Summa Elvetica: A Casuistry of the Elvish Controversy and Other Stories

by Vox Day

  “Except, of course, for the smiths,” Lodi said. “They’re powerful great magicians. If that priest of yours thinks much of his elvenblade, he should see a dwarf-worked sword!”

  “Lodi!”

  Fortunately, the Michaeline had lost interest in their conversation. Marcus breathed a sigh of relief and shook his head. He wasn’t entirely sure, but he didn’t find it hard to imagine that being put on trial for suspicion of sorcery would be detrimental to any future career in the Church.

  IA Q. VII A. I CO. III

  Cum in omnibus creaturis sit aliqualis Dei similitudo, in sola creatura rationali invenitur similitudo Dei per modum imaginis, in aliis autem creaturis per modum vestigii. Id autem in quo creatura rationalis excedit alias creaturas, est intellectus sive mens. Unde relinquitur quod nec in ipsa rationali creatura invenitur Dei imago, nisi secundum mentem. Gregorius, in homilia Epiphaniae, nominat aelvum rationale animal, ergo aelvi similius hominum angelorumque quam animalium irrationalium.

  THE MASSIVE WALLS of the great elvish city were in sight when they reached the seventh and final waystation. Drenched in the crimson light of the setting sun, the walls looked invincible. Far above the Amorrans’ heads, two giant eagles circled aimlessly, and the sun glinted off the polished armor of their riders, who were surely armed with longbows, Marcus thought. The sight of the high patrol soaring over their heads made him very glad that there were two elves wearing unmistakable silver helms riding at the front of their train.

  They entered the city in the afternoon. The great gates parted as they approached, and they rode in to the haunting fanfare of the strange elvic pipes called caslai. The pipes were long and white, carved from bone, with three separate tubes joined in irregular fashion. They produced sweet, high-pitched tones that echoed eerily off the surrounding mountains like an eagle’s cry in the thin air.

  An honor guard awaited them inside the gates. The elves of Elebrion were taller and even paler than those of Merithaim. Their hair bore closer resemblance to the white of their snow-capped mountains than to the yellow flower-colored hair of their brethren in the lowlands. They also dressed more formally than their woodland cousins. All were wearing cloaks dyed in rich hues of royal blue, sumptuous purple, and blood red.

  There was an ethereal quality to them—they showed little emotion in welcoming their guests, and their silver armor was so elaborate that it bore more resemblance to lace than to steel—and to their city as well. Together, Elebrion and its inhabitants left Marcus with the impression of a tomb guarded by beautiful, barely animate statues. It was a city of dead angels.

  From what he’d seen in approaching it from below, Elebrion was perhaps only two-thirds the size of the city-state of Amorr. But now he saw that the elvish city was not nearly so crowded, which gave it the impression of being rather larger. It was spacious and regular, laid out in quadrants and wholly devoid of the serpentine vici streets that wound through Amorr like woodworms boring through a rotten log. There was a feeling of emptiness about the great marble-floored squares through which they rode. The citizenry seemed outnumbered by ornate fountains and intricately carved statues of past elven heroes and strange geometric shapes.

  They passed a large building that seemed more alive than most. It seemed almost to have a golden aura emanating from its arches. It was marked above the entrance with what Marcus recognized immediately as the elven symbol for truth. The building drew him, as if it were a mighty lodestone and he nothing but the merest flake of iron.

  He stopped, staring slack-jawed at what simply had to be the great library of Elebrion. It was one of the greatest storehouses of earthly knowledge in all the world, second only to the notorious Collegium Occludum itself.

  How Marcus yearned to enter, to read those precious histories spanning times now lost to man, to learn the truth of all those centuries preceding the Black Age of the Witchkings. To Marcus, the worst of the Witchkings’ horrific sins—which were beyond number—had always been their wanton destruction of every script, scroll, and chiseled tablet that preceded their dark rule.

  The doors of the library were remarkably plain. It might have been the entrance to a supply store. What spell-warded treasures there must be hidden away behind those deceptively nondescript doors! What ancient tales and histories lay there, patiently waiting, unseen by human eyes for four hundred years or more!

