Melanthrix the Mage

by Robert Reginald

  “Mosie never returned from wherever it was they sent her. But I don’t complain about anything, oh no, I re­ally don’t. You see, God has blessed me with a long life and two beautiful daughters and a comfortable living, and that’s about all that I could want in the whole wide world, other than a little company now and then.”

  She patted Arrhiána’s knee.

  “Oh, dear,” Arrhiána said, “what a sad, sad story. You mentioned that she had dreams?”

  “Well, I told you she was a bit strange, didn’t I?” the queen said. “Like I said, she got all these strange notions in her head. One day, about a year before she dis­appeared, not long after Ezzö had invaded Pommerelia, I saw her at Land’s End in the Hanging Garden, talking to the statue of Queen Landizábel. She hadn’t seen me, so I just listened. I shouldn’t have, really, but it was all so odd. She’d cock her head, as if she were listening to someone, and then she’d reply. I was frightened, let me tell you.

  “I was about ready to creep away when she did something that really terrified me. In those days there was a small fountain at the center of the maze, running into a little pool. She pulled out a knife, cut her finger, and let the blood drip into the water. Then she started muttering some words that I couldn’t hear, except that I’m sure it wasn’t the common tongue, and an image formed on the pond. She blew on the water, and began sprinkling salt over the surface. Later on I learned that this was the very same day that it began to snow so heavily in Vorpom­mern.”

  Brisquayne laughed nervously.

  “I talked to her not long after the news of the great storms had come to Paltyrrha, and she was quite happy about it. She told me that it just wasn’t fair that cousin Ezzö should gather all the glory just for himself. She thought that her brother Makáry should have his share. Poo! My husband wasn’t at all interested in that kind of glory, God forbid, but he thought he had no choice but to intervene. He didn’t even like the Forellës.”

  “But were her visions real?” Arkády asked.

  “Well, she thought they were,” the queen said. “She would spend hours telling anyone who would listen about all of the great things that her almightiness was going to do when she became queen, of Kórynthia, of Pommere­lia, or of someplace else. Of course, no one paid much at­tention to these fancies, which infuriated her. Every so often, though, she would go absolutely glassy-eyed, and say something in a monotone that would send chills running up and down your spine, and these things would sometimes come true. Mostly, though, I think it was just a little stale air mixed with a large measure of wishful thinking.”

  “Rhie, I’ve got to get back to the palace,” Arkády said, before the old queen could continue.

  “Granny,” Arrhiána said, “we so love talking with you. Why don’t you come down and see us now that I’m home? Or perhaps I can bring little Rÿna on my next visit.”

  “Would you? Oh my, that would be so much fun,” the older woman said. “We should get together in March, before I head south to my daughters’ place in Neustria.”

  She escorted them out, then stood in the doorway waving as they headed back down the road to the quay.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  “JUST A LITTLE CHILL”

  “She’s an absolute delight,” Arkády said to Ar­rhiána as they left. “I’m sorry we had to leave so soon, but I’ve a dinner to attend. And what a bizarre tale she told us about Aunt Mosie. She must have been a curious crea­ture....”

  And he chattered on in this fashion, very uncharac­teristically, for some moments.

  But by the time they had started downriver again on their return trip to Paltyrrha, Arrhiána couldn’t help notic­ing that Arkády now seemed much more subdued, staring moodily at the passing shoreline as if it might tell him something new about their future.

  He assumes too much, she thought to herself. Please, dear God, do not let him die too soon, she prayed.

  In the east, roiling clouds were gathering over dis­tant Arrhénë.

  It’s like to snow again soon, she mused.

  And some distance further on, as her thoughts turned inward, she wondered: Oh, Lord, I wonder where we’ll all be a year from now.

  Then she was riveted to her seat as a scene suddenly seared its way through her mind, like a ray of sunshine cutting through a mass of dark clouds, and she saw stretching out before her a broad canyon with a fast river cutting through its middle, its banks filled with snow-cov­ered mounds that she knew in her heart were the graves of Kórynthi soldiers, and she shuddered violently, quickly pulling her cloak close around her against the cold that had so quickly invaded and conquered her seemingly secure in­terior fortress.

