Killingford. Robert Reginald
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“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.
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