  A horse bumped into Barat from behind, breaking the spell that held him transfixed.

  “Get on, Marcus,” barked Jorim, the Michaeline who’d been following him. “There’s time enough for gawking later.”

  Marcus apologized, but when he looked toward the front of the train, he could see that he was not the only one for whom the great trove of elven lore held a powerful, if perhaps illicit, allure. Bishop Claudo too was staring back toward the library with a wistful expression that was most strange when seen on that pinched face. Marcus grinned. Knowing that the bishop had a weakness not unlike his own made the old scarecrow seem almost likeable for a moment.

  The elvic guard finally stopped in front of an enormous building that thrust high into the sky, with five delicate tines arching upward rather like a hand stretched forth into the heavens.

  It was symbolic, of that Marcus was sure, but of what he did not know. It couldn’t be the five aspects of truth as taught by the Pannonian philosphers, unless perhaps the half-elves had inherited that concept as part of their subhuman paternity. Was it possible that the elves worshipped a secret god, a quintine one? Or perhaps they revered five distinct divinities—false gods, of course—although Marcus had no idea if that was the case since he’d never read anything that described the tenets of any elvic religion.

  Scholastic inquiry into false faiths was not banned, precisely, but neither was it encouraged. And there was very little source material available to a young scholar regarding human heresies, let alone subhuman ones.

  Of course, it was entirely possible that the geometric arrangement was simply ornamentation in the mode of the abstract sculptures he’d seen in the squares. It was impossible to say, but he made a mental note to ask an elf about it if the opportunity presented itself.

  A jangling of metal drew his attention down from the skies, and he realized that he was the only one still seated on his horse. Marcipor was tugging at his left stirrup. Feeling vaguely embarrassed, Marcus quickly dismounted and joined the others.

  The elven guards were relieving the Michaelines of their ornate blue scabbards, stacking them neatly near the white marble steps, oblivious to the begrudging acquiescence of the warrior-priests. Marcus quickly unbelted his own sword and smiled as he offered it to a silver-armored elf. But except for taking the weapon, the guard paid him no notice. Pale inhuman eyes flickered over his face and past him as if he was of no more interest than his horse.

  He saw that the Michaelines were taking their brilliant blue-and-gold cloaks out of their packs and using them to cover their stained riding leathers. Glancing down at his own filthy clothes, he wanted to kick himself for not realizing that they might be given an immediate audience with the High King. He had a cloak somewhere in his pack, but he couldn’t remember if it was in any better shape than the tunic and trousers he was wearing now. He wished he was wearing the somber black of the bishop and his men—at least that way the dirt wouldn’t be so obvious.

  Noticing that Marcipor was more than a little reluctant about giving up his ludicrously encrusted parade sword, Marcus couldn’t resist taking out some of his annoyance at himself by adding salt to Marpo’s wounds. “I shouldn’t be surprised if the bishop set that aside for a host gift. Don’t you think it’s pretty enough for the High King?”

  “Do you think they’ll give them back to us?”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it. As I understand it, it’s quite common for rulers who wish their rule to continue to take a dim view of unknown visitors being armed in their presence.”

  “You’d better be right! Or I’ll—”

  He was suddenly silenced when M
arcus’s leather glove closed over his mouth. Marcus smiled and removed his hand as the elvic guard holding their blades gestured toward where the human party was forming two lines behind Bishop Claudo and Father Aestus. Marcus rather doubted that the High King of the elves was likely to be much concerned about improbable threats of retribution from an unarmed human slave, but regardless, it was surely unwise to utter them in front of the king’s own palace guards.

  They entered the palace through an arched entrance populated with the figures of elves and other beings. Unlike Amorr, where the stone statuary was always left untouched, these carved figures were painted in great detail. Fair-haired warriors slew raging beasts with crimson tongues, bards plucked at golden lyres, and lovers embraced, pressing their pink lips together in sensual abandon. The diverse figures seemed to leap out of the white marble from which they had been released. So realistic were they in their various pursuits that more than once Marcus was forced to avert his eyes in the interests of chastity.

