Melanthrix the Mage

by Robert Reginald

  “Well, you did say you were in a hurry, madame,” the servant said, “at least I thought you did, and so I had to throw everything together, whatever I could find, this and that and the other, and make it somehow all fit. I usually have more time, sir, but I didn’t have time this time, I did the best I could, really, sir, but there wasn’t enough time to do it all right, and they’re, they’re, they’re orts, sir! Orts, orts, orts, orts!”

  She suddenly screamed again, “Not enough time to get it done right.” And then she just ran off, shouting, “orts! Morsels of orts! Orsels of morts!”

  “Did, did I say something wrong?” Arkády asked, laughing to himself while pushing the food around with his finger, trying to find something, anything edible in the greasy mess.

  “Well, dearest,” his wife said, “you learn very soon that just can’t pressure old Katrina into finishing something quickly.”

  Then they both laughed out loud.

  “You can lead an ort to water...,” he said.

  “...but you can’t make it sink!” she finished.

  They chuckled together again.

  “Poor Katrina,” Dúra said. “She’ll be complaining all next week about her orts.”

  There was a knock at the door, and the prince went immediately to open it, even before his servants could re­spond.

  “Yes, Tyrvón?” he asked, when he saw who it was.

  “Highness,” said the servant, bowing, “terribly sorry, but I thought you’d like to know. Count Alexis couldn’t be re­vived. His son, Lord Gorténz, was at his side, and will make the arrangements. Do you want the body se­questered?”

  Arkády thought for a moment.

  “Order it done,” he said, “and have a stasis placed on the corpse. I’ll give them further instructions in the morning. Now leave me in peace.”

  But there was no peace to be found that evening, not for any price, not for the trumpeters of war, who spent their dreams dashing in triumph upon the enemy, again and again, killing them all, only to find them resurrected just a few moments later; nor for the peacemakers, who knew that the Rubicon had been crossed once more that day, and that Cæsar would not now be turned back by reason or love or by anything else short of victory or defeat.

  In later years Arkády would come to regard this day as the worst of his life, and vowed to spend an entire week of each year thereafter clothed only in black, doing penance on his knees before the cold, stony shrine of Saint Sávva in Bizerte. But no matter what he did, no matter what he said, it was never enough to erase the memories or ease the pain. Never.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  “HE DIDN’T KNOW

  WHAT HE WAS DOING”

  An hour later Arkády transited to a meeting of the Covenant of Christian Mages. Several members had al­ready ar­rived, among them Count Zhertán, and the prince mo­tioned him aside, where they could talk privily.

  “I have terrible news,” Arkády said, “and I didn’t want to tell you in council. Your grandson Tibor was killed this morning in Paltyrrha.”

  The old man sagged and almost fell, his face going completely white.

  “Give me the details,” he said.

  “Touch your psai-ring to mine,” the prince said.

  When the Count complied, Arkády showed him the attack exactly as it had happened.

  “God rest his innocent soul,” was all that Zhertán could say.

  His face had gone a pasty gray.

  “I have no doubt, sir,” Arkády said, “that your grandson is in Heaven. Poor Dolph, he was under a compulsion. He didn’t know what he was doing. And it was my spear that killed them both....”

  “No!” the count said, rousing himself. “That road is a path to self-destruction. You did what you had to do, what I would have done in your place. Poor Tibor was in the wrong place at the wrong time. This was someone else’s game, that of an evildoer who pushes us ever closer to war.

  “Great God in Heaven, Arkásha! I think, finally, that I’ve lived too long.”

  Then Zhertán straightened his back, and wiped away the tears dripping from his eyes.

  “I...I must return home immediately,” he said. “Give my regrets to the council, and tell them, please, that I’m withdrawing from their deliberations until this business is concluded. I would expect you to do the same.”

  The count strode rapidly towards the viridaurum, then abruptly stopped and looked back.

  “We must find a way to end this madness, Arkády,” he said. “If it costs us our lives, we must stop this.”

