Melanthrix the Mage

by Robert Reginald

  Then he slid back into sleep.

  Sayyíd Nur ad-Din ibn Shukr Alláh as-Saíf, a swarthy man of middle years who hailed from the Empty Quarter in southern Araby, but represented the Sharíf Quriyáqus of Libán, spoke up for the first time.

  “I hesitate to offer my remarks, kindest of people, for fear of stirring your scorn,” he said.

  “Oh no, sayyídi,” Countess Mösza said, “why of course you should lay bare your mind to us.”

  “I do thank you, most gracious lady,” he said, bowing his head in acknowledgment. “This story that I now relate to you is both my life and my truth.

  “During the far-distant years of my youth, such a very long time ago, I was instructed in the lore by the elder members of my order, Les Gardiens du Saint-Maroún, deep within the Cedar Mountains, and became privy to certain details regarding the founding of our covenant by M. Zélénÿ, who sought to govern all Psairothi with his law, and, alas, failed in his quest.”

  He closed his hands together in front of him, as if praying, and bowed his head to the table three times.

  “May Alláh give him peace and joy and contentment throughout all of his days. Amen.”

  “Amen,” came the mumbled refrain from around the table.

  “As I have said,” he said, “I heard many tales of trials and triumphs and tribulations. There dwelt among us in those days an ancient one whom we called Yunús, now long translated unto his greater reward. He told me that after the establishment of the Covenant of Christian Mages, several hundred years ago, certain Psairothi living in the east came to resent what they saw as the interference of the west into les affaires magiques, even though that is not and was not the reason for which the convenant was established.

  “These disaffected ones created, he said, an orga­nization which sought in both name and practice to restore the traditions of their own ancestors, and specifically to off­set the power and influence of this our council. The mem­bers of this group took a vow of secrecy and erected a cadre much like our own, but it was subverted, in his ac­count, by a powerful changer-of-shapes who called himself the ‘Dark-Haired Man,’ amongst many other appellations. Those who opposed him in the organization were either killed or banished into the darkness.

  “Now, how much of this is true and how much just another fancy fable from the Biblos Moiras Atlantidos, The Book of the Fate of Atlantis, I have no way of knowing; but I now believe that Yunús was himself a descendant of one of those exiled mages. The story made a great impression on me at the time, I must say.”

  “Just an old wives’ tale,” Mösza said. “I’ve heard it myself.”

  “Ah yes, my dear Mosie, perhaps it is so,” said as-Saíf, “and I should never try to contradict such a beautiful woman as thyself.”

  He bowed again in her direction.

  “But...later I saw something that caused me to re­shape my thoughts.

  “I do not know how much of this tale I may tell you without violating a confidence,” he went on, “and therefore I give it to you with no real names or dates, for you do not need to know them.

  “As I progressed upward through the nine degrees of my order, I came increasingly to be trusted by my pre­ceptor, and was sent on missions for the benefit and educa­tion of the Christian man. I would travel great distances throughout the eastern realms, carrying messages to and from the mighty potentates of the world and the catholicos-patriarch in Antukhia, or from the latter primate to our own bishops and clergy, leading the fight for Christ in the hea­then villages of the Assyri and the Parsi.

  “On one such occasion I came upon a member of my order lying near death’s door in an oasis some leagues distant from Dabenégora. A cluster of palm trees sur­rounded a large pool of cool, pure springwater, quite potable although tasting vaguely of sulfur, and I saw ripe dates readily available, not to mention wildfowl clustered about the small lake. Yet my brother was perishing both from hunger and thirst.

  “I said to him, ‘My poor comrade, what illness is this that has overcome thee?’

  “‘Alas, effendi,’ he said, ‘I have bargained with the Dark-Haired Man, but he has wormed his way into my soul and I cannot remove him. Thus must I die unshriven by a priest and unlamented by my kinfolk.’

  “‘But where?’ I asked, for the land was com­pletely vacant to the eye, and I could see no one there.