  “Are you all right, sister?” Arkády asked.

  “Just a little chill,” she said, knowing far better.

  A line from Proverbs suddenly popped into her mind, and she unconsciously whispered it out loud.

  “One generation passeth away,” she said, “and an­other taketh its place; but the earth abideth forever.”

  “What?”

  Arrhiána looked at him then with her head cocked to one side, appraising and evaluating, and she knew that he would never understand what she felt just then. She wasn’t sure, truth be told, that she understood the moment herself.

  I will watch everything that happens, she thought to herself, and everything that we do and say, both to our­selves and to others. I will carefully note down all of our sins of omission and commission, and I will record them just as they occur, without embellishment. I will become a living record of this time and of this place. I cannot stop this war, but I can surely shame the warmongers of the fu­ture.

  I can choose to make a difference, she screamed to her silent muse of introspection. No one can stop me! No one!

  “Nothing,” she said. “Nothing at all.”

  Under the circumstance, it was the most and the least that she could say.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  “THAT’LL TEACH YOU!”

  Several weeks later, on the Feast of Saint David the King, the Lady Mösza von Tighrisha, Countess of Rábassy and Shaikha of Salaleh, was considering the problem of precisely how and when and where to contact her nephew, Arkády. It was a delicate matter. On the one hand, she relished the idea of becoming the main conduit of informa­tion to and from the hereditary prince of Kórynthia; on the other, she wanted nothing happening that might compro­mise her own situation. There was a place that she had once investigated that was isolated enough, and not in dan­ger of being discovered by anyone else; but she wasn’t certain that she wanted him to have that little secret. She’d have to transit there later that morning to make certain it was still viable. She hadn’t visited the site in over thirty years.

  She sat comfortably ensconced in her favorite over­stuffed chair, sipping her morning tasse de thé and nibbling at the last bit of hot buttered toast. From her window she could see the snow-covered peaks of the Jabal Khaibár, looming so close that she could almost reach out and touch them. The heart of the massif was a towering extinct vol­cano called the Musa-Kuh, supposedly the place where the biblical Moses had finally been laid to rest by the Israelites. It had pleased her to find a home with such a unique asso­ciation with her own name.

  Where her stone house was located, a third of the way up the south side of the small range, there was very little rain, although several ever-running springs provided her with plenty of fresh water. Indeed, the overflow also irrigated a small orchard, a terraced garden, and a vine­yard, which kept her supplied with fresh crops and wine most of the year, except in deepest winter. The climate was rarely very warm or very cold, which suited her nature well, and there was almost no indigenous population on the hot, arid desert floor below to interfere with her activities. Her few servants, who had been provided for her as a gift by the emir of Umm az-Zakkár, seemed grateful for the chance to sleep in good beds and eat regular meals. She made certain that they stayed that way.

  She felt a feathery touch wrap around he
r ankles.

  “Sadyris,” she said.

  Putting down her tonic on an intricately-carved table, Mösza gently picked up the small gray cat and placed her in the palm of her hand. She stroked the smooth patches in front of her ears, and listened for a moment to her con­tented buzz.

  “Silly kitty,” she said absently, “silly little nip.”

  Sadyris, not being in the least bit frivolous, miaowed plaintively to let mistress know that it was feeding time, and preferably right away. Mösza rose and walked over to a darkened corner of the room, to a small wicker cage covered with a vividly colored scarf. Inside she could hear vague rustling and chirping sounds. She carefully reached in and grabbed and removed a small live field mouse by its tail, placed it and the cat slightly apart and facing each other on the tiled floor, and then stepped back to observe the miniature drama about to unfold before her.

