And he created for them an image floating above the center of the floor, one that gave each a perfect picture of the afternoon’s event and how it had unfolded.
“What say you?” he said.
“I have seen this done before,” said Mu, “in distant Asshyria, where they practice a magic both weird and unnatural. This is not dissimilar, I think, to something I once experienced there, but neither is it precisely the same.”
“Indeed,” Tau said, “yet whatever hybrid of magical traditions this working might represent, there is no question in my mind that whoever promulgated such an abomination will do so again.”
“This person,” said Kappa, “will go to any lengths to attain his goals. I smell a vendetta at work, brethren. Consider the crimes: each required direct contact with the victim and a close and exact knowledge of the Kórynthi court and its principals. All contain an particle of humiliation. Who would do this, and to what purpose? I see a spider lurking at the center of this web, pulling the strings and gloating over his triumphs, and chuckling at his victims’ discomfiture. I suggest that we are equally in danger.”
Lambda raised a hand.
“More to the point,” he said, “these actions violate the very tenets by which this organization was established. We exist with the sufferance of the higher Psairothi community in Kórynthia to regulate and control the unauthorized use of the lines, and secondarily to further the study of our heritage and knowledge, and thirdly to counter the influence of the Covenant of Christian Mages and other such groups. We provide a neutral arbitration of disputes. This individual seeks the destruction of such norms. Only one of our own could have penetrated so deeply into our midst without being detected. Ergo, we have a rogue among us. He will destroy anyone or anything who gets in his way. Such a person would risk all, for in his own mind he loses nothing except by failure.”
Rhô finally spoke.
“Then we must bend all of our efforts towards finding and destroying this individual immediately, no matter the cost.”
“What about the Dark-Haired Man?” Epsilon asked.
“I don’t believe in fairy tales,” Rhô said, “nor should any of you. This is a real man. He has a real goal in mind. He is using magical techniques that may be partially unknown to us, but that are based on real principles. If we can discover his goal, if we understand why he is attacking these individuals, we may be able to stop him before he can cause more damage. But stop him we must.”
“It’s not that I believe in the Dark-Haired Man,” Epsilon said, clearly piqued, “but to name him is to know him, and this person, whoever he might be, possesses a nature that’s black to its very core. It’s also important to state what we can reasonably infer: that this is one individual, not a group of conspirators, who most certainly would have tripped over themselves by now, and thus stand revealed.”
“Agreed,” the one called Gamma said, “but I think we’re missing something vital here, although I’m damned if I remember what it is. It hovers just beyond my ability to retrieve. I do recall having heard or read about a similar situation once....”
Above them a few notes tentatively began, softly at first, and then with more vigor. Suddenly all nine were craning their necks to see the tops of the walls, from which a whisper had begun hissing through the vents:
“Alpha bêta gamma delta epsilon,
When shall I begin to set upon?
Zêta êta thêta iôta kappa,
When shall you all come to papá?
Lambda mu nu xi omicron,
You’ll all die, one by one,
Pi rhô sigma tau upsilon,
Till all the nine but mine are gone,
Chi phi psi ômega,
Wizard, witch, and strega,
Alpha bet a game at Delphi.”
The words metamorphosed into the raucous squawking of a cacophony of crows, quickly growing in amplitude, until all were covering their ears in pain.
“Enough!” roared Alpha, raising his hands in a spell. “Theos avertat!”
The awful racket ceased, but now they could clearly hear the sound of someone breathing, someone who would have had to have been very large indeed to be so noticeable.
“The situation is far more serious than I thought,” Alpha said. “This place has never before been violated by an outsider. It needs cleansing immediately. You must leave, all of you, right now, while I set the evacuator in motion.”
Hurriedly they began moving towards an antechamber whose entrance opened to the right of the corridor door.
“We’ll meet again in four weeks,” Alpha said, “and then I want answers from each of you. Until that time, take all appropriate steps to protect yourselves. We stand adjourned.”
Then he walked to the center of the room, crossed his arms against his chest, and began chanting something in a language that none of them recognized. As his body began to rotate in place, out from his hands and rings streamed rays of red and gold, washing up the walls from their base, scraping away the residue of the evil. The last of the eight looked back over his shoulder as he entered the portal, but could no longer distinguish any semblance of a man in the rapidly spinning figure of their leader.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“RECEIVE THIS LANCE”
The king’s eldest daughter came to court on the snowy feastday of Saint Katoulina in February. For the past seven years the Princess Arrhiána had served as Regent-Countess of Arrhénë for her underaged stepson, Valentín, since that day when the old Count Rufín had finally succumbed to his many ailments. She had been married at age sixteen to Rufín’s eldest son, the Hereditary Count Avrelián, who had coughed out his life from the consumptive complaint just six months after their union, leaving a son and heir from his first marriage to Lady Marionílla of Kazincbarcika.
The County of Arrhénë, although not the largest in Kórynthia, was the key to the kingdom’s eastern defenses, guarding it from invasion by the Åvarsmen in the north, and the Golden Horde of Szátmár to the east. Many a potential conqueror had pounded his army to pieces trying to take the massive fortified city of Aszkán.
