Melanthrix the Mage (3 page)

“Several of us have since thought so,” the traveler said. “When presented to the king, the astrologer called out in a loud voice, ‘All hail Kipriyán the Conqueror,' and prostrated himself before the throne.

“‘What do you mean?' came the royal response.

“‘Those who have eyes can see what there is to see,' Melanthrix said. ‘May this unworthy servant rise?'

“When Kipriyán nodded his consent, the mage drew a crimson square in the air with his right forefinger.

“‘To those who understand
le plan astrologique
, my lord king,' Melanthrix said, ‘the future hangs before us like the tapestry upon the wall.'

“The floating square suddenly began displaying im­ages.

“‘At the center of the weave,' the sorceror contin­ued, ‘is the mighty Kyprianos, king of kings, savior of his race, the greatest warrior of the Tighrishi line, veritably another Joshua laying low his enemies with the jawbone of an ass.'

“Now the image displayed the mounted form of Kipriyán himself, bloody sword on high, surrounded by the bodies of his enemies.

“‘It is
you
, o mighty king,
you
who shall rescue Kórynthia from the heathen beasts,
you
whom men shall call Conqueror,
you
whom the Autokratôr at Julianople shall honor as his equal. Forgive us this great imperti­nence, great king, but you see before you only your humble servant, the lowly Doctor Melanthrix, who wishes only to serve you faithfully for the remainder of his days.'

“Then he pulled a pin from somewhere in his robes, and stuck it into the picture. The image vanished with a loud pop, leaving no trace.”

“Incredible!” Jován said.

“Indeed,” the priest said. “But this is the strangest part, my old friend. Neither I nor any other mage present could fathom how the thing was done, nor could we penetrate his mind, and those
psai
defenses were unlike anything we have ever encountered. I know of one assault that was made upon him a few days later; Melanthrix laughed at his attacker, and laughed again when that indi­vidual was executed by order of the king.”

“Who was it?” the abbot asked.

“Lord Khaldán.”

“Too bad,” the older man said, “a good man, if a bit rough around the edges.”

Arik drained his tea, then tossed another log on the fire. He sighed.

“Now the king will do nothing without consulting this charlatan, and neither his generals nor his ministers have been able to break his hold on Kipriyán's mind. And that, Father Abbot, is why I'm so dull these days.”

“And I thought it was just your natural bloodymind­edness,” Jován said, grinning at his former pupil. “You say no one knows anything of his past?”

“Nothing,” Arik said. “He was seen first in Myláßgorod a few days before his arrest. Some have spec­ulated that he came up river from Susafön, but I can't con­firm a sighting earlier than Myláß. He sports these strange, multi-hued robes, which may be a deliberate affectation to keep us from identifying his nationality. His accent seems stilted and formal, but indeterminate in origin; those schol­ars who specialize in such things have been unable to place it. He has an exceedingly odd physique: eyes the palest of blues, face and hair both stark white, beard nonexistent and brows very thin, limbs quite elongated, almost painfully so. He walks with a gait that reminds me of an old sailor I once met who had just returned from a long sea voyage. His age is unknown. He consumes no meat. He avoids the public baths. He eschews the company of other men, save for the king. He laughs strangely and at inappropriate times. He will not take the Body and Blood of Jesus Christ at Holy Mass. He cannot be probed. He cannot be forced. The ‘
sauce
' does not affect him. And it is clear that nothing short of death will dislodge him from the affections of the king.”

The abbot stroked his short beard, nodding to him­self as he pondered the situation.

“Then, my dear friend, your course is very clear. You must bide your time until he makes a mistake, which he surely will in due course. He is, after all, just a man. Shadow this individual and determine what you can of his origins and intentions. Protect the king always, and keep the kingdom from his influence.”

“I'll try, Father Abbot,” came the reply.

Then Arik cocked his head sideways, trying to hear a strange squealing and booming sound hovering just at the edge of his consciousness, somewhere in the distance.

“What's that awful noise?” he asked.

Jován sighed and moved his legs closer to the fire.