  “‘In here,’ he said, pointing to his own head.”

  Nur ad-Din shook his head in sorrow and disbelief.

  “Just an hour later, he perished most horribly, his body wracked by convulsions that I could not stop, crying out for a succor that I could not give. And from his gaping mouth there abruptly issued the black body of a deadly scorpion that hissed at me and quickly began to grow in size and strength. And when it had reached the height of a man, it turned to me and said, ‘“Light of the Faith” you may indeed be named, but one day the Dark-Haired Man shall return to dim that glow.’ I have never been more frightened, my friends.

  “Then the creature turned from me and strode away rapidly across the desert, vanishing into the sunset. After burying the corpus of my brother, I left that place and never returned there again.

  “I do not know whether that black thing was real in form, or just a vision rendered by the hot sun and the hor­ror of my comrade’s death, but I know that I dug a grave there and put a body into it and a makeshift cross over it, and I saw the tracks in the sand of an escorpion which can­not exist according to our law, and I believe now what it told me. The Dark-Haired Man lives, and we would do well to consider the notion seriously.”

  “But where lies your proof?” Lady Mösza asked. “And even if real, where dwells he now? We cannot take action, sayyídi, based upon such an account.”

  “I agree,” said Aurora Lady Estavaye, scion of the ancient ruling house of Morënë and the youngest in age of the council members. “You’ve given us an extraordinary account, but I’m more concerned with the here and now. Pommerelia and Kórynthia may be heading towards war, and this newest attack on King Kipriyán will certainly not help matters. What can we do to slow the rush to arms?”

  “More to the point, Rorie,” said Mösza, “we have members on this council from both countries. If war does come, the council must surely be split, perhaps irrevoca­bly.”

  “If there is a Dark-Haired Man,” the Conde di Co­rovino said (he represented the Holy See in Ravenna), “and I for one am not yet convinced of his reality, then he and/or this other group may have instigated the attacks on King Kipriyán. Prince Arkády, who gave your father the idea that the Dark-Haired Man was behind all this?”

  “I don’t really know, Ariosto,” said the prince, “although I suspect old Melanthrix, since he seems to be father’s only real confidant these days, other than myself. He first appeared in court about the time I was born, but abruptly left after the great earthquake devastated the city two decades ago. I think there was a riot or something at about that time that frightened the man away. We thought him gone for good. Then, not long after the final campaign against the heathens, he returned to court, from God knows where. No one has ever been able to pinpoint his origin.

  “You should have seen the stunt that he pulled last night after the attack on father. All sorts of wild prophe­cies about this and that and the other. Of course, that drunken fool Humfried egged him on.”

  “Melanthrix, eh?” Zhertán said. “We’ve discussed him before without reaching any definite conclusions.”

  Arkády glanced at Mösza.

  “Auntie, were you still at court when Melanthrix first arrived?” he asked.

  The old woman laughed and threw up her hands, her jowls shaking.

  “My goodness, no,” she said. “I left Paltyrrha long before that. My brother (your grandfather) and I, well, we just never got along, so finally I moved on. Never asked his permission, either, much to everyone’s consternation.”

  She chuckled again, her big bosoms shaking up and down.

  “Besides,” she s
aid, “as bizarre as he’s been de­scribed, our dear old astrologer sounds very much like the figment of someone’s imagination.”

  “I wish he were, auntie, but he has father com­pletely under his spell,” Arkády said.

  Zhertán rubbed his bald pate and yawned.

  “Arkády,” he asked, “is Melanthrix close to any­one besides the king?”

  The prince thought for a moment before replying.

  “I think he’s friendly with one of the monks at­tached to Metropolitan Timotheos and the Megalê Scholê,” he said.

  “Then might I suggest,” said the count, “that you seek out this priest, whoever he is, and see if you can de­termine what Melanthrix knows about these events, or at least what he’s been telling your father. You can report back to us at our next gathering, which will be soon, I hope.