  The mouse crouched, frozen in terror, whiskers bristling, nose sniffing out the source of its danger, its bright, limpid eyes darting desperately here and there to­wards the remote corners of the room. Mösza watched dis­passionately as the feline, looking every bit like a desert lion in miniature, stalked and pounced on the rodent, and then nonchalantly began showing off by batting it back and forth between her paws. Finally tiring of the game, Sadyris abruptly beheaded the creature. Then, without further ado, she settled down to feast.

  In the background Mösza could sense the delicate windchimes, constructed in seemingly random fashion of pottery chips, hollow reeds of varying lengths, and shining brass medallions, as they tinkled their incessant idle melodies in perfect point-counterpoint to the danse macabre taking place on the floor of the salon.

  Mösza allowed her mind to wander, recalling the first time she had been brought to this place, and what a paradise it had seemed to her then, a refuge from the cares and pressures of the real world. She had just returned from the east, young and still eager to find her way, her head crammed full of the nonsense that some men call philoso­phy. But things hadn’t worked out quite as she had in­tended, and so, in the end, she had come here to the Jabal Khaibár, where she had been saved from herself by Karím ibn Taimúr, Emir of Umm az-Zakkár.

  Golden Cassie, dark Neb, and gentle Puff came trotting around the corner to see what the commotion was all about. Beau the retarded, as was usual for him, showed up a few moments later. The cat paid them no attention: she had already taken their measure and found them want­ing. Dogs were foolish creatures, she reasoned, put on earth solely to entertain the feline element. They stood there like idiots, their mouths hanging open, tongues dan­gling, and tails wagging, watching the superior being dain­tily parsing her supper.

  Mösza loved her captive children. She gave a spe­cial hug to each one, and happily handed out treats from the cache she kept hidden deep in her apron. They all gathered around eagerly, all except Sadyris, licking her hands and begging for more delicacies from the kitchen.

  “You’re all spoiled,” she said with a laugh, “rotten to the core.”

  They cheerfully agreed: anything for more treats.

  “Enough!” she said, and went into the other room, where she almost stepped on a small pile of feces.

  “What’s this?” she asked. “Now tell me true, who’s been a naughty little doggy?”

  She looked at each of them in turn, but none would meet her eyes. Their tails drooped in despair.

  “Was it you, Cassie precious? Well no, I don’t re­ally think so: this is just too small. Let me taste it. Hmmm. Well, my dearies, I’m sorry to say that it was Beau-Beau again. What do you have to say for yourself, my love?”

  She picked up the miniature dog with the flat pug nose and the dull rheumy eyes, and cradled him in her arms, softly stroking his curly black fur.

  “Nothing? You’ve been a bad little boy, haven’t you, dearie? You always were an obstinate one, even when you had two legs. Bad, bad Beau.”

  She put the animal down and let fly a flash of en­ergy from a ring on her right hand. It fried him where he stood.

  “Well, that’ll teach you, won’t it, dear? Bad dog!”

  She started to say something to the others, but they had already run off as fast as their legs could carry them.

  “Oh, my,” she said, “such a waste. But you’ll all be back at din-din time!”

  Then she went off to investigate the possible ren­dezvous point for her meeting with Arkády.

  But Sadyris just waited for her mistress to depart, and then sat up straight, as felines are wont to do, laughing silently to herself. It wouldn’t be long now until she could laugh in reality, laugh right out loud at the old bitch, just like she used to, and then things would change, oh my yes, things would change a great deal indeed.

  I used to care, she thought to herself, but....

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  “IS THAT YOU, ARIK?”

  The Archpriest Athanasios, meanwhile, transited that same morning to the archdiocesan chancellery at Örtenburg in Nördmark to sort through the pile of docu­ments that had amassed during the prolonged absence of his master, Metropolitan Timotheos. These he arranged into appropriate groupings, some to be passed on to other func­tionaries at the Cathedral of Saint Paphnytios, others to be returned to Paltyrrha for the prelate himself to examine. Finishing his task several hours before his scheduled return to the council meeting in the afternoon, he used the viridau­rum mirror to reach the Church of Saint Germanos in Oberpfitznerburg.

