies shall eventually succeed me on the Amethyst Throne as King and Queen of Mährenia and Ptolemaïs.”
“They are worthy!” shouted the assembled noblemen, again banging their tables so that the very rafters shook loose their years of accumulated dust.
“Secondly,” said Ferdinand, continuing to wave his hands, motioning for silence, “secondly, it is my further intent that my next younger daughter, the Countess Rosalla, shall be betrothed this night to the exalted Prince of Pommerelia, Adolphos Count of Einwegflasche, second son to former King Ezzö Count of Bolémia. With the consent of King Humfried and King Kipriyán, I announce with the utmost pleasure that this noble couple shall be awarded the restored sovereign Duchy of Nisyria on their wedding day.”
“Axioi!” the throng said. “They are worthy!”
Ferdinand said: “Let the newly betrothed come forward and be blessed by the Thrice Holy Patriarch.”
From their respective places five individuals moved to center floor, the two couples linking arms and facing the Patriarch.
Then the octogenarian Avraäm raised his hands on high and said: “A man shall leave his father and mother and shall cleave unto his wife, and they shall be one flesh. He who finds a virtuous wife finds a good thing, sayeth the Lord. Her price is far above rubies. The heart of her husband does safely trust in her. Her husband is known in the gates, when he sits among the elders of the land. Strength and honor are her clothing. In her tongue is the law of kindness. She looks well to the ways of her household, and eats not the bread of idleness. Her children rise up and call her blessèd. Favor is deceitful and beauty is vain, but a woman who fears the Lord, she shall be praised. Give her the fruits of her hands, and let her own works praise her in the gates.
“Therefore do I sanctify the promises that are fearfully and wonderfully made here today. O Lord, seal these oaths upon the true hearts of Thy children. Make their love as strong as death itself. Let every day that they live give praise to Him that created us. Let the Three Lands rejoice in festivity. Amen.”
“Amen,” said the throng, clearly delighted with the spectacle, and the two sets of promised pairs and the Patriarch returned to their seats amid the cheers of their compatriots, shaking still more dust down from above.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“GUARDS! GUARDS!”
King Kipriyán then rose from his seat and motioned for silence.
“Let it be proclaimed before the world,” he said, “that on this day the Kings of Kórynthia, Pommerelia, and Mährenia did pledge their joint honor to regain that which is theirs, and that to this end we shall proceed together against Barnim Duke of Walküre and all who support him, whatever the cost.”
Prince Arkády handed his father a decorated vellum scroll dangling with official seals, which the monarch unfolded and read in his loud, commanding voice:
“Kyprianos iii King of Kórynthia, Overlord of Pommerelia, Mährenia, Morënë, and Nisyria, unto Barnim iii Duke of Walküre and Pretender of Pommerelia.
“Sirrah!
“It has come to our attention that you have failed to render proper homage unto your overlord in Kórynthia. Therefore do we charge you forthwith to proceed to our city of Paltyrrha no later than the first day of May next, and together with your sons and grandsons and noble fiefs make proper obeisance and submission to your lawful king; failing which, we shall take such steps as may be necessary to ensure your fealty, and shall....”
His words were cut short by a flash that seemed to come from nowhere. For a moment Kipriyán stood absolutely still, a look of great astonishment coming over his face. Then his hand dropped the parchment into the bowl of soup on the table before him, and he abruptly sat back into his chair, gazing down in wonderment at the crossbow bolt jutting straight out from his chest, a bright crimson stain spreading quickly across the front of his best tunic. One of the Mährenian princesses—the pretty one—suddenly screamed as if her world were ending, a long, high, tremulous falsetto that seemed never to end; and someone—one of the Forellës, perhaps—began shouting, “Guards! Guards!”
Prince Arkády cried out urgently for the king’s physician, then placed his hand on his father’s brow, trying to send him strength through their psyc
hic link. Afterwards, everyone marveled at how fast the joy of celebration had turned to utter horror.
