Melanthrix the Mage

by Robert Reginald

  “Me too, Rhie,” her brother said. “Unfortunately, I can’t seem to pry him away from father, or even from my own wife. I truly think that if Dúra had to choose between the pair of us, well, let’s just say it would be a close deci­sion.”

  “And how is my little namesake doing?” she asked.

  “Not good, sister, not good at all. I watch him struggle each morning and wonder why God has cursed him with such pain. What did that innocent little boy ever do to deserve this? Sometimes, Rhie, Doctor Melanthrix seems to be the only one who can help him. If I had to choose, I’m not at all certain what choice I’d make these days. Ari tries so hard not to let anything show.”

  She reached out a small, pale hand to cover his larger tanned one, and they sat in silence until they reached the Quai de l’Amirauté at Kórynthály. The rowers neatly folded their oars into an upright position as the caïque glided to a smooth halt. On the dock a small contingent of soldiers awaited them.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  “I GET SO LONELY HERE”

  “Attention!” the squad commander said as they debarked.

  Arkády acknowledged Captain Kérés with a curt nod of his head, declining the two-seated carriage standing nearby. He and Arrhiána walked the half mile to Saint Ex­ouperantia’s Convent, tailed respectfully by their guard. Although the ground was still damp from melted snow and the air brisk, the sun was shining brightly. The light sparkled around them off the wet points on the well-kept trees and shrubbery, glittering like tiny diamonds. Occa­sionally they heard the “klink” of icicles as they broke and fell from the northernmost eaves of the nearby buildings. Waiting for them at the entrance to the monastery was their youngest brother, Prince Andruin, a hieromonk of the Or­der of Saint Stylianos.

  “Dru!” Arrhiána said in pleasure. “Why, I had no idea you were in town.”

  “Dearest sister,” he said, embracing them both together in an exuberant bear hug, his student robes fluttering. “Mamá said that you were visiting here, so I came up immediately.”

  “How are you coming with your studies?” his sister asked.

  “They’re going well,” the nineteen-year-old student said. “I should make my intermediate vows this fall, and my permanent ones in about three years. I’ve already de­cided to take the name Stephanos.”

  “I’m so very excited for you,” she said, “and so pleased that you’ve settled on a vocation. Will you visit Sachette with us?”

  “That’s exactly why I came,” Andruin said. “That, and to see the both of you, of course. With you in Aszkán, dear Arrhiána, until just recently, and with Arkády so busy most of the time in court, I sometimes feel like I have to make an appointment just to say hello. Not that I’m complaining, mind.”

  He laughed at the expressions on their faces.

  “I wouldn’t trade places with either one of you. No, give me the peace and serenity of the cloister anytime. It suits my nature so much better.”

  Andruin ushered them ahead of him into the dim anteroom of the convent. The nun in charge scurried about, anxious to be of service to the hereditary prince and his family.

  “Wait here,” she said, “and I’ll see if Sister Vibiana is ready for you.” She bowed out of the room.

  In a few moments she returned and silently mo­tioned them to follow her down a series of corridors and into a darkened cell. In the corner they could barely dis­cern a pale, thin girl sitting quietly with her head bowed. The acolyte was wearing a robe of some nondescript fabric, a knitted shawl wrapped loosely around her shoulders.

  “Oh, Sachette!” Arrhiána cried out, in spite of her­self.

  “Is that really you, Rhie?” came the querulous re­ply.

  “And Kásha and Dru. We’ve all come to see you.”

  Arrhiána choked back her tears, and resolutely moved forward as her brothers hovered awkwardly in the background.

  The girl rose unsteadily from her seat and stumbled toward the sound of their voices with trembling, out­stretched arms. Arrhiána had to touch one of Sachette’s hands before she could run forward into her sister’s em­brace. Rhie folded the girl’s slight frame against her.

  “I get so lonely here,” Sachette quietly said. “I have no one to talk to and nothing I can really do. Some­times the nuns will read to me. They tried to teach me to sew, but I can’t see what I’m doing, and I’m not really very good at it anyway, and I get soooo...impatient. And I have such terrible, terrible dreams.”

