'Ware the Dark-Haired Man Page 2

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  The Archpriest Athanasios spent the night in Borgösha sleeping the sleep of the righteous. In the morn­ing, he was given a new mount, and sent on his way to Myláßgorod. Before leaving, he met privately with Prince Zakháry.

  “Father,” the prince said, coming forward to grasp his hand, “I’ve certainly enjoyed traveling with you, de­spite the circumstances. Bonne chance for the rest of your trip.”

  “Thank you, highness,” the priest replied. “May God bless all your endeavors, now and in the future.”

  The next day was the Feast of Saint Maximos. Al­though Athanasios started through the Skopélosz Pass shortly after sunrise, the way was so crowded that it took him all day to make the journey. The side of the road was littered with broken-down wagons, discarded baggage, and garbage left by the many travelers. The blueberry bushes and ferns that had flourished in the highland meadows when they had climbed through the pass a month earlier had now been trampled into a tangled ruin. It would take many sea­sons for nature to restore the beauty that had been lost here.

  Not long after the dinner hour, he finally reached open country, and rode the last few miles in relative peace, at times cutting through undisturbed fields to avoid the traf­fic. He reached Myláßgorod at sundown.

  At once he sought out Count Zygmunt and presented his credentials, plus a personal message from the hereditary prince, which he handed over immediately.

  “My master orders you to stop the flow of men and supplies through the pass at once,” he added, “and to keep secret the reasons why you’re doing so until he reaches home, about a week from now. Is this understood?”

  “Yes, father,” the little man replied. “I will do ex­actly as he says.”

  “For myself, I request some water for cleansing, a new robe, and something to eat,” Athanasios added. “I’ll also require the use of your viridaurum later this evening.”

  “Anything, father,” Zygmunt indicated, and clapped his hands to bring his servants nigh.

  Two hours later the priest transited to Tighrishály Palace in Paltyrrha, and requested a private meeting with Princess-Regent Arrhiána. He was conducted immediately to the council chambers, where the princess was waiting.

  “You look very tired, father,” she commiserated.

  “I’ve been traveling for days, highness,” he ac­knowledged, “but I do appreciate your concern. I was sent on ahead by Prince Arkády to bring you news of the war. First, I must give you this private message from your brother.”

  He handed her the missive he had drafted for his master at Saint Paulinos’s Abbey.

  The princess opened the paper carefully, without breaking the wax seal, which she realized immediately had a special psychic message embedded in it. First she read the written letter:

  “Dearest Sister:

  “I send you grave tidings. We have met the enemy at Killingford. Both sides have suffered terrible, irreparable losses. Since we cannot continue to prosecute the war in our present state, we have decided to withdraw, carrying our wounded with us. Of the thirty thousand soldiers who started on the trek to Pommerelia, barely five thousand survive. Patriarch Avraäm, King Humfried, Prince Pankratz, Prince Ezzö, and our brother, Prince Nikolaí, are dead, and Prince Norbert is captured by the en­emy. Father lives, but his mind is uneasy. We move with all possible speed towards home. I send this letter to you via my trusted servant, the Archpriest Athanasios.

  “Your Brother,

  “Arkadios Prinképs”

  “Oh, Nicky!” was all Arrhiána was able to utter, crossing herself. “God have mercy on all of us.”

  The cleric murmured a short prayer of remem­brance, to which they both said “Amen.”

  Then Arrhiána pressed her psai-ring into the seal. The message buried in the wax further directed the princess to keep the details of the message secret, and to assist the archpriest in locating and retrieving Princess Arizélla.

  “I am also ordered, highness,” Athanasios contin­ued, “to inform the Locum Tenens of the Holy Church of the patriarch’s passing, and to secure the Forellëan heir. Do you know where I can find the princess?”

  It took Arrhiána a moment to reply. The dimen­sions of the Kórynthi losses were still swirling around in her head: Twenty-five thousand men! The cream of the nobility gone! Half the Holy Synod dead!

  “F-father, I think she’s, uh, somewhere in Dnéprov,” the princess replied, abruptly sitting down with a thud. “I’m sorry, I just don’t know where. You’ll have to transit down there and find out.”