Arrhiána’s son had now reached his majority, and she was preparing to relinquish her stewardship of the county. Together with Gorténz Hereditary Count of Görgoszák, Philoróm Hereditary Lord of Szent-Péter, and Levónty Hereditary Lord of Vélents, the Hereditary Count Valentín would be presented before King Kyprianos this morning in formal court, there to receive the tokens of their high offices, and to pledge their loyalty to their sovereign and master. There was no more solemn occasion in the state than this endless procession of lord and liege before the Great Sword of Tighris and the throne of Kórynthia.
The Hankyárar of Konyály, Tivadar Zsitvay, made the formal announcement to court.
“Sire,” he said, “my lords and ladies, I present to you Her Serene Highness, the Princess Arrhiána, Regent and Dowager Hereditary Countess of Arrhénë, and her stepson, Valentín Hereditary Count of Arrhénë, who crave present audience. What say you, milord?”
King Kipriyán responded with the customary formula.
“We will entertain the Princess-Regent and Hereditary Count of Arrhénë.”
The Princess Arrhiána proceeded slowly and carefully down the main aisle of the hall, her long black gown of mourning trailing in her wake. Valentín marched two steps behind her, immediately to her right, clothed in a somber gray tunic striped in black. His foster mother had refused all other accompaniment, despite the entreaties of her courtiers, saying, “Should I die today, it’s God will and nothing can stop it. And if I live, I don’t need any of you holding my hand.”
“Sire,” she said, “I bring you tidings of great joy. The Hereditary Count Valentín has attained his majority on this day. Therefore, I petition the Court of Kórynthia to release me from my service, and to take back the regency which it gave me seven years ago.”
The king sat up straight on his throne, and slowly looked around the
room.
“Who objects to this petition?” he asked.
No one responded.
“Hearing no objection,” he said in a loud voice, “I do declare that the regency of Arrhiána Dowager Hereditary Countess of Arrhénë is terminated, and order this action to be so recorded in the Annales.
“Valentín Hereditary Count of Arrhénë,” he said, gazing down at the young man’s head, “dost thou desire to become our vassal?”
“I do most earnestly, Sire,” he said.
“Then approach us,” Kipriyán said, coming down from the obsidian throne.
Valentín knelt before his king, raised his hands together in supplication, and bowed his head. Kipriyán reached behind him for something, then took the count’s outstretched hands, opened them, and placed within the cupped palms a clod of raw earth.
“Receive this soil as a token of the land thou shalt ever nurture and protect,” the king said.
“I do accept it,” the vassal said.
An aide to the king quickly moved to Valentín’s right, to take each token from him when the young man relinquished it.
Then a stalk of grain was placed in Valentín’s open hands.
“Receive this as a token of the crops thou shalt ever provide thy people, in good times and bad,” Kipriyán said.
“I do accept it.”
“Receive this lance,” the king said, “as a sign of the protection thou shalt ever provide thy people, from all disturbers of the peace, internal and external.
“I do accept it.”
“Receive this ensign,” the monarch said, as he placed a staff topped by a white flag into the young man’s hands, “as a token of the loyalty thou shalt ever show thy king and lord.”
“I do accept it, and I hereby pledge thee my unswerving fealty, forever and ever. Amen.”
Kipriyán raised the lad to his feet, kissed him on both cheeks, and then turned him around, formally presenting him to the assembled nobles and courtiers.
“My lords and ladies,” he said, “I give you Valentín Count of Arrhénë!”
Spontaneously, they erupted in shouts of joy and thumpings of hands upon breasts. The new nobleman beamed with pleasure as his stepmother became the first to acknowledge his suzerainty, curtseying before him.
Then Arrhiána turned to the king.
“Sire,” she said, “I crave a boon from thee.”
“What is it, my daughter?” he asked.
“I would return to court,” she said. “My stepson must make his own way into the world, learning from his mistakes and receiving credit for his own triumphs. The art of governance is largely self-taught. Should he have need, he can easily reach me. I’ve been gone from Paltyrrha for far too long.”
“How could I ever deny you, my daughter?”
The king grinned broadly.
“The Princess Arrhiána is returned to court,” he said, “with her father’s blessing.”
This provoked another outburst in the hall, for the countess had ever been a favorite of the crowd.
Arrhiána kissed her father in gratitude, bowing low in respect, and then withdrew while the other candidates were being brought forward. More than one lord and more than one lady in that hall, watching her fair form depart, wondered who her next husband might be.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“A NATURAL CHILD”
The Archpriest Athanasios, meanwhile, was engrossed in his favorite pastime, searching for himself. After his discussion with Metropolitan Timotheos the previous month, he had pulled out the mass of documents and papers that he had compiled over the years, and had meticulously reexamined them one by one, discarding many, and putting aside just a handful of sheets that might yet have significance. He then considered his past history thoroughly for the first time in a great many years.