  “Oh, my poor dear,” said Arrhiána, trying to calm her sister’s sobs. “My poor, sad love. What kind of dreams?”

  “I s-s-see Papá in such terrible danger,” Sachette said, “and I s-see this, this thing, all hairy and dark and menacing, and I s-see Arkásha almost being killed by an ax thrown by a big man covered in armor, and I s-see cousin Dolph singing with the angels up in Heaven, and I, I...”

  “It’s all right, my dear.”

  Arrhiána looked pointedly at her brothers and raised her eyebrows.

  Arkády nodded and moved forward to grasp his young sister’s hands in his.

  “Chette,” he said, kissing her forehead gently, “would you mind terribly if we looked at those dreams to­gether? You could share Rhie’s eyes for a few moments.”

  “Oh, may I? I’d love that, Kásha. Oh, please, please!” the girl pleaded.

  The prince motioned to Andruin and his sister. Each of the men took hold of one of Sachette’s hands, while Arrhiána placed her psai-ring on the girl’s cool, pale brow. Quietly and expertly the siblings settled into a long-familiar bond, one that they had practiced frequently as children.

  “The colors,” squealed Sachette. “I can see colors again! Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!”

  Tears streamed down her face anew, this time in gratitude.

  After some moments had passed, Arkády began to break the bond.

  “Sister!,” he said, “sister, it’s time. We mustn’t overstrain you.”

  “No, Arkády, no!” Sachette said, grabbing at his hand.

  “Yes, Chette,” he gently said. “I’m sorry, I truly am, but if we continue, you know you’ll be left with a frightful headache. Now, count slowly to ten backwards, and when you reach ‘one,’ we’ll dissolve the link.”

  “Ten, nine, eight,” came the hollow, unhappy voice, “seven, six, five, four, oh God, three, two, one,” and she went limp.

  Arkády clasped her frail body in his own strong arms.

  “I love you, Sachette,” he said. “I could never hurt you.”

  Arrhiána was standing quietly to one side, wiping her eyes, but in vain. The tears would not stop flowing.

  “Now we must go,” he said, “but we’ll be back again soon. I promise.”

  He carried her back to her chair, and carefully placed her as she had been before, her thin hands folded in her lap. Then he kissed her once more, and turned to leave.

  “Kásha?” she said.

  “Yes, love,” the prince said.

  “When you see that bad man throw his ax at you, fall to the left, or he’ll kill you for sure. Please, please remember that.”

  “I will, little sister,” he promised. “I surely will.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  “HER VISIONS ARE GENUINE”

  Outside the convent, Arkády and his siblings com­pared notes.

  “Her visions are genuine,” he said, “or at least she believes them to be. I could find no internal or external source.”

  “Could she have invented them?” asked Andruin. “She’s terribly lonely.”

  “Possibly,” his brother said, “but in truth, I think she lacks the imagination.

  “Rhie,” he said, turning to his pensive sister, who was standing a little apart, still trying to regain her compo­sure, “do you recall any mention in our family tree of vi­sionaries?”

  She thought carefully for a moment before re­sponding.

  “Truthfully, I can only think of one,” she said, “and I know very little about her. I thi
nk she was called Mossy; she was our second cousin or great-aunt or something like that.”

  “Well, what exactly did you hear about her?” Arkády said, even as he raised an undetectable mental barrier against her.

  Whatever the cost, he dared not relate anything about the workings of the Covenant of Christian Mages, even to someone he trusted as much as Arrhiána; or reveal Mösza’s identity to outsiders. Membership on the council was a closely-kept secret, under the terms of the original pact between the Holy Roman Cæsar and the Byzantine Ju­lian Emperor.

  “Well,” Arrhiána said, “well, when I was a little girl, Kásha, I remember someone scolding me and telling me that I’d better behave, or I’d turn out just like Mossy. And someone else said, ‘Yes, and she’ll start seeing things like Mossy, too.’ It was never more definite than that, only an impression that she was very odd or off-limits, and that she had had visions and similar things when she was my age.”