  Then he was gone.

  When the council began its proceedings, the prince gave an account of the day’s sad occurrences, before also resigning his seat.

  “You may replace me if you choose,” he said, “but I can’t in good conscience remain here. I’ll be happy to send appropriate updates of a non-military nature through Mösza, if you approve.”

  He glanced over at the familiar figure of his great-aunt seated in her usual place across the table.

  “Oh, Arkásha,” Mösza said, pursing her lips in sympathy, “my poor, poor boy. Of course I agree.”

  “However, I must express my concern over these events,” said Ariosto Count of Corovino, a potbellied man in his seventies, and official representative of the Holy Roman Cæsar, Marcus Ætherius iii. “If war does break out between Kórynthia and Pommerelia, we will want some as­surance that our Latinate clerics and churches in the latter country will not be molested.”

  “We would insist on the same promise from the other side, respecting our clergy and facilities in Kóryn­thia,” Metropolitan Euphronios said.

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” William Lord Eagleton said. “Let us not immediately make assumptions about this little disagreement. Even should a conflict de­velop, we have months to make arrangements concerning noncombatants, and I have no doubt that we will. We can do things in a civilized way or in an uncivilized way, and civilized is always best, wouldn’t you agree?”

  The two antagonists just glared at each other, with­out speaking another word.

  “See!” the chairman said. “See! We can all just get along if we try really, really hard. Of course, Prince Arkády, you can certainly pass along information to our group through Countess Mösza, provided that it con­tains no military data and makes no attempt to sway emo­tions one way or the other. Agreed?”

  “Very well,” the prince said. “Then please join me afterwards, Auntie. Meanwhile, I urge all of you to be careful these next few months. There’s a rogue rampaging through our community, someone who’s trying to destroy everything we’ve built. He’s very good at hiding himself, and very, very accomplished at subverting others. If he can destroy Count Alexis so easily, he can get to any of us. Guard yourselves with great care.”

  “What about Melanthrix?” Mösza asked.

  “Sorry, I just forgot with all the other business,” Arkády said. “Well, I did make a few inquiries, but I discovered very little new. He appeared about thirty years ago, ingratiated himself with my father, and then left, coming back to court at odd intervals. He’s friends with Father Athanasios, grammateus to the High Council and aide to Metropolitan Timotheos, and not with anyone else except my daughter. I suggest that the matter be postponed until our present difficulties are settled.”

  Arkády rose in his seat.

  “I hope that we can meet again in peace when this is over. Fare thee well, my friends.”

  He formally saluted them.

  The council then adjourned, each member going his or her separate way, although at least one of them had an­other rendezvous planned for later that evening. Finally, only Arkády and Mösza remained.

  “Auntie,” he said, “if you’ll give me a quick mental image of your viridaurum mirror, I’ll be on my way.”

  “Well,” she said shyly, a pink glow slowly suffusing her full cheeks, “well, perhaps we can find some other place to meet. You know how much I value my pri­vacy, nephew.”

  She hesitated a mom
ent, fiddling with a stray tendril of snowy white hair that had escaped from her hood and drifted over her forehead.

  “Ever since I was...well, that is, ever since I left court many years ago, I’ve just been more comfortable just keeping to myself. Someone once abused the privilege, and I’ve never forgotten or forgiven. You understand, I’m sure.”

  She shook her head to clear it of such disagreeable thoughts.

  “But I do know of a few other places that no one ever visits today, sites where mirrors yet remain active, I believe. Let me think about the problem a bit, and I’ll contact you again soon.”

  “Whatever you say, Auntie,” the prince said, rubbing his neck to alleviate his weariness.

  “My dear Arkásha, this has absolutely nothing to do with you. It’s just another silly rule I made up for myself many years ago.”

  She laughed, her whole body shaking.