  “As far as this council is concerned,” he said, “if war does come, I must remove myself from it, and I would suggest that Prince Arkadios do the same. You may choose to replace us with others or leave our seats tem­porarily vacant until the matter is settled. Agreed?”

  They murmured their assent.

  The chairman of the group, William Lord Eagleton of the Western Isles, glanced around the table, rose in his seat, and spoke for the first time.

  “All of us will continue to work for peace in our time,” he said. “Now, brethren, let us ponder these events on yet another day. Pax vobiscum.”

  The prince rose from his seat and made his way to Zhertán’s side, where he gave him the kiss of peace.

  “And to you, my friend,” Arkády said, then looked again at his comrades. “And to all of you.”

  He abruptly swiveled and left, and was followed in turn by each of his companions. But old Laössoös, waking to find himself abandoned and alone, merely chuckled and kissed his ka-ring.

  “Oh yes, little one,” he said, watching the daktylios flare its violet response, “yes and yes again! We shall!”

  Then he mouthed an inaudible word, and drifted away into nothingness.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “IMPOSSIBLE!”

  “As I was saying, Sire,” said Sergeant Poliodór to the assembled members of the Royal Council of Kórynthia, “the bolt is definitely Pommerelian in origin. If you’ll look at the way the leathers are attached, here and here”—he held out the quarrel and pointed to the appropriate spot—“you can see that they’re notched twice right near the end. That’s unique to the weapon shops of Ysherr.”

  “Bloody Walküres,” Prince Kiríll said under his breath.

  “What about the crossbow?” asked Prince Arkády, continuing his own examination from the previous evening.

  He abruptly tried to stifle a yawn.

  “Well, that’s what’s interesting,” the guard said. “See, most crossbows are built so they can be quickly reloaded. The archer puts the weapon bow-down, uses his foot to engage the stirrup, and hooks the bowstring to his belt. Then he pushes down with his foot to cock the bow, which is caught by a trigger, here”—again he pointed—“and he’s ready to shoot. In exchange for speed, you sacrifice some accuracy and range. But this piece is really unique. You have to have a special device to rewind it, which makes things go a whole lot slower. On the other hand, it packs much more of a wallop on the receiving end, so to speak, and it’s deadly accurate to a far greater dis­tance.”

  “Who made it?” Arkády asked, posing the question on everyone’s mind.

  The sergeant pulled the right side of his bushy mus­tachio into a curl, and shifted in his seat uncomfortably.

  “Well, that’s a bit of a problem, see? I once saw a bow like this in Érskeburg. Not quite the same, mind, but then, I’ve never come across anything that would match it exactly. Somewhere to the east, I’d say, but I could be wrong.”

  “The east?” Arkády said. “But I thought you just said that it was made at Ysherr.”

  “Well, like I said,” Poliodór said, “it looks Ysh­errian, but there are problems with the fashioning of the bow that point somewhere else. So, I guess I can’t really say for sure.”

  He bowed his head in exasperation.

  “How was it shot?” asked Prince Nikolaí, a large, muscular man in his late twenties.

  “The bow was carefully secured with leather strips to one of the center rafters,” Poliodór said. “The dust was disturbed a bit, but that’s all we could see. I don’t think the thing was triggered in the traditional way. It was set and cocked sometime before the banquet started, and then set off from a distance.”

  “Impossible!” everyone said together.

  “But how’d he get up there?” Lord Feognóst asked.

  Several others tried to interrupt.

  King Kipriyán motioned for silence, and then posed a question himself: “What prompted your conclusion, sergeant?”

  “Well, Sire,” the guard said, “first of all, because we didn’t catch anybody who shouldn’t have been there. We closed down that hall within seconds of the alarum be­ing given, and I don’t see how even a mouse could have es­caped from my men. We examined everyone as they left, even your physician.

  “Second, well, because of how the bow was set. See, it was meant to be fired just once and once only, and it was aimed right at the place the killer knew you would be standing, Sire. All he had to do was wait until you were there. Why, any Psairothi in court could have released the trip.”

