CHAPTER TWO
“SO MANY, SO VERY MANY”
An hour later, the Archpriest Athanasios walked to the Abbey of Saint Theophanês in Paltyrrha, next to the Cathedral, where he asked to see the Metropolitan Timotheos. He was ushered into a small antechamber a few moments later, and was joined by his old friend not long thereafter.
“Arik!” he exclaimed, dropping to his knees and kissing his mentor’s ring.
“How good to see you again, friend Afanásy,” the older man replied, lifting the priest to his feet. “You look a bit worse for wear.”
“I’ve seen better days,” the archpriest agreed. “I have sad news, holiness. The Thrice Holy Patriarch Avraäm iv has gone to his heavenly reward. He bade me give you this, and commended you as his successor to the Holy Synod.”
He pulled the signet ring from his finger, and handed it to the metropolitan. Timotheos turned it over and over in his hand before pocketing it.
“I am the Alpha and the Omega,” he said with reverence, bowing his head in respect. “He was a kind and good and gracious man, one of our greatest leaders, I think, although little appreciated by his contemporaries. He knew he was dying, and he undertook this onerous journey anyway.”
The archbishop sat down on his stool and shook his head in disbelief. Then he turned back again to Athanasios.
“What of those members of the synod who accompanied the expedition?” he asked.
“All have perished, metropolitan.”
“Then only six remain, including myself,” the prelate stated. “I presume this information is to be kept secret until the king returns.”
“That is what I was told,” the priest confirmed.
“Who else?” the metropolitan inquired.
“Prince Nikolaí, King Humfried, Prince Pankratz, Prince Ezzö, and twenty-five thousand others died. Prince Norbert was taken, and is not expected to survive.”
“So many!” Timotheos exclaimed, exhaling with a loud huff, “so very many. When do you expect the king to return?”
“A week, maybe less, depending on the roads,” the younger man noted. “They also carry with them a great many injured men.”
“I will pray for the recently departed and those recovering,” the metropolitan said, “and quietly make arrangements for their return. Will you stay with us for a while?”
“Alas, that I could,” the priest said, “but another mission awaits me. I do need a place for the night, though, if you don’t mind.”
“It will be our pleasure,” Timotheos responded, rising and embracing his old comrade. “It’s good to have you back, Afanásy, even for a short time.”
The metropolitan went to the door, opened it, and stuck his head into the corridor.
“Brother Bogdán,” he ordered, “please prepare quarters for Father Athanasios.”
Then, turning back to Afanásy: “Now, my friend, if you’ll join me in the dining room, we can probably scavenge a cup of herb tea and a slab of old Dürny cheese.”
“But that stuff really stinks,” the priest responded, making a face. “Yech.”
“Not the old kind,” Timotheos said. “It still has some vigor left in it. It’s just the newer variety that has a certain odeur about it. Come along, now, you’ll see.”
And they spent the rest of the evening together, talking about that other war that Arik had experienced so many eons earlier, until Athanasios suddenly found himself unable to speak further, as the events of recent weeks finally overcame his emotions.
When the metropolitan urged him to unburden himself, the younger man just shook all over and said, “I cannot,” taking himself off to his bed. There he found himself reliving the horrors of the battlefield all over again, waking screaming in the heart of the night as the great green globe consumed thousands of lives in just an instant.
For he understood quite suddenly that this had been no accident of fate, that the deaths of his comrades had been an intentional act on the part of another, and that the terror was not yet ended.