mixing magical traditions, which you’re not supposed to be able to do, but there it is.”
“So how do we combat these attacks?” Arkády asked.
The doctor shook his head.
“I wish I knew, Highness. Kill the one responsible, I’d say, although how you find him and how you do the deed are other matters entirely. My only real advice is the obvious one: be careful. Be extraordinarily careful. Your usual defenses won’t work here. You’re better off to employ cold, hard steel. And I’ll offer another guess for you, too: whoever’s doing this will keep on killing over and over again until he’s stopped. He enjoys it now.”
Arkády rubbed his bearded jaw in weariness.
“Who do you think he is?” the prince asked.
Jánisar snorted.
“He could be anybody at court,” the physician said. “He has to have been present often enough to know the people here, to understand their habits and patterns and the routine of court life, and to gain access to them in some intimate way. This is no outsider, I think. This is one of our own, milord.”
“God’s teeth!” Arkády said. “And here I’ve been thinking that this monster was some fiend from Hell trying to claw his way into....”
“Well, sir,” the physician said, “I very much doubt it. To me everything points to someone with a grudge, somebody who’s been holding a grievance inside for a very long time.
“Just look at what’s been happening,” he continued. “One by one this individual has been attacking different members of the government, none of them key persons in and of themselves, but each building upon the others. He wants us to feel fear. He feeds on that fear. He laps it up like a catamount slurping blood. It’s that feeling, that sick feeling, of somebody always watching us, that really spooks me, and makes me think that catching this killer and putting an end to his madness will be a very difficult task indeed. On the surface he’ll look completely normal, just like anyone else. Underneath, of course, he’s monstrous, but you’ll never know that. Until he makes a mistake, of course. I just hope there are still some of us left then....”
“What do you mean?” the prince asked.
“I repeat what I said earlier,” the physician said. “This one won’t stop, not ever, until he’s physically or mentally destroyed by one of us. He has a plan that he intends to fulfill, a scheme that none of us understands yet, and until we do, until we put ourselves into his mind and comprehend what motivates him, we won’t be able to find him, unless he’s a lot less adept than I think he is. To my mind, this is the worse threat the kingdom has ever faced, worse by far than the Nörrlanders or the Walküri or even”—he laughed—“the Dark-Haired Man.”
Arkády questioned Jánisar for a bit longer, but there was nothing more to be gained from the conversation, and each man had important tasks yet to be accomplished. As he hurried back to the city, the prince wondered in his own mind where this investigation would eventually lead before the great wheel of fate turned turtle once again, throwing them all into another cycle. Perhaps, he mused, it was best not to worry overmuch about such matters. There was an old saying among the commonfolk that fit the situation well:
“Man proposes, but God disposes.”
CHAPTER TWO
“IS THIS NORMAL?”
Hundreds of miles to the east, deep within the rolling hills of Arrhénë, the Archpriest Athanasios was beginning to develop a real hatred of rain. It had poured without relief now for at least three days, ever since he had transited to the count’s palace in Aszkán, and he could not imagine a more miserable existence. One of the servants told him they hadn’t seen the sun in two weeks.
“Is this normal?” the hieromonk asked, making ordinary conversation.
“We had one spring thirteen or fourteen years ago where it rained, off and on, for two months,” came the reply.
No wonder the place was always so green! he thought, regarding his damp, moldy gear with disgust.
Athanasios had been sent by the War Council to check the inventories of foodstuffs and materiel supporting the Arrhéni levies, which were supposed to gather here in another week for the trek to Paltyrrha. From what he had already seen, however, he doubted that they would be ready to march until mid-May.
Only a thousand men had straggled into the capital thus far, and they were a wretched lot: wet, tattered, and poorly armed with old, rusty weaponry. The higher regions of the county were still snowbound, the rivers were overflowing their banks, and the mud was ubiquitous, in one’s footwear, clothing, bedrolls, and food. He had seen one man lose his boots that very afternoon to the sucking grip of the grasping goo, which ofttimes had the consistency of sticky clay pudding, and which in some places reached two or three feet deep.
The boy Count Valentín was doing his best, he supposed, but something more was clearly required.
“Count Sándor,” he shouted, as he spotted the commander of the regiment hurrying by, “I still need to talk to you about those supplies....”
But he was ignored. Again.
Why had they sent a cleric to deal with these country rubes? He sighed most heavily, and went back into the storehouse. There wasn’t enough food here to keep three thousand Arrhénis happy even for the trek to Paltyrrha, much less for an entire campaign. He looked out the door again, and spotted Lord Valentín Senior, the ruling count’s uncle and the commander’s younger brother, who was visiting from Susafön.
“Your Excellency!” he yelled.
The baron, a powerful man in his early thirties, slid to a stop, and saluted the archpriest, water dripping from his hand.
“Father Athy,” he said, “how goes the quartermastering trade?”
“Not well, sir,” the monk said, “not well at all. I’ve tried to convey to Count Sándor that this just won’t do. There’s not enough food here, there’s not enough variety of victuals, and what goods we have are rotting from the damp and being devoured by rats.”
“Hmmm. And what did he say?” the baron asked.
“I don’t know what he said,” Athy shouted in frustrated anger, “because he won’t talk to me. I can’t get an appointment to see him, and he doesn’t respond otherwise. What am I supposed to do?”
Valentín scratched his bushy sideburns, idly popping a flea between thumb and finger.
“Well, father, it’s like this, see. We had a bad winter here, and there aren’t any crops in yet. Nobody in these parts has much in the way of food stocks left after all the cold, wet weather, and we can’t just strip the peasants of their last supplies. We’d have a revolt on our hands. So, this is basically all we’ve got or are going to have. However, don’t worry about it: the men’ll make do. They always have. They’re used to getting by on minimal rations.”
Suddenly Athanasios heard his name called, and Count Valentín Junior came bounding up, cheerful as a new pup.
“Father Athy, how are you?” said the enthusiastic voice.
“Count