“Well, Father Arik,” the abbot said, “that's my own personal cross to bear. ‘Philêmôn and the Holy Flames,' they call themselves. It started last winter, and it has just never stopped, despite rather blatant hints from everyone who's not actually involved with the so-called music-mak­ers. They say that they honor the Creator Himself with their sacred sounds, but it ‘sounds' perfectly wretched to me, I must admit. Alas and alack, more and more of the brethren are joining in, saying that it's ‘fun'; and so I can­not forbid the activity without causing, well, major diffi­culties.”

The entire room was now resonating to a slow “boom, boom, boom” at the lower end of the scale, not quite loud enough to hear clearly, but just enough to pene­trate the bone and irritate the soul.

Arik shook his head, as if to rid himself of the pesky drumming.

“I'm very sorry, Father Abbot,” he said, “but that incessant noise would drive me wholly insane if I had to listen to it all the time.”

“Oh, I just offer it up to the Christ,” Jován said, “and I pray to God Almighty for a quick deliver­ance. Thus far, however, He has chosen in His ultimate wisdom neither to acknowledge me nor to listen Himself to the glorious gourdsmen.

“Howsomever, to return to our situation here, we've experienced similar unrest in the far northeast, as you may have heard. Last year a man of the heathens called Dyggvi Bolkersson began agitating in Nörrland for a pogrom against the Christians. A few less sensitive mem­bers of our flock there had flogged a servant for refusing baptism. Dyggvi has attracted a following from those of the old elite who fear the prospect of change, and has been successful in getting the Nörrlander Thingë to expel the members of the true faith who are resident beyond our northeastern borders. Last month those who declined his invitation were abruptly slaughtered, God rest their mar­tyred souls.”

Both men crossed themselves from right to left, and kissed their hands.

“The remnants of those poor folk are still finding their way south by whatever way they can,” the abbot con­tinued. “Now I am told that ‘Count' Dyggvi, as calls him­self, is assembling an armed force in the woods north of Sevyerovínsk and Öldenburg. Most of the garrisons there were pulled to Myláßgorod earlier this year by Count Ygor, and the walls of both towns are in bad repair. There's been no threat from the heathens in several genera­tions. Of course, I've put our community here on alert, and I'm having the country scoured for foodstuffs; but we could not long survive a siege, I think, particularly with the refugees starting to come in from all sides.”

“Terrible news,” Arik said, “terrible! Have you re­ported this?”

“Of course,” the abbot said, “but the authori­ties just think I'm a foolish old man. Perhaps I am, but I truly believe that the north could explode into chaos; and if war does come, I don't think that it will end either quickly or well. For that reason, my good friend, as much as I enjoy your company, I must ask that you depart on the morrow. You can add nothing of significance to our de­fenses here, if the worse should happen. I would feel much more secure knowing that you were providing the appropri­ate counsel to the Royal Council.”

“This is much more serious than anything I've heard in Paltyrrha,” the priest said. “I can certainly help. I'll start with Melitón Count Zúmov at the ministry, and then try Metropolitan Akakios at the chancellery of the patriar­chate. However, before I go, I've still got my business to complete here, and the sooner we can get to it, the better.”

He shook his large bare head and laughed, patting his mentor on the back.

“Now that we've managed to depress ourselves, old friend,” he said, “whom do you have for me this year?”

“So now we don our practic hat, eh?” Jován said, with a wry grin of his own. “No more idle chat­ter for the ancient, decrepit abbot. Well, I do have a few prospects in mind, three of them, in fact: the acolytes Radó, Bayánik, and Yevstáfy, good lads all. If you'll ex­tend your
psai
-ring, I'll give you the details concerning their backgrounds and suitability.”

Arik touched the middle finger of his right hand to the bare arm of his mentor, and quickly re-established a long-familiar contact; the latter immediately began transfer­ring images of the candidates and their accomplishments to the hieromonk.