Fra Jánisar Cantárian, physician to the court of Kórynthály, came running to the longtable, his bag of implements flapping at his side. With the help of the king’s sons, he brushed aside enough dinnerware to have fed a hundred men for ten years, letting the exquisite pieces smash into oblivion on the hard tiles beneath. They carefully lifted the wounded man onto the empty table.
“Quickly,” Jánisar said, “cut away his tunic, here and here, and someone save these medals. My prince,” he shouted at Arkády, “I need your help and that of your siblings. Call them and link their rings to yours immediately.”
Even as he spoke, he was plunging his right hand into the entry wound, probing the damage with his mind to see what had to be done to save the king’s life. The wreckage was appallingly severe, with the right lung deeply penetrated and one vein nearly severed. Somewhere a woman was sobbing inconsolably.
“Shut her up,” he said, “or get her out of here.”
The jingle of armor could be heard as the King’s Guards poured into the room, searching for the instigator of the attack.
Fra Jánisar bumped into the ungainly figure of Doctor Melanthrix trying to see past him.
“Get back, you dog,” he said. “Give us room to work.”
Then to Arkády: “My lord, are you ready? Good! Link to me now and give me your power, so.”
He showed the prince mentally what he wanted him to do.
Then Fra Jánisar breathed a prayer of supplication to Saint Panteleêmôn the Physician and tugged the bolt backwards, carefully sealing off the damaged sections with his iatrodaktylios, or healing ring. Bit by bit the arrow was retracted, and slowly but certainly the doctor used the energy of the princes to assist with the operation. The bolt was hot to the touch by the time it dropped loose upon the floor.
“Stay within the link,” he said. “The king has leaked much of his fluid, and I must augment it with your young life force.”
He again drew on the combined mental vigor of the royals to siphon some of their vitality into Kipriyán’s depleted body, using his own mind as a conduit. They were strong, he knew, and they wouldn’t miss what they had given.
“He will live,” Jánisar finally announced to the relieved multitude, and a series of subdued cheers swept to the outer reaches of the crowd.
A moment later the king’s eyelids fluttered and he regained consciousness. His voice was weak but alert.
“Did they catch him, Arkásha?” he gasped.
Prince Arkády roused himself from his stupor.
“Let me check, father,” he said.
Sergeant Éfron Poliodór was already standing by with a report.
“No one has been found, Sire,” he said. “But the search continues.”
“Very well,” the king said. “Order a council meeting for tomorrow morning, Arkásha, with all reports to be made by then. I’ll attend if I can. In the meantime, let the festivities continue in my absence. You will preside. I can do no more.”
He closed his eyes in weariness and slid into darkness, and for the first time in his life Arkády could picture his father as an old man. The thought shook his very soul to the core, but quickly faded. The prince ordered the servants to bear the monarch to his chambers. As they carted the king away, Arkády could hear Kipriyán thanking Jánisar for saving his life.
“Sergeant Poliodór!” the prince said.
When the man appeared, Arkády ordered: “You will search this room and its annexes again and again until something or someone is found. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Sire,” was the guard’s frightened response.
“All guests are to be screened by high-level Psairothi as they leave; any who refuse to submit will be stripped and searched manually, no matter their rank. See to it.”
“At once, Highness,” he said, and sped off, tossing orders left and right to his harried men.
Prince Arkády banged his fist on the table where his father had lain, and when every eye was upon him, said: “Honored guests of Tighrishály, noble princes and metropolitans. My beloved father and I deeply regret the insidious attack that has disrupted our festivities tonight. By the grace of God, good King Kipriyán has been spared. He wishes that these entertainments should continue. I therefore ask that you return to your places; and when you retire later this evening, that you graciously submit your persons to an examination, so that we may uncover this would-be assassin, if he should still be hiding among us. Now let us bow our heads for a moment and thank the good Saints Konstantín and Vasíly for saving the life of our noble king.”
The crowd clasped their hands together, while Patriarch Avraäm led them in a prayer of thanksgiving. The prince then motioned to the tunesmiths crouching in one corner.