  They were marched through a series of similarly decorated rooms and led into the throne room to be presented to the High King and his queen en masse.

  High King Mael’s throne room was an imposing chamber of white marble that brought to mind a mausoleum. Unlike in the Sanctiff’s palace—the only other such structure Marcus had ever been inside—the lights here were cold and burned with a blue flame that gave off light without heat. Were they the witchlights of which Lodi had spoken before?

  On two thrones sat an elegantly clad pair of elves. Marcus knew King Mael was more than five hundred years old, but he looked no more than forty. His hair was darker than most of his subjects, though still much lighter than that of most of the Amorrans. His eyes were a blue so dark they almost appeared to be black.

  His queen sat at his side. Where he was dark, she was so fair as to be almost alabaster, with a long, narrow face, straight white hair, and deeply slanted grey eyes that were outlined in scarlet. In her white dress she looked rather like one of the marble figures on the entry arch, albeit one that the artisan had only just begun painting.

  Marcus followed the rest of his group as they were escorted before the thrones and arrayed in three rows. Elvish palace guards wheeled in the draped cage that contained the Ulfin. This they placed behind the Amorran party.

  The court herald, dressed in the livery of the High King, stepped forward from beside the thrones. “The emissary of the Sanctiff of the Holy Republic of Amorr and his retainers, accompanied by the Sky Lord Fáelán u Flann.”

  Cassius Claudo gestured at the others to stay where they were and stepped forward to make a deep and appropriately respectful bow. Marcus was struck by the strange likeness between the elf king and the bishop, a likeness that had nothing to do with their dissimilar features and everything to do with the way in which their intense personalities seemed to have burned away everything that was weak and soft and prone to mercy inside them.

  “High King,” Claudo said, “it is my humble honor to bring you—”

  “I know what you bring to my realm,” the elf king interrupted. “You bring judgment. You bring conceit. You bring arrogance, and you bring the promise of war between your people and mine.”

  Claudo blinked, but showed no other sign of being discomfited. He reached his right hand into his left sleeve and withdrew a scroll with gilded caps. “My instructions were to present a treaty to formalize the peace between our peoples, your Majesty, one that is long overdue in recognizing the real peace that has prevailed for more than forty years.”

  The king sniffed. “The Sanctiff sends a declaration of peace? Are not matters of war and peace concerns for the Consul of the Legions and the Amorran Senate, rather than its High Priest?”

  “In most circumstances that is indeed the case, your Majesty. In this particular instance, however, there are certain aspects that fall within the Church’s bailiwick. Therefore, under Amorran law, the sanction of the Sanctiff is required. Sanction, your majesty, which has now been duly, if belatedly, granted.”

  “And how was this ‘sanction’ justified?” King Mael asked. “I am curious, my lord bishop. Perhaps you can inform me why the viceroy of your god was moved to grant us this favor. Did the god speak to him? Or was it merely inspired wisdom of the sort that has granted your race with an ever-increasing body of divine literature?”

  Marcus was frightened by the cruel amusement that flickered sporadically across the face of the High King. Mael was toying with Cassius Claudo. He obviously knew the true purpose of the embassy and was throwing it in their faces, daring them to admit it. Was he looking for an excuse to take offense and send them away—or worse? Perhaps, but how would that serve him in any way? Marcus’s thoughts raced as he tried to understand the icily polite battle with verbal stilettos that was taking place before him.

  “I couldn’t possibly say, your Majesty. The Sanctiff answers to none but the Immaculate and acts as he sees fit. It is for me to obey, not to question.”

  “Then well done, faithful and obedient servant. Lord Hwysfeith, please take the treaty from the Amorran ambassador and see that it is placed before my council for review. As the last clash between our two peoples took place one hundred and ninety-eight years ago, I expect there will be few surprises in the document.”

