Melanthrix the Mage

by Robert Reginald

  She started to leak tears down her ruby red cheeks.

  “There, now, we mustn’t cry,” said Athy, brushing the moisture away. “That’s such a long, long time from now. Where are all your friends?”

  She suddenly brightened up again.

  “Oh, they’re just boys. They don’t know anything. ’Sides, Ari is sick all the time, so he can’t play very much, and Siggy’s just a little brat, and I don’t like him. My sis­ter Mellie is too little, she’s only two. No one else wants to play with me.”

  “I’ll play with you, Rÿna, or just sit and talk, if that’s what you’d like,” said the archpriest.

  “I’d like that, Athy,” the princess said.

  She sat back down again, and smoothed her dress.

  “Now, what shall we talk about?” she asked.

  Athanasios put his book down on the bench.

  “You said the king was sick?”

  The princess nodded her head, her reddish-golden curls dangling across her brow.

  “Well, that’s what Papá said. He said Grandpapá’s hyu-something were out of place, that he just wasn’t mak­ing any ‘cents.’ I didn’t understand what they were saying. Then old Melánty came in and made him feel good again.”

  “You mean Doctor Melanthrix?” the archpriest asked.

  “That’s what I said,” she said. “He’s always around, but I don’t mind, ’cuz he gives me sweets, and then he tells me things. If he’s not talking to Grandpapá, he’s helping Arión with his pains. Ari tries not to cry, he tries real hard, Athy, but his joints hurt so much, I know, ’cuz he tells me. He does try to be ‘a proper little prince’ just like Papá wants. Siggy just laughs. He’s mean.”

  “You said Melánty tells you things?” Athanasios said.

  She hunched down and put on her serious face.

  “Oh yes, he tells me lots of things, just me, even though no one believes me. He said Papá has to go away soon to fight in a war, but he’ll be OK. He said Ari and Siggy and Mellie will all have to go away some day, and then I’ll be all by myself again, until Nesty is born, who­ever he is. He told my fortune, and said I was a lucky little girl, but he wouldn’t tell me anything else except that the lines on my hand were kinda short, so I guess that’s pretty good. He said I’ll be happy most of the time. I know Papá doesn’t like him, but he’s always real nice to me. I don’t think he has many friends to talk to.”

  “I like him, too,” said Athy.

  She sat up as an idea came into her head.

  “He even talked ’bout you once, Athy,” she said. “I ’member now. He said you were a good man, ‘better than he was,’ and he said you were better than he de...deserfèd, I think. He said you would be what, what he couldn’t be. I don’t know what he means.”

  “I don’t know, either,” the archpriest said with a grin.

  “But he said you had been real good to him, and you and me were ‘the only two friends he had.’”

  She beamed.

  “So I guess you must be my friend, too.”

  Then they heard someone calling in the distance, “Rÿna, Rÿna.”

  “That’s Papá,” she said, jumping up. “I’ve got to go now. Bye.”

  She ran over and kissed Athy on the cheek, smiled, and said, “Friends?” before running off down the path.

  Athanasios sat there bemused, wondering what sprite had been sent by the angels to brighten his day, be­fore returning to his breviary.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “I THINK IT WAS

  QUEEN Landizábel”

  The archpriest was contemplating another pas­sage—“We have left undone those things which we ought to have done; and we have done those things which we ought not to have done”—when he became aware that someone else was approaching through the maze. He rose to his feet immediately when he saw who it was.

  “Your highness,” he said, bowing deeply.

  Prince Arkády smiled, and quickly motioned the priest back to his seat.

  “I just wanted to thank you, father, for watching out for my little girl,” he said. “Sometimes she gets lost in this maze, but she likes the adventure, so I thought I might find her here.”

  Athanasios smiled in turn.

  “I actually think it’s Queen Landizábel,” he said, pointing to her image, “who watches over us all. And Almighty God, of course, always Him. I am just His hum­ble servant.”

  “Do you mind if I sit?” asked the prince, taking his place on a nearby bench. “So much has been going on these last two days that I’ve scarcely had a moment to catch my breath. What did you think of our council meeting to­day?