“Music!” he commanded, and soon the strains of “Redsleeves” were filling the hall. Servers again began making their rounds, refilling the empty goblets and cups with their prime vintages.
But the atmosphere had become strained, even when the jugglers and their compatriots began making their way again to the center of the cross-hatched floor. Not even a rousing rendition of “The Magic Tale of Harvanger and Yolande” could force more than an occasional smile from the celebrants. Instead, everyone was talking, talking, talking about the events of the evening, and what they might portend for the future; and they all agreed that the signs were not so good in that regard.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“MELANTHRIX ASTROLOGOS!”
For the newly-minted Humfried v, King of Pommerelia, Hinterpomerania, Schreckenhorn, Scopus, Graudenz, Zirrhose, Champerick, Nippsachen, Düngerbrötchen, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera (long may he reign!), who just that morning had been invested with spur and sword at Saint Konstantín’s by the Patriarch and couped with the colée by King Kyprianos himself, the day that had begun with such promise, veritably the happiest of his life, had now ended in total disaster. As the midnight hour approached, he continued to empty goblet after goblet, and sank further and further into despair. Surrounding him he could only see bad feelings and evil prospects.
Ruined!, he shouted to himself, ruined, ruined, ruined, the enterprise is ruined!
He had to do something, he knew, he had to find some way to counter the downturned faces he saw peering back at him.
Then he spied the spidery form of Doctor Melanthrix out of the corner of his eye, and he remembered something he had heard once about how the old soothsayer had saved King Kipriyán from disaster near the beginning of his reign by prophesying that monarch’s great deeds to come, and how everything that he had spoken then had actually come true. Could lightning indeed strike twice? In his besotted introspection and despair, it seemed to him the only possible solution to his problem.
So Humfried called out in his most noble, his most regal voice, “Melanthrix Astrologos! Stop!”
Doctor Melanthrix jumped when his name was called, swiveling almost in mid-stride.
“Whatever do you want?” the philosopher asked in his soft but penetrating voice.
When confronted with the soothsayer’s piercing blue eyes, the pretender suddenly lost his train of thought. It was all he could do to avoid stumbling over his own tongue. He wanted to do nothing more at this point than run away, but he managed to concentrate very, very hard on performing this one task, not wishing to look the fool before the hordes of nobles crowding the great hall.
“Tell us of the year to come, good sirrah. Tell us of our future glories. Tell us of the great victories that we shall celebrate here in this very room a year hence.”
“You do not know what you ask,” the astrologer said. “’Tis the turning of the night. There are things abroad in the æther which must compel the truth. You do not want that truth.”
But King Humfried would not be dissuaded.
“Good, good, good!” he cried out, grasping at any possibility to save face. “Tell us a
bout everything that you see in our grand future....”
“This is the wine speaking,” said the mage. “Go to bed and leave Doctor Melanthrix in peace.”
But the king continued without interruption, as if he had heard nothing.
“...Tell us about how the Walküres have tried to murder King Kipriyán. Tell us how Barnim the Pretender shall finally be destroyed.”
His loud remarks were now gathering the attention of others in the assemblage, who were watching the exchange and even urging him on, for most believed the Walküri monarch responsible for the unprovoked attack that they had just witnessed.
Melanthrix pointed one long alabaster finger at Humfried, freezing the king’s heart.
“This is neither the time nor the place,” he said.
“I, King Humfried, fifth of that name, I order you to give us your true prophecy,” came the reply.
But Melanthrix deliberately turned his back on the pretender and strode away, only to be stopped by a guard.
“What?” the philosopher said.
“Very sorry, sir, king’s orders, sir. You’ll have to be searched, sir,” the man said.
“Searched? Melanthrix? Melanthrix reports only to the king,” he said.
But the crowd was growing angry at the mage’s insolence, and began taking up the insistent cry of: “Prophecy, prophecy, pro-phe-cy.”
The soothsayer looked around the room, more than a little frightened now for his safety, and muttered to himself: “Fools. You are all fools.”
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