Читать книгу Killingford - Robert Reginald - Страница 14

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 his bushy gray beard, he looked like God Himself.

“You may go,” the churchman ordered the guards, who immediately departed.

Then he turned to his nephew.

“Your father’s dead,” he stated, “your brothers too.”

“Wh-what?” Kipriyán said, unable to assimilate the message.

He felt as if the underpinnings of his entire world had just been destroyed.

“The king’s been killed,” Víktor repeated. “I’ve been named Prince-Regent of Kórynthia by the Royal Council. We have to make a few decisions, Kyprianos.”

“What?” the boy stated again.

“Look at me, lad!” the prelate ordered.

He gazed up into that austere face. His great-un­cle’s eyes were as cold as emerald crystals.

“The king is dead,” the regent emphasized once more. “Your brothers are dead. That leaves you the ap­parent ‘heir apparent,’ Kyp. But these things aren’t so ob­vious sometimes, are they?”

“I don’t understand, sir,” Kipriyán responded.

“No, of course you don’t,” the older man indicated. “Some of us feel that you’re not quite kingly material, but I happen to believe that you’ll do just fine. What do you think, my boy?”

“I, I,...”

“That’s what I thought,” the cleric said. “Now, listen to me carefully, Kyprianos. This afternoon you’ll be presented to the Royal Council, where you’ll be proclaimed King of Kórynthia. I and your grandmother will be your co-regents, but you will obey only me, do you understand? You will follow my every lead, you will respond exactly as I dictate. If you fail to do this, if you fail me, boy, he’ll come for you in the night.”

“Wh-who, sir?” Kipriyán said.

“The Dark-Haired Man!” the metropolitan roared, suddenly transforming himself into the image of a hairy, black beast rising up to the ceiling of the church, ready to devour the lad.

The king screamed out loud, screamed his terror and fear and horror, and he was still shrieking when he awoke in his tent, surrounded by hundreds of fluttering moths that kissed him everywhere he turned. But try as he might, he could not get away.