  The hieromonk wasn’t entirely certain of what he hoped to find there. At the least he wanted to examine the registers of vital records housed in the parish office. Per­haps he would discover something about Arik’s family that might illuminate his background. In the church office he located three old, oversized volumes bound in cracked leather, covering, respectively, births, deaths, and mar­riages from the past century.

  In the birth register Athanasios quickly found a record dated December 24, 1139, for one “Arikos, second son of Rhouphimos and Hêliada his wife.” Similar listings were soon located for Arik’s two brothers and three sisters. And in the book containing deaths, he identified Arik’s fa­ther, Rufím Katúnovich, who had died at the age of forty-nine on November 18, 1163, while Arik was serving in Pommerelia.

  “Can I h-help you, brother?” came the quavering inquiry.

  Athanasios jumped in surprise, for he had thought himself alone. Behind him stood a shriveled priest of some eighty years or more.

  “I was just examining the records, father,” he said.

  “Is that you, Arik?” the elder man asked. “Bless my soul, I haven’t seen you here in ages.”

  The archpriest started to demur, then paused. Per­haps the old cleric was senile, or just couldn’t see very well.

  “Ah,” he said, “I’ve been busy.”

  “So I hear, so I h-hear,” the old priest said, his head nodding up and down. “Yes, yes, you’ve done very well for yourself, my boy. Indeed. And I’m glad you think enough of old Father Terénty to come back again.”

  “I was just remembering the old days,” Athanasios said. “going off to war and all. Those were terrible times, father.”

  “Yet we survived, my son.” Terénty smiled. “It’s all in God’s hands, you know. Why, I can still recall that wonderful day when you finally came home. We gave you a grand welcome back then, didn’t we, boy? Oh my, yes! I was saddened when you had to leave again so soon.”

  “I was just trying to recall, father,” the archpriest said, “exactly when that happened, but as I’ve gotten older, my mind isn’t as sharp as it once was. Did it occur in January or February, do you think?”

  The old man almost cackled with glee.

  “Oh, I remember that. It was a few days after your sister’s boy was born, you know, the bas...well, you know what I mean. Such a scandal that was, too. Here, here, it’s all in the register.”

  He grabbed the book off the shelf, propped it on a desk, and began flipping through the pages, before finally giving up.r />
  “Well, I can’t read too well anymore, can I? Per­haps you can do it for me,” he stated, thrusting the volume into the startled archpriest’s hands.

  Athanasios turned to the year 1166, and sure enough, there was an entry he had overlooked, dated February 4th.

  “Arêtas, natural son of Angela Rhouphimidês.”

  This could be it!

  “What became of the child?” he asked.

  “What child?” Terénty responded, obviously puz­zled. “Oh, you mean your sister’s, umm, yes. Well, I don’t rightly know. Squire Armén wouldn’t hear of him staying. I remember that you were very upset about it, and you left for good right after that. Come to think of it, I never saw the child afterwards. I remember now. The story was that you took him away....”

  “Well, father,” Athanasios said, “I’m late for an ap­pointment, and I have to leave now. It’s been good seeing you again. God go with you.”

  The old priest perked up.

  “And with you, my son. I always enjoy having you here.”

  He scratched his head, muttering to himself as he wandered away.

  “But I thought you were the one....”

  The archpriest hurried back to the Scholê in Pal­tyrrha, scarcely able to contain his excitement. This was an unexpectedly promising development. He now believed that there was a good possibility that Angela was his mother, making Arik his uncle. But who was the father?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  “THEY ARE BOTH HONORABLE MEN”

  “Of course, cher Cousin,” King Humfried was saying to King Kipriyán and the War Council of Kóryn­thia, “I certainly didn’t intend to imply that either Prince Kiríll or Prince Zakháry would make unsuitable can­didates for the hand of Countess Rosalla. They are both honorable and gracious men, with impeccable ancestries....”

  He bowed unctuously in their direction, but they barely acknowledged his presence.