  “I think our friend Melanthrix was having his fun again,” the archpriest said, putting down his book, “even though nobody seemed to appreciate the joke. They mostly just fear him.”

  “But not you,” Arkády said.

  Athanasios grinned again in acknowledgment.

  “No, not me, but then, I’ve seen a side of him that few people seem to know. He’s really quite harmless, once you understand how he thinks.”

  The prince arched and stretched his back, passing his hand over his head in evident weariness.

  “Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?” he said.

  The priest hesitated for a moment before replying.

  “That would depend, Highness, on the question,” Athanasios said.

  “Of course,” Arkády said. “I hope you don’t find this too intrusive, but I’d really like to know how you and Melanthrix first met.”

  “That’s easily answered, sir,” the cleric said. “I was about twelve when I was brought to court, or actually to the Scholê, to be educated for the church and later for the king’s service. When I was presented to King Kypri­anos for the first time, Doctor Melanthrix was already on hand, although but recently come, as I later understood. He looked much the same then as he does today.

  “My master, Arik Rufímovich, traveled widely on the king’s business during the early years of the war with the northerners, and he some­times left me at Saint Theophanês’s Abbey in Paltyrrha. During that time, I deliberately made the acquaintance of Doctor Melanthrix, thinking that I might learn something useful from him.

  “When I was about seventeen, the doctor was almost killed in a riot near Kórynthály, and he left court, returning thereafter only when the king was present in Paltyrrha, which was not much during those years. He saved my life during the great earthquake, when I was trapped by falling débris in the cathedral. Somehow, although he had then been long absent from the capital, he suddenly appeared and lifted the wreckage off my legs. I still don’t know how he knew of my distress, but I believe that I would have been crippled or worse if he hadn’t found me in time.”

  The prince’s attention was caught by a beetle trying to pull itself through the tall grass near his feet.

  “I’m a little concerned, Father Athanasios, about the effect that Doctor Melanthrix is having on the king. He now listens to no one else. And these attacks....”

  The insect reached the pathway, and began walking more rapidly toward its destination. Suddenly a large spi­der popped out of the ground, grabbed it from behind, and began wrapping it in silk.

  By this time the archpriest had also noticed the drama being enacted before them.

  “Surely you don’t think Melanthrix had anything to do with them?”

  “Of course not,” Arkády said, still watching the beetle, “but you’ll admit that he’s very strange, not at all Psairothi. And because of this, there are those at court who would very much like to see him gone. Very permanently gone. He doesn’t help matters any by his attitude.”

  The arachnid daintily began her feast.

  Athanasios nodded his agreement.

  “I know. I’ve tried to talk to the man, but he won’t listen to me. Even after the mob came for him, when he barely escaped with his life, he wouldn’t pay attention.

  “‘Be careful,’ I’d say, ‘be more politic,’ and he’d j
ust laugh and quote from the classics, saying that ‘the longest-lived and the shortest-lived man, when they come to die, lose one and the same thing.’ He has no fear for his own life.”

  “Why does he persist in pushing people to their limits?” asked the prince.

  “I wish I could answer that,” the archpriest said. “At times he seems so wise to me, so knowledgeable about past and future, so immersed in things not of this world, that he scarcely has time for the present, and certainly no patience for anyone who doesn’t share his vision. I know that something drives him, possesses him almost, but I don’t know what it is. All I know is that he has ever treated me kindly and with great affection.”

  “My concern,” said Arkády, leaning forward on his bench, “must be the well-being of king and country. When the king sneezes, the country catches cold. Much is hap­pening now, as you may have noticed, not all of it good. We can’t afford to have the æther disturbed while these ac­tions are underway. The enterprise itself could be jeopar­dized. Do you understand?”

  “Oh yes, Highness,” the priest said.

  “Then I hope you’ll convey that message to him,” Arkády said. “I have just one other question, father. If Melanthrix isn’t Psairothi, what is he?”

  Athanasios paused a few moments before respond­ing. He was growing weary of this game.