  She waved her right hand in a circle, flashing her rings in a blend of colored light.

  “Look,” she said, “if you really want to know about her, ask Granny Brisquayne. She was at court then, and I’m sure she can tell you a great deal more than anyone else could at this point. Now....” Arrhiána shook herself, clutch­ing her warm cloak about her. “Now, I strongly suggest that if we’re going to visit the dowager queen today, we’d better do so before the afternoon light fades completely away.”

  “Agreed,” Arkády said. “Won’t you join us, Dru?”

  “I’d love to,” his brother said, “but I have an au­dience with Patriarch Avraäm in a little while. I’ll see you both later at home, though. Please say hello to Granny for me, and tell her that I’ll come by just as soon as I have a free moment.”

  They kissed and embraced, and Arkády and Arrhi­ána watched affectionately as the young hieromonk trotted off down the road. Then the siblings turned in the opposite direction and proceeded a quarter of a mile west into a dis­trict of stately manor houses. These were clustered in a well-kept cul-de-sac at the end of the tree-lined drive. Arkády’s retinue of guards followed dutifully behind, kiliçs sheathed but at the ready.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  “TELL ME ALL THE GOSSIP”

  The third building on the left housed the Dowager Queen Brisquayne, a relict of the late King Makáry, who had married her after the lingering death of his first wife, Queen Ianthë. The daughter of Rethel Comte du Qua­tremère in Neustria, the Lady Brisquayne had married the Baron du Haut-Dossory at age sixteen, and then had been widowed less than a year later. The king of Kórynthia had first met her when visiting the palace of Erastus Duke of Kyzistra, who had taken pity on the pretty young widow and had provided her with a temporary living. The lonely Makáry had been captivated by her quiet grace and stately looks.

  The old queen had been watching avidly for her stepgrandchildren, and greeted them herself, opening wide the door.

  “My dears,” she said, “welcome to Tamásház.” She kissed each soundly on both cheeks.

  “I get so few visitors these days,” she said, breathless with anticipation, “with Adeléonore and Abyssinthe coming home so seldom. Oh, they’ve got their own families, you know. Can you believe Adèle’s expect­ing her first grandchild in three months?”

  She barely drew breath to acknowledge their amused felicitations.

  “And I absolutely must go to Lavallière in another month. If it were summer, I’d sail downriver to the Blackish Sea—don’t you just love sailing—but the weather is so, so uncertain at this time of the year, that I’ll probably get someone to stick me through one of those awful mir­rors, as much as I dislike traveling that way. I just wonder how many folks have used one of those contraptions and wound up going nowhere at all.

  “Well, don’t stand about, come in, come in, now sit down, here, no, over here!”

  Chattering away happily, she led Arkády to the deepest, most comfortable chair in her large, brightly-lit salon.

  “And here, Arrhiána, sit over here next to me on the sofa.”

  The old queen bustled about, getting them settled in front of a fire crackling away against the brisk chill quickly overtaking the afternoon. She was tall for a woman, with long gray hair braided down her back in the Neustrian style, and laugh-lines creasing her face near her dark, ex­pressive eyes.

  “Emöke, where are you?” she said. “Fetch some sweets and hot tea for my guests.”

  “Oh, you know, Arrhiána,” she whispered conspir­atorily. “It’s so difficult to find good help these days. I could just wring my hands in utter de­spair. And as soon as you’ve got them trained, why, off they go to some other household. Where’s the gratitude, I ask you? Emöke!” She raised her voice again. “Where are you, girl?”

  “Do sit down, Granny,” Arrhiána said, patting the cushion beside her. “We don’t need anything, really. We came to see you.”

  “Well, that’s very sweet of you, Rhie,” the older woman said, kissing her step-granddaughter on the cheek. “Now, how have you been?”

  But before either of them could answer, she rattled on.

  “Tell me all of the gossip at court. Who’s courting, who’s marrying, and who’s having babies! And you, Rhie.”

  She nudged the younger woman slyly.