  “God’s teeth!” Nikolaí said. “Then it must have been someone standing with us in the hall.”

  “There’s something else, too, sire,” said Poliodór. “We found a trace of some resin-like substance on the bolt. We pricked a few of the servants with it, including a Psairothi. It’s not poisonous, and didn’t seem to have any other effect that we could see. Maybe it’s nothing, but I thought you ought to know.”

  “Thank you, sergeant,” said Gorázd Lord Aboéty, who was chairing the meeting.

  He looked around the table.

  “Any more questions, gentlemen? Then you may leave, sergeant. Prince Arkády, do you have a report?”

  “Thank you, grand vizier,” said the prince, glancing down at his jottings. “As the king commanded, I ques­tioned all of the guards present at the banquet last night, and gathered the results of their examinations of the de­parting guests.

  “No weapons were found, the dignitaries having re­linquished them before entering the hall. No unusual men­tal patterns were noted. No trace of the assassin was un­covered. I should also note that one person was not ex­amined, because he could not be found after the festivities.”

  “Who?” asked the king. “Who dares question my authority?”

  “Doctor Melanthrix,” Arkády said.

  “What!” said the king. “Arkásha, I won’t have him accused of this, even by you. I’ve known the man for almost thirty years, and he’s absolutely the last person in the world who would do me harm. In any case, he’s cer­tainly had opportunities before this, had he been so in­clined.”

  “Father, I’m not charging him with anything,” the prince said. “I’m just reporting the facts. Melan­thrix vanished from the hall after his appearance there. He undoubtedly saw something of the events. Shouldn’t we at least get his account of what happened at the banquet?”

  “The request is reasonable, Sire,” Gorázd said. “No man is above your law.”

  Arkády brushed back a lock of hair, and tried again, more diplomatically this time.

  “Perhaps the king could ask Doctor Melanthrix to appear before this council as a personal favor to himself.”

  Kyprianos looked around the room, but found no support from his councilors for his own position. Finally he sighed.

  “Very well. I’m tired, but I’ll consent to having Melanthrix called as the final business of this meeting. See to it, Gorázd.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “CALL FOR DOCTOR MELANTHRIX!”

  “Call for Doctor Melanthrix,” said the grand vizier, turning to his assistant.

 
; “Call for Doctor Melanthrix!” said Lord Feognóst, as he opened the council room door.

  “Call for Doctor Melanthrix,” echoed the refrain from guard to guard down the hall outside, carrying well into the distance.

  The council then took a break from its deliberations, several of the older members departing to visit the garde-robes, while others just stretched, yawned, or moved about as they waited. Arkády gazed out through the glazed win­dow at the courtyard, silently lost in contemplation.

  They heard the creature before he actually appeared. In the distance, down the hall, came the jingling of chains and bells, a tramping of many feet, and the sound of a low voice chanting words which no one there understood.

  “Iluuu-Ashshuuur-etiluuu-ilaniii,” came the repeated refrain.

  And suddenly he was there!, standing before them with his robes all aflutter, and they shrank back, every one. He towered well over six feet in height, taller than anyone in the room, but was slender as a reed, with skin preternat­urally pale. His lips narrowed into nonexistence. He wore a small diamond embedded in one earlobe, and a silver ring in the shape of a small crescent moon dangling from be­tween the nostrils of his nose. Winding around the middle finger of his right hand was a gold ring carved in the shape of an ouroboros, a pair of bright emeralds substituting for its eyes. His robes were aswirl with vivid colors running raucously together without pattern, but neither patched nor sewn together in any way evident to those present. Hang­ing from his neck were a dozen silver chains to which miniature bells and chimes had been attached; they made ersatz music as he swayed.

  Then he stopped cold and became perfectly still; the quiet was almost worse than the racket he had made while in motion. He bowed most elegantly from the waist.

  “You called, sire,” he said, “and Doctor Melanthrix has appeared.”

  No one knew what to say. No one had the temerity to break the peace.