Clearly, he had missed the obvious. There was a reason that he had been taken to Saint Svyatosláv’s Monastery, and it must have had something to do with the laws of inheritance and bastardy. A few hours ago he had researched the relevant legislation himself. In xxii Arsenios i was recorded a particularly interesting decree:
“Arsény i King of Kórynthia, in order to combat the plague of bastards now besetting the kingdom, doth hereby promulgate and enact the following statute:
i. A natural child who can prove the parental ties to his father shall be entitled to a portion of his father’s estate equivalent to one-half of the share allotted to each of his father’s legitimate children, provided that the bloodline can be demonstrated conclusively by the mother and verified by a Psairothi judge. In the absence of any surviving legitimate children or grandchildren of his father’s flesh, the natural child shall be entitled to the two-thirds portion of his father’s estate that would have gone to the latter’s legitimate children; and in such an instance he shall also be eligible to succeed to any title which his father might have held or been heir to at the time of his death, even when the parent has full brothers surviving of his own blood.
ii. An exception shall be made if the father of the child shall, prior to his death, accept the child as his own, declaring such before a magistrate of the state or a priest of the church, and thereupon make appropriate provisions for the livelihood of that child, through endowing an apprenticeship, providing a marriage settlement, or ensuring some other emolument during the parent’s natural life, or by providing similar legacies in his will. Having made such provisions, the father may declare, at his sole option, that any natural child who is his legal ward be disinherited from any additional title or estate that otherwise might accrue to him.
He had ignored any supplementary clauses that did not apply directly to the situation at hand.
During the great conflict with Pommerelia, the number of natural-born children had greatly increased in the kingdom, due to the vagaries of war, and many of their fathers had never had a chance to acknowledge or adopt them. At the same time, some of the young men who would eventually have inherited titles and estates had been cut off abruptly in their prime, causing disruption in the normal pattern of succession. Some of these titles had become extinct, while others had passed to distant cousins who had never given a thought to the possibility that they might someday have the opportunity to sit as peers of the Kórynthi kingdom.
Yes, Athanasios thought, this might well be the answer, or at least the beginnings of one.
And the priest was certain that Arik Rufímovich had known, or perhaps even had served, with his father. Whoever had arranged the boy’s exile had gone to a great deal of trouble indeed. This implied that the stakes had been very high in this particular case, and that the child might have been heir to an estate that was quite substantial, potentially from either side of his family.
Arik would likely have been captured at the fall of Borgösha in the year 1165, and then, according to his own testimony, have been paroled just a few months later. By spring of the following year he had already joined the Silent Souls of Saint Svyatosláv, and had retrieved the infant child Afanásy from wherever he had been birthed and weaned, after an apparently long and difficult journey.
Somewhere there would be records of these events. Even if the state and religious archives had been thoroughly purged, there would be items that had been missed, records whose significance would not be obvious except to the seeker-after-truth. Those were the documents that he would now attempt to find.
And that was why the Archpriest Athanasios was spending his free morning at Saint Ptolemy’s House, the official State Archives of the Kingdom of Kórynthia, plowing through old documents and ledger books dealing with the war years, and looking for any clue to his origins. No one had questioned his presence, for his association with king and Council was well known at court. He had only to wave his hand, state “king’s business,” and all doors were opened to him. Besides, who would suspect a churchman of deviousness?
The first thing he had to do was to confirm Arik’s movements during that crucial pe
riod from 1163-1166. To this end he retrieved a set of ledgers marked Military Rosters, 1160-1169, which provided annual lists of the officers of all the standing regiments in the army of Kórynthia, as well as complete lists of some of the select units. Les Gardes Élites were recorded at the end of each book. On May 1st of the year 1163, which was also the xxist year of the reign of King Makáry, the Gardes mustered 166 lancers. He would start with the assumption that his father was one of these men.
Athanasios recognized some of the names, including the then hereditary prince and his brother, plus some twenty or thirty scions of the noble houses of Kórynthia, among them Susafön, Myláßgorod, Scribónia, Braëntha, Isaúria, Pedanión, Láris, Tléshna, Brócchos, Zikhárra, Lickkaíra, Mattírëa, Zörzö, Iadirénna, Migginsch, Anaráxia, Assaël, Márö, Kranzhkör, Bórkiqvant, Linósz, Ubick, and others, but the rest were unknown to him. He assumed that they were either the offspring of the landed gentry, or younger sons of foreign nobility serving from states then allied with Kórynthia.
Ah, there it was!
Halfway down the list was an “Arikhos o Rouphinidês,” noted as having enlisted as a Lieutenant on the 5th day of April in xviii Makarios i, three years earlier.
To this list the archpriest added several other names: King Makáry himself, the Pretender-King Ezzö the Elder, Ezzö’s heir, Prince Kazimir, and other male members of both royal families.
Then he began excising those names that he either had known personally or could verify had actually survived the war. This reduced the number of possibilities by perhaps one-third. Of the 111 individuals remaining, another twenty-six were noted in other sources as having lived until at least 1165. Fifteen were confirmed as land-poor foreigners whose deaths meant nothing to their family’s fortunes. Twenty-two were identified as having had similar situations in Kórynthia. That left forty-eight men who would have to be investigated further. He checked the roster book for 1165, but the page recording the Gardes had been torn from the volume; he could see several small pieces of the sheet still stuck in the gutter of the binding. The unit appeared to have been dissolved in the following year. Clearly, he was on the right trail!
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