  “I think you would have to ask Doctor Melanthrix that question himself, Highness. The only answer that I can give is the obvious one: he’s a man like you and me, with the same feelings, desires, and yes, failings as the rest of us. He deserves neither your pity nor your fear, but your respect.”

  “Thank you for your candor, archpriest,” said the prince, “and for your service to the state. Might I have your blessing before I go?”

  Then he suddenly dropped to his knees before the priest of God.

  The startled cleric was taken aback by the gesture, but his ingrained training quickly took over, and he gave his benediction willingly, suddenly adding at the end: “May God grant you the wisdom of Solomon, for there will come a time when you will need it.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “THE ÆTHER IS STIRRING”

  After the prince had departed, Athanasios returned to his breviary, wondering why he had uttered precisely those words. It was near the dinner hour before he closed his book for good, and stretched his arms. He was rising to leave “Land’s End” when a rustling of the leaves behind him made him jump, and he turned to find the stooped form of Doctor Melanthrix emerging from the shadows. He slowly grew to his full height right before him.

  “Friend Melánty,” the priest said, “you gave me quite a start. What brings you here?”

  The astrologer took his place on the bench beneath the queen’s statue, inadvertently crushing the spider and her dinner with his heel.

  “Melanthrix’s name was taken in vain, so he thought to join the game. You’ve had quite a busy af­ternoon, my boy.”

  Only Melanthrix still called the forty-year-old arch­priest a boy.

  “I thought to find some peace here,” Athanasios said, “but every time I discover a new and interesting verse, someone else wanders by.”

  “And you don’t find that significant, Athy?” asked the philosopher.

  He then pulled a ripe apple from inside his cloak, quite out of season at this time of year, twisted it into halves between his long alabaster fingers, and gave one piece to the priest.

  “Everything is connected, you know,” he said, gesticulating with his arms to emphasize the point. “Sometimes those bindings are obvious, sometimes they’re not. It’s rather like this fruit”—he displayed the core and black pips quivering in his palm—“By the simple sharing of this apple, we strengthen the bonds between us, we build connections to the tree that bore it, we touch the earth that nurtured it, we pay homage to the orchardmen who tended it, we bow our heads to the bees which polinated the glori­ous flower which became, yes, the ripened fruit.”

  The philosopher suddenly scattered the seeds to the wind, then began rubbing his hands together, muttering a few words to himself, and smiling as several of the pips abruptly sent green, wavering shoots right up through the earth. Athanasios was pleased with the trick.

  “Perhaps a hundred years from now, when the king of Kórynthia is just a boy, he’ll pick an apple from the tree we’ve made together, and be nourished by it. There are no accidents, Athy. At this time and in this place, you are the nexus around which the world is revolving. Don’t look for ‘why’ so much as ‘who.’”

  A cool breeze began ruffling the rapidly increasing sprouts.

  “The æther is stirring. Listen to it, feel it, open your mind to it. If you try, you can sense all of the great things rushing in upon us. Give us the right fulcrum, my boy, and we can leverage even the world. Do you see?”

  Athanasios shook his head in weariness.

  “I don’t understand, Melánty. Sometimes it seems to me as if I’m about to grasp whatever it is you’re saying, and then it just slips away. Why can’t you speak more plainly? Why me?”

  The philosopher laughed.

  “Firstly, my boy, because that’s not the role of old Melanthrix in the grand design. He’s growing a bit an­cient, you know, and his course is nearly run.

  “Secondly, because you are who you are. A year ago, a year from now, you might not have been part of this working.

  “Thirdly, because you must learn at your own pace. You can only apply the lessons of life when you’re ready to face who and what you are.

  “Do you remember,” the astrologer said, “when you tried to teach us the game of les échecs? You showed us the relative values of each piece and how they moved, and when we pointed out that ‘La Reine’ seemed a far more powerful piece than ‘Le Roi,’ who was very weak, you made what we thought then, and still think now, was a most potent observation. Do you recall what it was?”

  “I confess not,” the archpriest said.

  Melanthrix pointed a wavering ivory finger right between his eyes.