“Hmm, Radó seems rather immature to me, even for his young age,” Arik said. “I think I'll pass on him this time. Brother Bayánik is at least passable, although none of this group demonstrates particularly strong lan­guage skills. Yevstáfy looks presentable, but he's not quite adept yet, is he? He's young enough that I can wait an­other year for him, too. I'll test Bayánik tomorrow. But what about Afanásy, whom we discussed last year? He was a little green then, and we had such a good candidate in Görtenz that he was outclassed.”

The abbot sighed deeply. “Ah yes, Brother Afanásy. Well, after some reflection, I do not think that friend Afanásy had a particularly good year, and I believe we should wait for him to mature a little more.”

“You know as well as I that we must take these boys at just the right age if they're to be trained properly,” Arik said. “How old is he? Twelve, thirteen at most? If he's going to be tested, it must be now.”

Jován moved his left arm back and broke contact, rubbing his hands together to ease the strain.

“Sorry,” he said, “but I can't recommend him.”

Arik looked his friend in the eye. “Why? What­ever has he done?”

The older man rested his chin in his right hand, and idly began scratching his beard.

“It is not so much what he's done, father,” he said, “as what he
hasn't
done. Afanásy handles all the chores as­signed to him,
but he does no more
. He attends mass and prayers as required,
but he does no more
. He performs his mental exercises,
but he does no more
. He trains with the defensemen, subject to his physical limitations,
but he does no more
. Indeed, with such things he never seems to do
anything
more than he has to.”

The abbot cleared his throat.

“And yet, his studies are exemplary. He reads bet­ter than most of the monks resident here. He loves to pe­ruse obscure texts and scrolls. I found him one day pour­ing through the old chronicles of the abbey, and when I asked him what he could possibly find of interest there, he quite simply replied: ‘Everything.'

“And I
believed
him,. I be­lieved him, Arik! Afanásy has a great facility for lan­guage. From personal observation, I know that he reads some Greek and Latin, Slavonic and Magyar, perhaps even a touch of the Araby script, although no one has taught him that. He poses questions constantly to our resident masters, but some of his knowledge is self-taught. His Psairothi potential is unquestionably high: his lines are well-devel­oped, and he has met every challenge our adepts can throw at him. Indeed, I suspect that he can do even more than he admits or knows.

“But that's precisely the problem that I have with this boy, Arik: what he knows and what he will admit to knowing. For some months I've had the distinct feeling that he's been holding back from me. I feel uncomfortable around him, and I know very well that it's
my
failing. I ask God for His guidance, remembering certain ‘difficult' pupils that I've had in the past, and I do sense that he's trying to touch me in ways that I just don't understand and to which I can't respond.

“I'm also concerned that he seems to have few friends his own age, if any. God knows that I've tried my best to reach him, but there is very little response beyond the usual, the most respectful, ‘Yes, Father Abbot.' He's quiet and agreeable at all times, almost to a fault, but I simply don't know what's going on in that little mind of his. I would rather see some passion there, some intensity, instead of the perfectly composed little gentleman. It's, well, it's unnatural.”

The visiting hieromonk took a poker and stirred the unburnt portions of the wood in the fireplace, creating a cloud of sparks. He brushed one out of his beard before it took hold.

“You've given me much to consider, my friend,” Arik said. “I had no idea that little Athy had changed so much. Do you remember his first day here? He didn't shed one tear, even though I'm sure he was scared beyond his wits. There was no whimpering, no mewling, even back then. I don't think I ever told you this, but only once on that long journey did he ever ask about his mother. He didn't especially want his mother, mind, he just wanted to know what had become of her. I couldn't tell him, of course, then or now.”

“Oh yes,” the older man said, “I remember him, all right, and what a well-behaved little lad he was, too. Brother Mílo gathered him up in his bear-like arms, and asked: ‘Are you going to be a big boy now?' Athy looked him straight in the eye and said: ‘Yes, sir. Yes, I am.' Everyone laughed. He did not like being laughed at, even at that young age. Those were the days, eh?”

Jován suddenly pushed his chair back and threw his hands out towards the fireplace.

“What's that?” he yelled, generating an orange flame of protection from his rings.