by Vox Day
Caitlys brought wooden chairs for them to all sit down. “Most adepts can do transformations, of course,” she said, “but that’s rarely done simply to gather information. It’s much too dangerous in enemy territory, and there’s seldom anything that can be discovered that way that couldn’t be learned simply by looking through the eyes of a familiar.”
Nomenlos smiled at the unadulterated alarm in Marcus’s eyes. “She does not share our faith, my young friend. And as it is not for her to pronounce my innocence, it is not for you to judge her guilty. We are all fallen short of the glory of God, my brother, even if some of us fall shorter than others.”
Marcus sat in the chair heavily, glad for something remotely solid. He felt as if his knees would give at any moment, and this time it wasn’t from the cold of his flight. “Fine, all right. Now can you please tell me who is trying to kill me?”
“We hoped that you might be able to tell us,” Nomenlos said, taking a seat across from Marcus. “The High King’s spies learned that a cabal of very wealthy men of the senatorial class had raised a significant sum in order to hire the killers. We even know their three targets: ‘the two priests and the young Valerian.’ They—you—were to be eliminated and the deaths blamed on the ‘treachery’ of the elves.”
Hearing the words as they were spoken by the men planning to kill him frightened Marcus in a way that Caitlys telling him of the plot had not. He felt terribly vulnerable, even here on this hovel perched on a godforsaken rock clinging to the side of a mountain, and sought to find refuge in morbid humor.
“I wonder if they happen to be the same gentlemen who arranged for the War of the HumanAlliance?”
Caitlys wrinkled her nose and looked at Nomenlos in confusion, but the elderly elf waved his nonsense aside. “Don’t be afraid, Marcus Valerius. We will not permit them to harm you. You’re safe with us.”
“Why aren’t I safe with the High King? You said his spies found out about all this, so why isn’t he doing anything about it?”
“He didn’t believe them,” Caitlys answered. “Even if he did, it’s hard to know if he would care, except in that the slaying of his royal guests would insult him as their host. He has no interest in pursuing another war with Amorr, but he wouldn’t shirk from it either.”
“The mighty are ever proud,” Nomenlos murmured. “In any event, Mael’s hands are tied. To intercede before the assassins strike would be to reveal the existence, perhaps even the extent, of his spy network. Even to watch the assassins closely enough to stop their wicked deeds would be a risk. Besides, his hosting cannot be faulted if one guest decides to slay another.”
“The Senate would never believe that,” Marcus told them.
“No, certainly not. Especially when only a few survivors manage to escape the massacre.”
“Massacre? I thought only—”
“I suspect there are more than three deaths planned,” Nomenlos said. “The sum reportedly given these men was improbably generous for a simple pair of assassins. How many are required to kill a novice, a fat priest, and an elderly bishop? Two? Surely no more than three!”
“I haven’t actually taken my vows yet,” Marcus said without thinking. “Improbably generous?”
“Seven hundred Savondese florins,” Caitlys told him. “That’s enough to buy the death of a king.”
Despite the fire, Marcus suddenly felt even colder than he had when he’d been lying frozen on the rock outside. In his mind, he could hear Cladius Serranus’s voice as they’d ridden under the hot afternoon sun. It was a small consortio, only forty-five men … there’s a fair number of captains who make a living turning foolish young farm boys into corpses every summer.
“It’s enough to hire a mercenary band,” he said. A thought struck him. “There was an elf lord who was killed around twenty or thirty years ago in one of the mountain passes between Savonderum and the northern part of Merithaim. A lot of elves died there, but this one was the cousin—no, the nephew—of Lord Fáelán, who rode with us. I think he might have been related to the High King.”
“Cathan u Treasach,” Caitlys said immediately. “I remember he died when he was off raiding. Was it in the lands of men? I always thought it was on the steppes. I knew him well, of course. He was my cousin on my mother’s side.”
“He had a sword,” Marcus said, “a particular sword with markings running down the blade. Runes, I suppose. Serranus has it now. Do the runes mean it was magicked somehow?”