  “You said, my dear child, that without the king, there was no chess, for the whole object of the game was to kill him. Melanthrix has never forgotten that lesson, and he learnt it from you. He knew then that you would one day cut a slice of wisdom to go with the bread of your life, and that you might just survive the experience with a modicum of understanding of what was happening around you.

  “Most people are pawns in the game of life, Athy. They’ll follow their leader anywhere, even when that indi­vidual hasn’t the faintest idea of where in the world he’s going. They’d follow him to perdition’s edge if he took them there. Doctor Melanthrix decided early that he didn’t want to be someone else’s pawn, to be moved around the board at another’s whim, and he made his choices accord­ingly.

  “These ‘great men’ and their ‘great councils,’ pshaw!, they look upon us like so many sheep ready for the slaugh­ter, if they regard us at all. They make their gestures like those maîtres grands des échecs, scarcely giving a thought to the feelings of their pieces. And if a few of their sub­jects should be injured or killed, or even more than a few, well, so what! They’re just so many odd tokens to be re­moved from the board, to be cast away with no other thought than the grand design. And then it’s on to another game. These games must end, Athy, before our grand­masters destroy their very boards, and us along with them.”

  Athanasios shook himself.

  “I still don’t understand what you mean. Who are you, Melánty? One of my visitors asked me that question, and I didn’t know how to reply.”

  Doctor Melanthrix smiled broadly, and pierced the archpriest with his piercing blue eyes.

  “Your true friend, Athy, at least that. And also your teacher, if you allow us that honor. And perhaps, should God or fate grant us this one last boon, your pro­tector as well. The game has truly begun. We don’t think that many of the pieces will be left standing on the board when the king has finally been checked and mated.”

  Th
e emerald eyestones in the astrologer’s signet ring suddenly reflected a ray from the declining sun, flashing its green light directly into Athy’s eyes and temporarily blind­ing him. When he looked up again, Doctor Melanthrix was gone, vanished as mysteriously as he had arrived.

  All that echoed of his presence in the garden was the encrushed, intermingled carcasses of beetle and spider, in­tertwined now into an unrecognizable mass. Already the ants were beginning to feast on the delicious remains.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “THE AMBASSADOR PLENIPOTENTIARY OF POMMERELIA AND THE

  COURT OF SAINT WARTISLAV”

  In the latter part of January, on the Feast of Saint Sávva of the East, an emissary from the Court of Rabestadt in Pommerelia was formally received in Paltyrrha. During the previous week he had been pulled up the Paltyrrh River from the Blackish Sea with the king’s permission, disem­barking on the day previous at the Quai de Saint-Basile, and spending the night there on his own ship, the Lorette. In mid-morning he rode in the king’s carriage of state up the Avenue du Saint-Constantine, flanked by an escort of the Royal Guard, bared kiliçs held up smartly in their right hands in formal salute. He was presented at court by the Hankyárar of Konyály, Tivadar Zsitvay, who sonorously recited the ancient formula:

  “My Lord King, there cometh before you the Am­bassador Plenipotentiary of Pommerelia and the Court of Saint Wartislav, Widdekin von Lorestan, Hereditary Count Körvö, Graf von Elsevarr, Baron du Haut-Repère and Chanutierre, Conservateur of the Duchy of Morënë, Lord High Admiral and Guardian of the Three Rivers, Master of Ünterziebött, who craveth present audience. What say you, milord?”

  “We will entertain the Ambassador from Pommere­lia,” Kyprianos said.

  He looked rested and fit, sitting upright on his ob­sidian throne in the Great Hall of Tighrishály Palace. On his head sat the plain beaten gold crown of his ancestors, un­adorned by jewels. His long gray beard was curled, and his hair plaited to either side of his face, hanging in locks down past his ears, one of which was nicked along the up­per edge from an old war wound. The years of home life had added gravity to his middle, but he still sported mas­sive muscles in his arms, the result of daily workouts with sword, spear, shield, and bow-and-arrow. He was covered in a simple white mantle trimmed in purple; his tunic, where it showed in front, was emblazoned with the image of the crouched tiger symbolizing his house. In his right hand he held the long ivory staff of his office, carved with intricate cuneiform designs winding up the shaft.