  “I hear you’ve finally come home from Arrhénë to stay. Does that mean Saint Konstantín’s bells will be ring­ing soon for you?”

  “Yes, I’m back to stay,” the princess said, ig­noring the last question. “It’s not that I dislike the hills so much—it’s lovely there during the summer—but I so miss being at the center of things.”

  “Oh, I do know what you mean,” Brisquayne said quickly. “Even in Kórynthály I sometimes feel completely left out. All of the people that I knew back in the old days are either dead now or gone, Heaven knows where. I get terribly lonely with all of my old friends absent.”

  “That reminds me, Granny,” Arkády said. “Rhie was telling me something about some relative of ours named Mossy who may have been at court when you were there. Neither of us knows very much about her, and we were wondering....”

  “Of course I remember her!” the queen said, be­fore Arkády could even finish his thought. “Oh, I recall her very well indeed. Her name was Mösza, and she was my sister-in-law. In fact, I think I was the closest friend poor Mosie ever had. She was a strange little girl, though. I say ‘little,’ even though she was my age at the time, but she always seemed much younger than her years, if you know what I mean.”

  Arkády nodded.

  “Yes, I’ve known a few people like that myself,” he said.

  He thought of Humfried and his infantile behavior on the night of the banquet.

  “I really think she was spoiled,” Brisquayne said. “She was the youngest of the hereditary prince’s chil­dren, born not long before he died, and she was allowed to run just a bit wild. Well, you know, people felt sorry for her. And then she had all of these romantic fancies that were, they were just so unrealistic, and she loved to play-act.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Arkády.

  “Well, she’d make up these far-fetched stories, tales about being carried off on a white destrier by a handsome prince, or perhaps being rescued from a fire-breathing dragon by a knight of the realm, all of that folderol.”

  She fluttered her eyes coyly.

  “I got over those sorts of day­dreams very quickly, mind you, once I got married. And I imagine you did too, didn’t you, Arrhiána?”

  The princess made a little noise under her breath that sounded suspiciously like a snort.

  The queen glanced over at her, then continued her story.

  “But she didn’t like the excellent matches that her brother, my Makáry, proposed for her, she refused even to consider them, and went off into hysterics at the very men­tion of marriage. I think it was just what she needed, but she never did marry.”

  “Whatever became of her?” Arrhiána asked qui­etly.

  “Well
, that’s the funny thing,” Brisquayne said, “no one really knows. During the Great War...hmmm, let me see,” she paused, tapping her cheek with one delicately-tapered finger, “that was back in ’64, I believe. Well, all of our men­folk went off to battle in June of that year. We women were left behind to wait and watch in Paltyrrha. But Mosie had a premonition or something—she was al­ways having these visions—that none of the soldiers would be coming home again, and so she kept mostly to her rooms.

  “And then came that terrible day in August when the news arrived that my belovèd Makáry was dead, and his two elder sons with him, and oh so many others besides.”

  The old woman daubed at her eyes and noisily blew her nose into a daintily embroidered handkerchief she kept tucked away in her sleeve.

  “Well, Mösza just went crazy, screaming and hol­lering out as if the whole world were coming to an end. I mean, I was the one who had lost the husband, and here she was, tearing her clothes and pulling her hair and threat­ening to throw herself off the parapet, and this and that and the other. Finally, they had to sedate her, and keep her strapped to her bed to prevent the woman from hurting her­self.”

  Brisquayne shrugged her shoulders.

  “Dowager Hereditary Princess Zubayda and Makáry’s uncle Víktor, the Prince-Bishop of Podébrad, took over as regents for little Kipriyán, and they packed Mosie off somewhere when it became apparent that she wouldn’t recover. I never saw her after that, and when I asked Zubayda about it, she told me never to mention her daughter’s name to her again. So I didn’t. I mean, I’m no fool. Once the king was dead, I had no place at court, and they all knew it. They gave me this little house with a few servants and a small income, and provided dowries for Adèle and Sinthe when they came of marrying age, and I smiled and entertained and said nothing.