  “I’m terribly sorry for your loss, princess-regent,” the monk ventured. “I’m particularly saddened about the death of your brother. He was a fine man and a good sol­dier. I admired his spirit and bravery. It’s said that he saved the hereditary prince’s life by sacrificing his own.”

  “That sounds just like Nicky,” Arrhiána responded, “always venturing out before anyone else. I just....”

  “I understand,” the priest said. “I’ll take my leave, now, if you please, highness. I must report forthwith to Metropolitan Timotheos.”

  Arrhiána offered Athanasios her hand, which he kissed, and then he departed. She sat there for half an hour, looking out the window and crying to herself. She would never see her dear brother Nikolaí again on this fair earth.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “SO MANY, SO VERY MANY”

  An hour later, the Archpriest Athanasios walked to the Abbey of Saint Theophanês in Paltyrrha, next to the Cathedral, where he asked to see the Metropolitan Timoth­eos. He was ushered into a small antechamber a few mo­ments later, and was joined by his old friend not long thereafter.

  “Arik!” he exclaimed, dropping to his knees and kissing his mentor’s ring.

  “How good to see you again, friend Afanásy,” the older man replied, lifting the priest to his feet. “You look a bit worse for wear.”

  “I’ve seen better days,” the archpriest agreed. “I have sad news, holiness. The Thrice Holy Patriarch Avraäm iv has gone to his heavenly reward. He bade me give you this, and commended you as his successor to the Holy Synod.”

  He pulled the signet ring from his finger, and handed it to the metropolitan. Timotheos turned it over and over in his hand before pocketing it.

  “I am the Alpha and the Omega,” he said with rev­erence, bowing his head in respect. “He was a kind and good and gracious man, one of our greatest leaders, I think, although little appreciated by his contemporaries. He knew he was dying, and he undertook this onerous journey any­way.”

  The archbishop sat down on his stool and shook his head in disbelief. Then he turned back again to Athanasios.

  “What of those members of the synod who accom­panied the expedition?” he asked.

  “All have perished, metropolitan.”

  “Then only six remain, including myself,” the prelate stated. “I presume this information is to be kept se­cret until the king returns.”

  “That is what I was told,” the priest confirmed.

  “Who else?” the metropolitan inquired.

  “Prince Nikolaí, King Humfried, Prince Pankratz, Prince Ezzö, and twenty-five thousand others died. Prince Norbert was taken, and is not expected to survive.”

  “So many!” Timotheos exclaimed, exhaling with a loud huff, “so very many. When do you expect the king to return?”

  “A week, maybe less, depending on the roads,” the younger man noted. “They also carry with them a great many injured men.”

  “I will pray for the recently departed and those re­covering,” the metropolitan said, “and quietly make ar­rangements for their return. Will you stay with us for a while?”

  “Alas, that I could,” the priest said, “but another mission awaits me. I do need a place for the night, though, if you don’t mind.”

  “It will be our pleasure,” Timotheos responded, rising and embracing his old comrade. “It’s good to have you back, Afanásy, even for a short time.”

  The metropo
litan went to the door, opened it, and stuck his head into the corridor.

  “Brother Bogdán,” he ordered, “please prepare quarters for Father Athanasios.”

  Then, turning back to Afanásy: “Now, my friend, if you’ll join me in the dining room, we can probably scav­enge a cup of herb tea and a slab of old Dürny cheese.”

  “But that stuff really stinks,” the priest responded, making a face. “Yech.”

  “Not the old kind,” Timotheos said. “It still has some vigor left in it. It’s just the newer variety that has a certain odeur about it. Come along, now, you’ll see.”

  And they spent the rest of the evening together, talking about that other war that Arik had experienced so many eons earlier, until Athanasios suddenly found himself unable to speak further, as the events of recent weeks fi­nally overcame his emotions.

  When the metropolitan urged him to unburden him­self, the younger man just shook all over and said, “I can­not,” taking himself off to his bed. There he found himself reliving the horrors of the battlefield all over again, waking screaming in the heart of the night as the great green globe consumed thousands of lives in just an instant.

