Killingford. Robert Reginald
mirror. Establishing and maintaining a mobile viridaurum was notoriously difficult, even for an experienced group of Psairothi, but it was crucial to their operation to be able to communicate regularly with the capital and with the different troops now converging on Myláßgorod.
Prince Arkády was everywhere at once, frantically trying to keep the units together, and pausing for a word here and there with his officers. The experienced ones knew exactly what to do, but the rest had to be taught, step by painfully slow step. Even though they were still deep within their own kingdom, the lords had decided at the last meeting of the War Council to pretend from the very beginning that they were operating in hostile territory, as a training exercise.
Arkády kept an admiring eye on his father, as the king expertly organized the layout of the camp, based on the availability of water and the natural defenses of the place. King Kipriyán had settled down somewhat during the last few weeks, since the shock of Feognóst’s suicide. Thankfully, there had been no further incidents, although the prince was under no illusion on that score: more would follow, of that he was certain. They had all been watching each other constantly, looking for the tell-tale signs of hidden workings. Tension was high.
Soon the camp was established, with large, well-stocked tents for the officers, councilors, and major churchmen, and campfires and bedrolls for everyone else. Savory stews were already simmering over the open flames; he could smell the juicy meat and vegetables flavored with field onions and other fresh herbs, so generously if sometimes reluctantly donated by the local farmers. His mouth watered. To his complete surprise, he found himself suddenly ravenous, and hastened off to his own tent, where he had been housed with several of the chief officers of the court.
After everyone had filled their bellies, the king, his sons, and the major lords and councilors gathered around a large bonfire near the monarch’s tent. Arkády spied Melanthrix lurking to one side, and his dinner briefly crawled back up his esophagus. Choking down the bile, he lowered his head, and carefully watched the thin figure of the astrologer from the corner of his eye. He had been avoiding contact with the king’s boon companion ever since Melanthrix had saved the life of little Ari, the prince’s eldest son and heir, but Arkády knew that a time would come soon when he would have need of the philosopher again, and he dreaded that rendezvous-to-come.
The king was in fine form this night, telling stories of the old wars that he had waged, of the great triumphs and narrow escapes that he had known. Everyone loved to hear the tale of the Åvarswood, of how sixteen men had clawed their way through hordes of Northmen and an entire forest finally to rejoin their comrades. There were cheers all around when Kipriyán recounted their joyous reunion with the main army, and how they had pursued and punished the barbarians for weeks, until they were all butchered or enslaved, each and every one.
“Tell us about the great war with Pommerelia,” someone suggested.
“But I wasn’t there,” Kipriyán said, laughing. “Oh, would that I had been. Is there anyone amongst us who has stories to sing about that conflict?”
Athanasios, who was sitting in the background with the other churchmen, was surprised when Metropolitan Timotheos said nothing. He almost spoke up on his mentor’s behalf, when he suddenly realized how he would have felt if placed in a similar position.
“Come, come now,” the king said, “surely somebody has something to contribute. What about you, friend Melanthrix?”
“Like you, my king, Melanthrix never served,” the philosopher said. “But he heard tales, oh yes he did, of what happened in those far-gone days, and of the great King Makáry thy father, and of thy valiant brothers, the Princes Néstor and Karlomán.”
“Show us!” came the eager refrain from all sides.
Melanthrix reached into a hidden pocket of his robe, and pulled forth some powder which he sprinkled over the fire, creating a flash that momentarily blinded them, and much putrid green smoke. When they could see again, there was the rotating visage of Makáry i King of Kórynthia, as if he had been there in real life.
Suddenly, the picture dissolved into the image of a column of soldiers, very similar to their own, marching off to war. That faded off into another portrait, and then another, like a series of vivid tapestries, leading them further into the history of the conflict. First came the great victory at Argöliß and the death of King Michael—cheers all around—the early onset of the freezing winter weather that stopped their advance cold, the privations faced by both sides, the second expedition of the following year, the troops assembled before Dürkheim, the siege of that mighty walled city, the trickery of the Walküri and the death of King Makáry—groans from everyone—the retreat to Einwegflasche, the third-year stand of King Ezzö the Elder at Borgösha and the siege of that city, and Ezzö’s final suicide that marked the end of the campaign.
No one ventured a word for several moments after the last picture frayed into nonexistence.
“Well,” said the king, breaking the silence, “at least I hear that our boys plowed a mighty crop of bastards that year in fresh Pommerelian soil.”
Most of the soldiers laughed, but a few men—Arkády, Athanasios, Timotheos, and some others—privately grimaced or said nothing at all. This was not an achievement worthy of boasting. Arkády wondered what the poor women had done with their unwanted children; he’d heard tales of dozens being left in the woods by their anguished mothers for the elements and wild animals to eliminate.
The party gradually dissolved into separate knots of men discussing strategy or the practical matters of getting the units moving on the morrow. The king soon rose to retire, ordering all but the pickets off to bed.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“YOU WILL OBEY ONLY ME”
But there was one who roamed far into the hollow of the night that evening, bypassing the guards quite readily, sloughing off his human form for another semblance that was far more comfortable. At the hour of the wolf he silently stood beside Kipriyán’s bedroll, and gazed down upon the snoring image of the king, watching the tendrils of beard waver in the exhaled breath of the great ruler. Then he reached down and touched the sleeping beauty on the middle of his forehead, and a green glow swept slowly down over the recumbent body of the monarch, sparing not even his toes.
Suddenly he heard someone coming, and turning halfway towards the entrance, quickly twisted his hands together—and was gone!
“Father,” said Prince Arkády, opening the tent flap and peering in. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were already asleep.”
The king didn’t wake, however, and his son was about to take his leave when abruptly he stopped. He sensed a strange fragrance in the air. He took a deep breath, trying to place it in the context of his memory, but the odor eluded him, and gradually diminished even as he tried to draw it closer. He had encountered the taint somewhere before, of that he was certain. Finally, though, he dropped the cloth back over the exit, and headed towards the perimeter to check the pickets.
In the tent, a black moth came to rest on the center of Kipriyán’s chest, its wings lying flat to either side. Another soon joined its sister, and then another and another, until the king’s entire body, save only his nose, was enshrouded in a dark, slightly moving cloak.
In his own mind, the king was dreaming of Paltyrrha in the summer of 1164. He was studying the Romanish tongue with Fra Callanus, when the door of the study banged open, and he was abruptly dragged from his tutor by a pair of burly guards whom he had never before seen, and locked away in a windowless storeroom. Once each day these same men brought him bread and cheese and water, and changed his bucket, but they would not respond to his questions, and he was left, finally, with nothing but tears of frustration and anger and fear.
On the tenth day he was half-dragged to a viridaurum and taken to Saint Ióv’s Church, where his great-uncle, Metropolitan Víktor, was waiting for him by the main altar.
The cleric was imposing in his red cassock and ornate vermilion hat, towering at least two feet over the boy. With