Killingford. Robert Reginald
before he could finally force himself to speak.
“I never thought to hear my first-born son utter such nonsense,” he said. “If any one of my sons wishes to remove himself from the succession”—he looked in Arkády’s direction—“speak now, so another may be appointed in his place. If any one of my officers wishes to run away home before he soils his pretty dress uniform in battle, let him step forward now, and be retired by the scorn of all the brave men assembled at Katonaí. And if there are any cowards present in this room, let them remove themselves without penalty, save one thing only, that I shall not speak to them ever again upon this earth. The enterprise shall be launched on schedule.”
The prince gazed back at his father with great sadness.
“Sire,” he said softly, “I have always been loyal to you, and I will follow you unto the ends of the earth, as your ever-faithful hound. Should you doubt this my word, which is spoken with all of the honor of a member of the House of Tighris, then tell me now, and I shall renounce my rights in favor of my eldest son, Prince Arión.”
Again, there was a gasp of disbelief from the assembled lords. No one there had ever heard such acrimony between the royals aired so publicly.
The king began to say something, then paused a moment, obviously in confusion.
“Damn the Dark-Haired Man!” he suddenly bellowed, “damn him, damn him, damn him, damn him,” pounding the table in counterpoint with his hands till it shook.
The councilors looked back and forth to each other in consternation.
“This meeting is adjourned!” Kipriyán finally said, beating both of his hands upon the hard oak surface, “adjourned, adjourned, adjourned!”
And so it was.
CHAPTER FOUR
“PRAY FOR US ALL”
Later that afternoon the Holy Synod of the Church of Kórynthia met in formal assembly in the annex of Saint Konstantín’s Cathedral in Paltyrrha, presided over by the octogenarian Avraäm iv Kôrbinos, Patriarch of Paltyrrha and All Kórynthia.
“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,” the old man said, bowing his head. “Let us pray.”
After some small time spent in contemplation and self-examination, the secretary of the synod, the Protopresbyter Varlaám Njégosh, introduced the matter which had prompted this meeting. Varlaám was a man of about forty years, distinguished by the prominent hawk nose and widow’s peak of his ancient noble family, which hailed from Érskeburg east of Arrhénë.
“My lords spiritual,” he said, wheezing, “metropolitans and archbishops, Thrice Holy Patriarch”—he bowed unctuously in the direction of their leader—“a matter has been brought before us that requires your most urgent attention. Permission has been sought by the king to bury the late Lord Feognóst, a suicide, in hallowed ground, something that is clearly forbidden under canon law. Because this is a matter of great import, involving one of the leaders of state, the Archbishop of Paltyrrha”—he again nodded in the direction of Avraäm—“has asked for your advice in synod before rendering a reply to King Kyprianos. What say you?”
Ismaêl Metropolitan of Myláßgorod, whose beard reached down almost to his broad waist, spoke first, being the senior serving member of the group.
“The law is clear on this matter. If Lord Feognóst died by his own hand, then he must not be interred in hallowed soil.”
Metropolitan Timotheos lifted his brows in response.
“According to Fra Jánisar,” he said, “the man acted under a compulsion. If another forced him to fall upon his sword, this was murder, and the blame falls on the perpetrator, not on Feognóst. I believe we should give him the benefit of the doubt, and honor him for his service to the king. Let him be buried with his family.”
Philoxenos Gôritzos, Metropolitan of Bolémiagrad, agreed: “We must always act as Christians, not only in name, but in deed. If there is any doubt regarding the way in which he died, we should let God decide.”
However, Zôïlos apo Prousês, Archbishop of Velyaminó, said: “I disagree. A public suicide cannot be excused or amended. Thousands of his soldiers saw him do it. To allow him to be interred in hallowed ground is to tell the world that we will acquiesce to the demands of the state if enough pressure is put upon us. No! A thousand times, I say, no!”
But he was outvoted by Eudoxios Metropolitan of Susafön, and by the Metropolitans and Archbishops Angelarios, Hierônymos, Nestorios, Iôsêph, and Konôn, while Kyriakos and Mêtrophanês sided with Ismaêl.
Finally, the patriarch spoke in his quavering voice.
“My brothers,” he said, “we can add little to this debate, other than to voice our own dismay at what is happening to our belovèd land. This is Satan’s work”—they all murmured their agreement—“and we must take every step necessary to purge this evil from our council halls. Therefore, we propose that the king be requested to allow the Protopresbyter Varlaám to exorcise his court and councilors, and also the generals and officers who will soon be leading our soldiers against the papist-loving Walküri. May we hear your voices united in support of this initiative?”
They all agreed, without dissent, and deputized Metropolitan Timotheos to approach the War Council with the suggestion.
“As far as Lord Feognóst is concerned,” Avraäm said, “we propose that he be buried conditionally with his relatives, with the language of the service subtly altered to take into account the unique circumstances of his passing. We do not wish to offend the king, nor do we wish to divide the nation at the time of its great enterprise. We have spoken: let it be recorded,” he ordered Varlaám.
“Are there any other matters to be brought before this gathering?” he asked.
“Most Holy Patriarch,” Timotheos stated, “I again raise the issue of the vacant bishopric of Söpróny in Gärrewestfählen, and propose that the Archpriest Athanasios Hokhanêmsos would be a most suitable candidate to fill that position.”
Metropolitan Ismaêl smiled his crooked smile, showing several teeth yellowed and furrowed like the well-worn fangs of some wild beast.
“We have heard this one before, brethren,” he said, “and I for one do not wish to hear of it again. The career of this Athanasios has been focused exclusively on the Megalê Scholê, and while this is an honorable position, to be sure, which none of us should scorn, nonetheless it has provided insufficient experience for the administration of an episcopal see. I propose the Archpriest Samouêl Kontarês, who has managed his several parish assignments with great skill during the last fifteen years.”
After much discussion, Ismaêl’s candidate was elected, by a vote of seven to five, several of Timotheos’s supporters being swayed by the evident competence of Kontarês, who was promptly confirmed in his new office by the patriarch. The consecration of the new bishop was scheduled for a week hence. Then the synod quietly adjourned.
But Timotheos remained behind to discuss matters with his mentor.
“I’m very sorry, Timósha,” the older man said, looking every bit his eighty years, “you have not made a friend today.”
“Ismaêl was never a friend, holy father,” the metropolitan said, “and I’d rather have his enmity displayed openly in the pasture than hidden somewhere in the vale. I didn’t really expect to win the appointment for Afanásy. I’m merely laying the foundation for the future.”
“My son, my son,” the patriarch said, clucking his tongue, “your deviousness will be your undoing one day. These men are not as stupid as you sometimes think, and they resent being manipulated, particularly old Ismaêl, even though I know and he knows that you thereby accomplish some ultimate great good for the church. But falter just once, Timósha, and they’ll turn on you, particularly after I’m gone. How will you come to sit in this chair