  “And oh, and I’m such a firm believer in following the rules, right down to the very letter. You see, whenever someone breaks the law, whatever that law might be, he cuts a little piece out of the fabric of society, and that’s a terrible, terrible thing to do, my boy. You see the result coming upon us in this crisis. The transgressors, well, they all have to be punished, you know, every last one of them. If we Tighrishi had been as careful about following our own rules as we’ve been about condemning someone else’s, why, we’d be ruling the world by now.

  “At any rate,” she added, “I know you think I’m just a fussbudget, and you’re probably right, too. I’m an old lady, after all. What do I know, anyway?”

  Suddenly she turned deadly serious.

  “But you remember what I tell you, Arkásha, when the time comes. You remember that, dear nephew. Now I must go.”

  And then Mösza left the chamber more quickly than Prince Arkády would have ever believed possible, had he not seen it himself. As tired as he was, he lingered in the old gray chamber of the Covenant of Christian Mages an­other few moments, pondering the day’s events, and wondering, not for the first time, about the curious and convoluted history of the ancient House of Tighris; and whether the tigers to be most feared were those already set loose upon the world, or those still locked tightly in their captivating cages.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “THE SITUATION IS FAR MORE SERIOUS THAN I THOUGHT”

  The one known as Alpha stood on the cliffs of the island of Loryùppa, gazing out to sea. In the distance he could barely make out the dim shapes of the other islets of the chain, most of them bare rocks thrusting several hun­dreds or thousands of feet above the surface of the sea, outlined by the churning white surf at their base. The archipelago was all that remained of the lost continent of Atlantis, which had sunk beneath the waves a thousand or more years earlier. Of the eighty or one hundred islets that remained, only Loryùppa, the largest, was habitable, and it was completely inaccessible, being surrounded by sheer cliffs on all sides. Where he perched, at the mouth of a lush valley that ran almost the entire length of the land, the rocks dropped some three hundred feet to the surf below; elsewhere, the cliffs swelled to a thousand sheer feet or more.

  To his left he could hear the gurgling of the stream that drained the valley before dying in a spectacular wa­terfall not far from where he stood. As he turned widder­shins, the moonlight revealed the eerie remains of the tem­ples which had once dotted this place, their fallen stone columns littering the landscape like the bleached bones of some elden giant. Of all the ornate buildings which had once adorned the valley, monuments erected by a long-dead people to their equally dead gods, only one now survived, and that because it had been cut from the living rock of the mountain that rose to his left. What had become of those gods, no one could really say. That they had abandoned their people in the face of the One True God was obvious to some, if not to him, for he knew of places on Loryùppa that still held something of their presence, and which he would not dare challenge or even visit.

  The Brotherhood had found this place several hun­dred years ago, from an account left by Mikhaêl Phôstêridês the Grand Mage in his Historia Nisyrias, which, despite its title, was actually more of a grimoire and travelogue than a history. There he had described the nine great temples of the Vale of Loryùppa, which he himself had visited, listing their purposes, attributes, and transit points. They had lost several volunteers before finding the lone surviving mirror in the sole surviving temple. He wondered idly where those acolytes had gone.

  A movement to the right caught his eye, as one of the huts discharged a figure.

  “Are you ready?” Alpha asked.

  “Yes, master,” came the muffled reply.

  “Then let us proceed,” Alpha said.

  He led the way down a path through the woods on their left. Around a bend they abruptly came upon a door that entered directly into the mountain face. The acolyte had the impression of great stone pillars carved from the rock on either side of the opening, but the muted moonlight provided very little detail.

  “Please cover your features,” Alpha said, fas­tening his own cloth mask in place with leather ties. He then flipped up his hood, checked his associate’s dress, and without further ado led the way inside.

  The first room they entered was small and austere. Perhaps it had once been used as a guard or cloak room, or possibly for something else. There was simply no way to tell. Now its furniture consisted entirely of two benches and a table. Alpha motioned to his associate to seat himself at one of them.

  “Wait here,” he said. “I’ll ring a bell when we’re ready for you.”

  Then he exited through the only other door.