  For he understood quite suddenly that this had been no accident of fate, that the deaths of his comrades had been an intentional act on the part of another, and that the terror was not yet ended.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “I AM NOT THE HEIR!”

  The next morning, Father Athanasios celebrated the Feast of Saints Salvios and Souperios with his mentor and the monks of the abbey. Despite the half-forgotten agonies of the previous night, it filled his soul with joy to be able once again to lift his voice in song to the Lord, harmoniz­ing with his brothers’ polyphony. He hadn’t realized until then how much he had missed the all-enfolding sanctuary of the church. Perhaps seeing the death and destruction at Killingford had been an epiphany of sorts after all. He had suffered a crisis of faith there, but his faith had survived intact or had even been strengthened.

  He embraced Metropolitan and Locum Tenens Tim­otheos, he who had once been Arik Rufímovich, again be­fore departing. His friend was growing old, Athanasios thought, but he still had something further to contribute to the growth of the Holy Church.

  “I too believe that you are the man to lead us through reconstruction,” Athanasios stated, looking his mentor in the eye, “and I will pray that the Holy Synod has sufficient wisdom to realize this.”

  Arik laughed. “And I will pray they don’t, Afanásy. Take care on your journey. Come see me again soon.”

  Athanasios used the viridaurum mirror just off the vestibule of the Chapel of Saint Kasdôê to transit himself to the Cathedral of Saint Phaustos in Dnepróvgorod, the capi­tal of the County of Dnéprov. The Metropolitan having been one of those who had been sum­moned to the capital, Athanasios sought out the Archbishop Aphrikanos, the Locum Tenens of the metropolitanate, and an old acquain­tance from Saint Svyatosláv’s Abbey.

  “Afanásy Ivánovich,” welcomed the prelate, “how pleasant to see you.”

  “Nazáry Kriskéntovich,” the archpriest responded, “you look the same as you did thirty years ago.”

  “I should hope not!” Aphrikanos chuckled, rubbing his big belly and watching it bounce. “So what brings you out to our deserted city?”

  “Running errands for our king, as usual,” the priest noted. “Now he wants me to make certain that King Hum­fried’s sister is safe. I don’t know how she could be any safer than in Dnéprov, but you know how it goes. We do what we’re ordered to do.”

  “Isn’t that the truth!” the archbishop agreed. “So what do you need to know?”

  “Specifically, where the Princess Arizélla is lo­cated,” Athanasios said. “And, of course, I have to verify that she’s all right.”

  “Well, I know she has a dacha somewhere down the coast, and she may still be living there,” Aphrikanos indi­cated. “She’s a bit of a hermit, you know, and I haven’t heard anything specific about her for quite some time, oh, maybe six months or a year, at least. Father Pompeios, one of my aides, can give you specific directions to her place. He’s been down there on a couple of occasions to say mass.

  “Oh yes, and you’ll need some transportation: I don’t think she has a viridaurum. I’m afraid that all we can provide is an old donkey, if that’s all right. It’s about a twelve-mile trip into the country.

  “Can you stay for lunch?” he added.

  “I’d be honored,” Athanasios agreed, not knowing how to get out of the invitation without appearing too obvi­ous.

  As they ate, the priest avoided questions about the war, just saying that the king was still in the west on cam­paign.

  After the meal, the priest bade his farewells to his old comrade, and rode out into Dnéprov Town. It was a clear, clean day, with the cool wind blowing in off the bay, and gulls as large as chickens screeching insults overhead. Laundry was hung from some of the windows of the two-storey houses that lined the cobblestoned streets of the city. He followed the main road down towards the waterfront, and as he descended the long hill, he could see the tiny ships coming and going from the piers.

  A few blocks before the road dead-ended at the quay, it intersected with a major cross-street, and he turned to the left there, following the new street out of town. As he neared the eastern edge of the port, he noticed the beau­tifully-kept manor houses of the wealthy merchants and shippers, stacked up the hillside one on top of another. He followed the road into the country as it became a well-trav­eled, dusty wagon path, filled with farmers bringing their vegetables into town.

