CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

“DON’T LEAVE ME HERE!”

At midnight, the King Arkadios made his way to the chambers of the late Princess Mösza, she who had also been known to the world as Doctor Melanthrix. There he put to sleep the men standing guard outside the door with an idle wave of his hand, unsealed the old philoso­pher’s room, and quietly entered.

He stepped to the bed, where Mösza’s body was neatly laid out, and picked it up, being careful not to touch any of the exposed flesh.

What are you doing? came the little voice.

Ah, he replied, I thought you might still be in there, Auntie.

Where are you taking me, Arkásha? came the plain­tive query.

Just for a little ride, the king noted.

He carried the body down several levels, stopping once to regain his breath, using back ways that were little frequented even during the day. They met no one.

Then he moved to the other wing of the palace via a narrow passageway accessed through a sliding door located behind a floor-length wall hanging. He finally came to Queen Brisquayne’s Gallery, as it would now be called, where Jaél’s extraordinary tapestries were on permanent display.

He closed the door behind him with his foot, and placed the body of Mösza in the middle of the floor. Then he lit his ringflame, and went over to the panel depicting the Pit of the Demons. During his last visit here, Arrhiána had given him an idea that he wanted to try.

The king deliberately centered himself, and then fo­cused his mind on the scarab device located in one corner of the artwork. He imagined it as alive, and touched it with his psai-ring, sending his energy surging through it. He was gratified to see the small image begin waving its six tiny legs. As the beetle suddenly scurried up within the hanging, it seemed to give life to the tapestry, and Arkády could feel a cold breeze and dank smell oozing from the picture. Then he retrieved the body of his great-aunt, and stepped into and through the image.

Where are we? she screamed.

Don’t you remember, Auntie? he asked. You brought me here once.

Noooo! came the cry of terror. Arkásha, don’t leave me here!

I’m sorry, Mösza, I truly am, Arkády thought, but what else can I do with you? If I put you where you can be found, you’ll move on to someone else, won’t you? And then this will start all over again. I just can’t take that chance.

Please, Mamá, please! she pleaded. I promise to be a good girl, really I do. I know I was bad once, but you’ve punished me for that already. Don’t send me away, Málya, please don’t. It wasn’t my fault. Nésty said that she didn’t care, that she had hurt him, that only I could help. I didn’t know, brother, I didn’t. I believed him. And then he started to laugh, and he called me thin and ugly and strange, and he laughed some more. All I wanted was to be loved by someone. Please don’t send me away, Mamá, please!

Arkády put the body carefully down on the altar, laying it out on the crosspiece, but again avoiding di­rect contact with the flesh. He tried not to look at any of the grotesque images lining the dank chamber.

Mösza Karlománovna von Tighrisha, he intoned, Princess of Kórynthia, Countess of Rábassy, and Shaikha of Salaleh, rest thou in eternal peace.

Waaiitt! she screamed again. You don’t know what they’ll do to me. Stoppp! You can’t do this. You can’t leave me here, Zee. Víktor, save me, please, save me. Kyp, you must help me. Kásha, please, I’ll do anything, I’ll give you the secrets of life and death, I’ll tell you how to transmute into shapes. Maaaamáááá!

Then the king sensed movement of a sort all around him, of evil presences reaching out to one of their own.

Saaave meee! Mösza shouted to Arkády. Pleeaase!

But nothing could save her now, for she was damned, not only by her own nature, but by her own choices as well. The spirits dwelling in this place sucked her soul out of her corpse like a dog working marrow out of a bone, and they made her one of their own.

The being called Huzzíyas then spake unto King Arkády: Why dost thou linger here, mortal man?

I bow my head in sorrow and in shame, the king replied.

Sorrow shall be thy lot in life, it whispered, but still thy fate transcends this one’s emptiness by a degree unmea­surable to man. Leave us to our pain, mortal, for that is all we have.

Then King Arkády centered himself, and bowing his head, walked straight through the ouroborean transit mirror home to Paltyrrha, leaving his regrets behind. It was the Feast of Saint Eleutherios, and a new sun was rising in Kórynthia.