“Most certainly,” Nomenlos said. “Young Cathan was a most talented adept. Not enough skill to interest him in the Collegium, or it in him, but he would certainly not have borne a naked sword.”
Marcus shook his head. It was hard to believe. It was impossible to believe! And yet, it must have been true. No true priest of Saint Michael would ever carry an ensorcelled sword, nor would a real Michaeline ever fail to detect one concealed in their midst.
He sat up tall in his chair. “I can tell you who your killers are.”
“Can you?” Caitlys asked.
“Good,” Nomenlos nodded with approval. “Who are they?”
“The Michaelines,” he told them. “The warrior-priests with the blue cloaks. They must not be priests at all. Or if they are, they all knew about the ensorcelled blade, and they kept quiet about it. Their blasted Third Eye would’ve made it shine like a torch on a winter’s night. It’s all of them. Has to be. Every single, last, treacherous, blasphemous, cursed, hellbound one of them. They’re hired killers, all right—only they’re not the kind you were expecting.”
Or that Magnus had anticipated, for that matter. How were Lodi and Marce supposed to protect him against thirty veteran wardogs? Oh, the Michaelines! It couldn’t be. Marcus felt a slow fury building inside him at the thought of the men he’d thought had become, if not his friends, at least his companions. They’d smiled and joked and laughed with him for the last month, even as they planned to kill him.
“What will we do?” Caitlys asked Nomenlos, distress upon her pretty face. “Two or three, I could bespell. But so many? It’s impossible, even with Fáelán’s help! Bessarias, you cannot sit by and permit this to happen. You must act!”
“That,” he said quietly, “is not my name. I am Nomenlos. I took a vow. I will not break it.”
Caitlys turned to Marcus. “You worship his God. Tell him that he must!”
“Must what? I don’t understand.”
Caitlys pointed accusingly at the ancient elf, who stood calmly before her, unmoved by her temper. “He calls himself Nomenlos now, but once he was Bessarias, Magistras Gnossi of the Council. The greatest sorcerer the Collegium has ever known! Three thousand mercenaries could not stand against him!”
Marcus looked at the ancient elf, who returned his stare with a gentle smile.
“Is that true?”
The elf nodded. “Alas, it is true. But when I came to serve Our Lord, I set my magic aside, as it is commanded. For nigh upon three hundred years I have not so much as scryed a pool nor spoken even a single word with the spirits. I fear my poor Mastema has been much aggrieved indeed.”
Marcus didn’t know what to think. He didn’t even know where to begin thinking. An elf who was not only an Immanuelite but a great and powerful sorcerer as well? Speaking with spirits? And an elf who claimed to serve the Lord Christ—did that not render the entire debate solved?
He shook his head. These strange and wonderful things would require much contemplation later, assuming he survived to contemplate them. For now, they would have to wait. The first thing, he decided, was to find a way to warn Cassius Claudo and Father Aestus of their impending assassinations … if they were still impending.
“Caitlys, there’s no time for this. You have to fly me back to Elebrion. Nomenlos can’t break his vow. It would be wrong. So it’s up to us to warn my friends of their danger, and it may already be too late.”
“Are you both mad?” she shouted. “By now they’re probably dead! We must keep you far from there! At all c
osts, you must live! If you die too, there will be war on a scale that neither the kingdoms nor your cursed empire may survive intact! Amorr may have fifty legions, but it has never faced the full might of the elves, before which even the Witchkings quailed!”
Marcus shook his head. “I can’t simply run away. We have to at least try to warn them first. I am a Valerian, and a Valerian knows his duty.”
Nomenlos—no, Bessarias—placed a wrinkled hand on Caitlys’s shoulder. “Peace, child.We must have the courage to trust in the Immaculate One and pray that His will be done. I will not forswear myself, and you must listen to this man. He is young, but he has the strength of his fathers in him, and they were men who conquered many kings. Go, take him to the city. Warn the two priests of their false brethren if you can keep Marcus safe in doing so. Then fly to Kir Donas, where a ship may be found to take him to the lands of men.”