  Alpha passed down a long corridor that had been cut cleanly through the rock. The walls glowed faintly with their own light, sufficient for him to find his way to the end. There were no side passages. He eventually came to a metal door, which he unlocked with a key he carried hanging ’round his neck, and entered, closing the entrance after him.

  He found himself in a large chamber called the En­neaphon, or “Nine Tones,” which had nine sides, one rep­resenting each of the old gods and bearing his or her image graven high on the wall, just below a small opening. The temple had been constructed in such a way that the air vents built into the top of the chamber would produce notes ran­domly throughout the day, making music whenever the breezes began blowing in from the sea, particularly at dawn and dusk. At times these created a horrendous racket, but there were other occasions when one could imagine Pan and the other elder beings sitting up there playing their pipes, and still other moments, much rarer, when one could almost hear them singing arcane words just beyond the grasp of one’s understanding.

  Nine thrones were carved into the naked stone, seven of them now filled by hooded, masked individuals. Alpha sat himself in the largest and most ornate position.

  He said: “I call the Brotherhood of Tighris into session. With one spirit we meet, into one spirit our voices min­gle, our souls are uplifted by becoming one.

  “Brothers and sisters, I bring you good news and bad. One of our own has passed into that great adventure beyond life itself. His name can now be mentioned in this assembly. Count Alexis of Gör­goszák, who sat among us as ‘Xi,’ was foully mur­dered this afternoon. Let his nomen be inscribed among the im­mortals, let his fame be etched upon these hallowed walls.”

  He stretched out his right index finger, and from his ring sent forth a narrow beam of red light. Using it like a stylus, he began pressing a name into a blank space on the bottom part of the wall, just above the vacant chair, joining a short list of others already noted there. The other seven raised their hands in turn, and simultaneously bathed the name of Alexis with their incandescent light, sealing it for­ever into the stone.

  “We shall remember him always,” Alpha said, “for his wisdom, for his valor, for his companionship. So mote it be.”

  “So mote it be,” came the combined response.

  “But with each death comes a new birth,” Alpha said, “and wit
h each ending a new beginning.”

  He rose from his seat of primacy, went to the door, opened it, and struck a silver bell that echoed down the cor­ridor. A moment later the acolyte had joined him.

  Alpha turned back to face the seven: “I present for your con­sideration ‘Thêta,’ who desires to take the seat left vacant by Xi’s untimely passing.”

  He led the candidate to a stool placed in the de­pressed circle at the center of the chamber.

  “You must judge,” he said, “is he worthy?”

  The seat on which Thêta sat rose from the floor and began to revolve. Each of the seven turned their full psy­chic concentration on the man, trying to break down his will and his ring-shield.

  For he who would become Thêta, it seemed as if he encountered each of them individually on a different plane. In one instance he sat across les échecs board from a masked player, in another he rode a destrier in a tourna­ment against an anonymous armored opponent, in another he was paired in a contest of thespians with a tragedian wearing a downturned face mask, in another his masked ri­val met him face-to-face in the wrestling ring, in another he was a tamer of beasts surrounded by a pride of hungry tigers, in another he faced judgment from a court for a crime he had not yet committed, in another he played a lyre for a king who could not be satisfied.

  “Is he worthy?” Alpha asked again.

  “Axios!” said Tau. “He is worthy.”

  “Axios!” came the response in turn from Gamma, Rhô, Mu, Epsilon, and Kappa. Only Lambda was silent.

  “Is he worthy?” Alpha asked of Lambda.

  “Axios,” the latter finally said, with obvious re­luctance.

  “Then let Thêta be seated amongst our company,” Alpha solemnly said. “We welcome him to our Broth­erhood, from which there is no parting but death. Evoê!”

  “Evoê!” they repeated.

  Theta rose from his stool, and took the empty place of Xi.

  “Brothers and sisters of the Nine,” Alpha said, “we face a crisis of confidence. One of our own has been killed by magic dark and foul. See now his passing.”