  As an elderly elf approached Claudo and took the treaty scroll, Marcus mentally translated the king’s words: “Your Senate can forget about getting back that pair of eagles we took off their legions two hundred years ago.” He shrugged. No doubt military men like his father would be outraged by this, and one or two legions might even riot, but having met the Sanctiff twice now, he found it impossible to believe that the man possessed even the slightest concern for two centuries-old pieces of legionary insignia.

  “Your Majesty,” Claudo said, “as an example of the esteem with which you are held by the Amorran Senate and people, and furthermore as what, God willing, may be an omen of the friendly relations and cooperation between our two kingdoms in the future, I beg your leave to present you a most particular gift that this embassy happened to acquire in the course of our journey to your realm.”

  The High King nodded, his face impassive. Marcus assumed Mael had to know what was in the large cage that had been dragged in by the guards and placed at the rear of the hall already, even though it was completely covered with a thick cloth of bright blue silk.

  But his dark eyes narrowed with curiosity as ten Michaelines, under direction from Hezekius, kneeled down, lifted the cage, and carried it forward before the throne. After placing it carefully on the marble floor, they arranged themselves in two lines standing at attention, five facing the cage and five facing the throne. Muffled snarls and whines could be heard from under the cloth, but the cage barely moved.

  “Your Majesty!” an elven guard called from the rear of the hall, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword.

  King Mael raised his hand, unconcerned, and the guard fell silent. “I hardly dare to hope that you have brought me what I have sought for twenty years,” he told Cassius Claudo. “If you have, then rest assured, you shall know the royal favor of Elebrion.”

  “May it be so, your Majesty.” Somehow, Cassius Claudo managed to prevent any hint of smile from touching his lips. He pointed to the cage, and two Michaelines stepped forward and whisked the cunningly constructed cloth off it with an effortless flick of their wrists.

  Inside the cage was the horrid beast very like the one that had nearly killed Marcus, chained to iron clasps with its arms and legs fully extended. The Ulfin was thin and bare patches of skin were exposed where the fur had been worn away by its chains, but its rage-filled spirit remained unbroken. It bared its large canines in defiance of the royal figures seated before it.

  “A princely gift, lord bishop!” The High King’s eyes lit up with excitement as he took in the beast. “Wherever did you take it?”

  “I am informed there were six, your Majesty. We encountered them unexpectedly in the Shadowald where they were engaged in
battle with some of your kindred from Merithaim. I should have preferred to have brought you more, but I am afraid that my men were careless and killed the other five.”

  “A pity. You have my thanks even so, however, as one is all that I require. Perhaps you will accept these small tokens of my appreciation.” Mael gestured with a finger.

  Marcus couldn’t stifle a gasp as two weathered brass eagles suddenly appeared in the air in front of Cassius Claudo. Then two small red pillows appeared on the floor beneath them and they fell down upon the pillows with a soft thump.

  A small token? They were the sacred standards of the Tenth and Twelfth legions lost with Lucius Varus almost two hundred years ago at Ardus Wald! For their return, the Senate would have gladly traded ten thousand Ulfin, even if they’d had to march across the White Sea to collect them. The elf king’s use of magic to deliver them was somewhat of a sardonic poke in the eye, of course, but not even the most fervent witchhunter in the Church would have objected to it at that moment.

  “Your generosity is without limits, your Majesty,” Cassius Claudo said in a voice gone strangely hoarse. He made a surreptitious sign, and the entire Amorran delegation bowed with him. Marcus could feel tears welling up inside his eyes as the bishop then knelt, made the sign of the Immaculate One on his chest, and rose to his feet with the long-lost standards in his arms.

  The elf king smiled in satisfaction, though without warmth. It seemed to give him gratification to see the effect his gift had had on the Amorrans. “My lord bishop, it is our pleasure to invite you and your entourage to dinner in honor of the Amorran Senate and people tonight,” he said. “Will you be so good as join us?”

  “With gratitude, your Majesty.” Cassius Claudo cleared his throat and bowed one last time.“With the utmost gratitude, High King.”

  • • •