“Madness!” Caitlys said, but even as she said it she appraised Marcus critically. “He’ll freeze to death. We need more blankets or something.”
Bessarias pointed to the wardrobe. “The bottom drawer, below the green robe. There are flying leathers I wore when I came here.”
Marcus bowed to the ancient elf. “I only wish … I wish there was more time, sir. There is so much I want to ask you, so much you could teach me!”
Bessarias nodded back and smiled broadly. There was peace in his smile, and not a little pleasure. “There is indeed so much you have to learn, Marcus Valerius. That is why I envy you. So, be well, young man, my young brother-in-the-faith, and know that you have brought joy to an old elf’s heart. And when you reach Amorr, I charge you to greet your High Priest for me in the Most Holy Name of Our Lord!”
“And if he dies like a fool before he can get there?” snapped Caitlys as she shoved the bundle of heavy leathers into Marcus’s arms.
He staggered, but Bessarias only laughed and lifted his right hand in blessing.
“Why then, one day we shall walk the streets of gold together and complete our conversation at our leisure. Fare you well, darling Caitlys. Fare you well, Marcus Valerius. And may the Immaculate Incarnate drive all darkness from you and shield you with blessing and light!”
IA Q. VII A. I AD II
Ad secondum dicendum licet creaturae non pertingant ad hoc quod sint similes Deo secundum suam naturam, similitudine speciei, ut homo genitus homini generanti; attingunt tamen ad eius similitudinem secundum repraesentationem rationis intellectae a Deo, ut domus quae est in materia, domui quae est in mente artificis. Non dicitur esse similitudo creaturae ad Deum propter communicantiam in forma secundum eandem rationem generis et speciei, sed secundum analogiam tantum; prout scilicet Deus est ens per essentiam, et alia per participationem. Ergo aelvi habent animae naturaliter unita.
THE LIGHTS OF ELEBRION were few and far between as they broke through the clouds. Fog and cloud encircled the city on its mountaintop like a crown. Marcus greeted the sight with relief. The open sky was bitterly cold despite the protection of the oversized leathers he was wearing, but it scared him almost witless to fly sightless through the dampness of the clouds.
Still, if it was frightening to ride upon the back of the powerful warhawk with only a thin leather strap preventing him from plunging to his death, it was nevertheless much to be preferred over being carried dangling below it in its claws.
Caitlys was a warm, sweet-smelling presence in front of him, and he couldn’t resist the urge to press more closely against her for warmth as she leaned back into him and pressed her cheek against his.
“Is there anyone you can trust?” she said over the wind.
“Yes!” he shouted back. “I have two slaves, a dwarf and a man.”
“Are you sure of them?”
“Yes! One saved my life on the journey here. The other I’ve known all my life.”
They soared low over the roofs, banking occasionally to avoid a spire or high facade that jutted inconveniently skyward. Marcus would have marveled at the warhawk’s incredible ability to anticipate and avoid potential disaster at such speed, if only he wasn’t terrified that every time they evaded an obstacle he was going to fall off. He gritted his teeth and fought the urge to tighten his grip on Caitlys’s waist, which, he couldn’t help noticing, was inhumanly slender even under her sky-riding coat.
“There!” she cried, pointing to a three-story building that looked vaguely familiar to him. “We have to get you inside without anyone noticing. We’ll land on the roof. I hope your chamber has a window.”
Marcus thought about the small room he’d been given to share with Marce and Lodi. It did have a window, he was sure. It had two windows, in fact, on either side of the corner …
It was a corner room! It would make it, and him, easier to find.
Now, if he could only remember which corner it was and which floor it was on. Unfortunately, he’d been to it only once, when they’d been shown there by the elven guards after their first appearance before the High King.
Lost in retracing his steps earlier that day, he didn’t notice that Caitlys was landing the warhawk on the rooftop. As the bird lurched to an unexpected stop, his nose slammed into the back of her head and he cried out in pain.
“Pay attention!” she snapped. When he didn’t answer right away, she turned in the saddle to look back at him. “You’re bleeding.”