  Gradually, the shoreline began to lift, and the road with it, until the drop from the cliff was several hundred feet down to the crashing waves below. He could smell the myriad flowers blossoming around him. Everything was green and lush.

  Outside of town were a series of large estates set far back from the road, but further on he encountered mostly the small freeholdings of local farmers, interspersed with the occasional summer dachas of the wealthy.

  After traveling most of the afternoon, with the sun still shining but low in the sky, Athanasios finally espied the landmark he had been given by Father Pompeios: a large formation of twin rock pillars poking out of the sea just a few hundred yards off the coast, the so-called Breasts of Loryù, named for one of the pagan gods of the Elders, who had supposedly once visited or resided at this place. Their rounded tops made a spectacular sight as they were rouged by the rays of the declining sun.

  Around the next bend, he finally saw Princess Arizélla’s dacha, and turned in at the path that led to her door. He was exhausted, and sincerely hoped that he hadn’t come all of this way for nothing.

  No one seemed to notice his arrival. He tied up his donkey, and pounded on the door. Still no answer. Then he walked around the small place, and onto the back ter­race, which overlooked the wine-kissed sea. A middle-aged woman was seated there, her back to him, her gray-streaked hair braided down her back to her waist. She was drawing the vista with a piece of charcoal on a thin section of wood or paper.

  He started to speak, but she cut him off with a harsh, “Sssh!”

  So he waited patiently, and when the sun had finally set, she finished what she was doing, and said: “What do you want?”

  “Are you Princess Arizélla?” he asked.

  “Who wants to know?” she demanded.

  “I am the Archpriest Athanasios Hokhanêmsos...,” he began, before being cut off again.

  “Well, Archpriest Athanasios Hokhanêmsos,” she repeated, “you’ve found her. So I’ll ask you again: what do you want?”

  Father Athanasios didn’t know what to make of this princess. Women were a mystery to him anyway, and this one was unlike anyone he’d ever known. She seemed to have none of the sophistication of the women he had met at court.

  “Highness,” he finally iterated, “I bring you sad tidings. Last week there was a battle in Pommerelia at a place called Killingford. We suffered terrible
losses. Your brother, your nephew, and your great-nephew Pankratz were all killed. Prince Norbert was captured by the enemy, and was certainly executed, or will be shortly. You are the next heir to the throne of Pommerelia, and I have been asked by the king to bring you back to court.”

  “I am not the heir,” she growled. “Little man, you don’t even know your royal genealogy.” She slapped her wrist. “Damn bugs come out when the sun goes down. We’d better get inside. Follow me,” she added, and he had no choice but to obey.

  Her dacha consisted of three small rooms and a kitchen. There were no servants. She lit an oil lamp and set it on the mantel. Then she motioned to the one good chair in the place.

  He hesitated to take it, this not being the kind of manners one offered to a lady, until she barked, “Would you please sit down.” So he did.

  “Well, I can’t say that I’m going to miss my pip­squeak of a nephew or his two brawny babes,” she admit­ted, “but I’m sorry to hear about Ezzösh. I tried to talk him out of going, but his mind was too far gone to listen to a mere woman. Didn’t used to be like that, you know. He was a good man once, until his brains turned to mush.

  “You want something to drink?” she asked.

  When he shook his head “no,” she added: “Well, I’m going to have one anyway.”

  She put some clear liquid from a jug into a pewter cup.

  “Sure you won’t try some of this stuff?” she in­quired. “It’ll take some of the dust off your hide, that’s for sure,” she added, quaffing it down in one swallow.

  “All right,” he allowed.

  She poured him a cup, and handed it to him. He sipped it and choked, spitting it out. When he had recov­ered, he could hear a gurgling sound, and realized that she was laughing so hard, she couldn’t speak.

  She pulled up a stool, and poured herself another.

  “Look, priest,” she said, “even if they’re all dead and buried, there’s still silly Salentína, Humfried’s little girl. She comes before me, and she’s welcome to it, by God.”