Killingford. Robert Reginald

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.