“It’s just my nose.” He examined the blood on his hand. “I’ll be all right. I think I know which room is ours. It’s the one over there on the highest level.”
She followed his pointing finger and nodded. “Good. It will be easiest if I lower a rope and you climb down. Can you manage that?”
“You have a rope?”
“Of course!” She pointed to a thick grey twine wrapped around the forward horn of the sky-saddle. “One never knows when someone will get hurt on a mountain or something needs to be moved quickly. And you’re inexperienced with birds, so I don’t think you’ll have the balance to jump from Vengirasse’s back to the window.”
“No, I don’t think I will. But you’re not strong enough to hold me, are you?”
“The rope’s tied to the saddle.”
Marcus nodded, thoughtlessly wiped at his nose, then tried unsuccessfully to wipe the blood off onto the leathers he was wearing. As he slid down from the bird’s back, Caitlys played out the rope to extend just past the top row of windows. “Two more,” he said. “You need to move him forward a little more.”
The elf girl made a clucking sound, and Vengirasse indignantly rose on his two legs and took a single step before ruffling his feathers and making a protesting sound. “Enough, lazy fowl.”Caitlys scratched at his neck until he lowered his feathers flat once more. “Will that do?”
“It should.” Marcus gripped the rope with both hands and slid slowly down the angled roof. The weathered stone was slippery, and he had to steel himself to slide out over the edge, bending at the waist so that he could get the rope below him wrapped around his ankle to slow his descent a little more. “I’ll try not to be too long.”
“Try not to fall or otherwise get yourself killed, Valerian. If the rope’s still there, I’m still here.”
He nodded and waved, then turned his attention to the task at hand. It was difficult but not impossible to hold his full weight by his arms. His hands were the real problem, as they felt as if they were burning because the rope was cutting into them. Placing his feet against the building and walking himself down helped a little. Happily for his hands, the window ledge was only three body lengths from the roof, and it wasn’t long before he was crouched in the shelter of the lighted window bay.
He peered into the room and saw Lodi, but no sign of Marcipor. The dwarf, Marcus noticed, was no longer wearing the bright red tunic he’d worn at the king’s dinner. He banged on the window glass. Once. Twice.
Alarmed, Lodi whirled around at the first sound, his arms spread wide as if he was reaching out for weapons that weren’t there. Marcus almost called out to him, until he realized
that to announce his name might well prove fatal if anyone else were listening nearby. He waited, therefore, as Lodi picked up his axe and peered closely at the glass, so close that his bulbous nose was nearly pressed against it. Then his expression changed, and he tossed the axe onto the closest bed before opening the window outward.
“Marcus, where the deep pits you been? What’re you doing out the window? And what are you wearing?”
“Shhh!” Marcus whispered. “Keep quiet. There’s an elvith on the roof. She’s a friend. She lowered the rope for me. Now listen to me! The Michaelines aren’t real. They’re mercenaries, not real priests. They’re planning to kill me and Bishop Claudo and Father Aestus, so we have to tell them and get them out of here somehow. And then get out of here ourselves!”
Lodi raised his thick eyebrows, but showed no other sign of surprise. “Can’t say as they struck me as real priest-like, but then, they were supposed to be priest-warriors after all. Of course, man priests aren’t much like dwarf priests, either.”
The door to their room opened and they both whirled around to see Marcipor entering. He blinked with surprise. Unlike the dwarf, he hadn’t changed and was still elegantly attired, if a bit disheveled.
“Shut the door,” Marcus hissed.
“Did he hit you?” Marcipor asked Marcus as he closed the door. “Lodi, slaves don’t get to punch their masters in the nose, even when they deserve it as richly as ours does. Marcus, what happened to you? Cassius Claudo has most of the Michaelines roaming all over Elebrion looking for you. I’ve almost lost my voice from running around calling out your name.”
“I’ll just bet they are,” Marcus remarked sourly. He quickly explained the situation to Marcipor, who frowned, but otherwise took the news in stride.
“So, what do we do?”
