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

by Vox Day

  Even so, his fantastic conception had been an errant one. Seventy-six years ago, Bessarias proved it false, beyond any shadow of a doubt. It was not entirely wrong, for the calengalad, as his master had named his hypothetical grain, was real enough. The problem was that it was more truly a seed than Arilon had ever imagined, for it was not so much an object in its own right as a little world containing worlds of its own. It was an accumulation of other, smaller elements, ethereal sparks of light that danced and whirled like maddened fairies intoxicated on the bacchanal blood of a toadstool. It could even be broken, as Bessarias learned to his horror when he accidentally created the Glass Desert.

  It was a dreadful mistake, but a significant one. In more ways than one. Indeed, the ghastly cataclysm brought about by his experiments marked only the third time in recorded history that Elebrion’s High King had dared to intervene in the affairs of the Collegium. But on this occasion, there were no protests from the proudly independent college of magicians. Indeed, open relief was expressed throughout the college. A royal decree was made—there would be no more experiments involving the shattering of the sphere—as was Bessarias’s fame.

  Or perhaps infamy would be a more accurate term. His name was known throughout all Selenoth now, and feared, as if he had meant to call up devils from that unknown plane of unthinkable power and knowingly penetrated the veil that should have at all costs remained inviolate.

  But fear had brought him more than fame. It brought him power too. Now he was of the Seven, a member of the college’s ruling council. He was only the fifty-third archmage to hold mastery in two of the eight formal disciplines of the Octovium, and the fifth to do so in three. Arilon had been the fourth. He lacked for nothing. And yet, at this very moment, would he not trade everything for a simple answer that would tell him why the cursed giloi were behaving so strangely?

  He had tried everything, drawn upon every single one of the Collegium’s vast resources. He had lashed demons with whips of celestial fire, mercilessly ripped speech from the lips of the dead, sent scores of apprentices digging through the college’s most ancient archives, and still he had learned nothing. The truth, whatever it was, would have to be found some other way.

  There was a soft knock on the door. He waved a hand, and the door opened in obedience to his will.

  “Greetings, Magistras.” The hooded elf bowed respectfully as a large grey cat leaped out from his arms. “Mastema suggested you might be finishing soon. I trust I do not disturb you?”

  “Ah, Kilios. Come in, come in. I am already disturbed, though not by you.” He sighed heavily. “I wrestle with the pillars of the universe, and they are less forthcoming than your visions.”

  “Such is the burden of greatness, Bessarias.” The cat’s yellow eyes were mocking. “Pillars aren’t generally known for their elocution. Perhaps that’s your problem.”

  “Silence, Mastema,” Kilios rebuked his friend’s familiar. He was a gaunt wizard of great height, with eerie pupilless eyes set deeply in their sockets. He was a seer, a powerful one, and not all of his visions were pleasant. The knowledge of evil yet to come is perhaps the hardest wisdom of all, and over the years it had left its bitter mark on his haggard face. Blind, but not without sight, he walked the winding corridors of the great tower as easily as any other mage possessing more conventional vision.

  “He tells me you have been holed up in here for three days. Will you eat?”

  “Soon, I think. I am not yet hungry.”

  “Of course. It is always hard to return to the world of carnate concerns.”

  “It is indeed. Now tell me of the latest gossip. I remember there were rumors of an incipient battle in Nordfall.”

  “Were there? I did not know. I was meditating alone yesterday, until Mastema did me the honor of paying his respects.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself, seer.” The cat looked up from the paw it was washing. “There was a rat on your corridor.”

  Bessarias smiled affectionately at the large feline. The demon had been with him for nearly two centuries, always inhabiting the body of a grey cat with black markings. How he managed to find them on such a regular basis, Bessarias didn’t know and was not inclined to ask.

  “He is too proud to admit it, but I suspect he gets rather lonely when I’m occupied with my studies.”

  The cat snorted loudly.

  “I wasn’t lonely. I was hungry because you hadn’t fed me for two days. And in answer to your question, yes, there was a battle yesterday, and the Red Prince’s knights crushed the wolf-breed. Ethaleas set his students to scrying it as an exercise, and I watched them. I imagine the wolves had never seen cavalry before, because the Savondese rode them down like unarmed peasants.”

  “It is said they are of unnatural origin,” Kilios commented.

  “The wolfbreed?” Bessarias scoffed. “I’ve heard the rumors, but I find them hard to credit. If no one in this tower has created a viable form of being in more than a millennia, who else could hope to succeed? Those pathetic bunglers in Savondir? They flatter us, to be sure, but they do not even dream of approaching our skills. If nothing else, their lives are too short.”

  “I say it was the Witchkings,” hissed Mastema.

  “Perhaps,” Bessarias admitted the possibility. “Who can know the bounds of their perversions? But again, they were human. Fifty or even sixty years is too short a span for proper mastery.”

  “Of course,” Kilios agreed. “I myself am glad to hear of the Savondese triumph. They may envy us, even hate us at times, but they are civilized. To a degree, you understand.”

  “To a degree, yes. Is there anything else of interest?”

  “Not particularly. Mmm perhaps there is one thing. We have the dubious honor of hosting a human visitor, an Amorran, if you can believe it.”

  “Really? How did that come to pass?”

  The seer shrugged and glanced at Mastema, who appeared to have lost interest in the conversation and was carefully licking his left paw.

  “I don’t know. I heard that he arrived two days ago under the aegis of the High King, but he doesn’t seem to be a messenger. Some sort of religious, I recall.”

  “How very curious!”

  Bessarias was intrigued. A human, an Amorran no less, hailing from the Court of Elebrion?Humans had a very different view of magic than his own people. They tended to view it mistrustfully at best, but those of the Empire were downright fanatics in their distaste for anything that smacked of the metaphysical. No, not anything, he corrected himself, for they were rigid monotheists who worshipped a slain god who was somehow not dead. Dead or not dead, though, this god had favored them, for their armies were strong and their rich empire now encompassed nearly a third of the land of Selenoth. It was an altogether curious thing.

  He made an impromptu decision to seek out this strange human. If nothing else, the Amorran promised to be an interesting distraction from his recent failures. In a lifespan that was now approaching its fourth century, Bessarias had learned to appreciate the pleasure of the unexpected and to seek out the unusual. It refreshed the mind, which otherwise grew stagnant and eventually decayed. And this visit qualified on both counts, as the Amorran empire was less than a hundred years old, but in that time not one of its citizens had ever requested a single audience with the members of the Collegium, for any reason.

  “Has anyone spoken with him yet?”

  “Other than welcoming him for the ten-day, I can’t imagine anyone was interested.” Kilios raised his pale eyebrows. “You want to speak with him?”

  “Yes, strangely enough, I do.”

  Bessarias laughed suddenly.

  “I think I’d sit down for a nice chat with a sun-stoned troll if I thought it might take my mind off those cursed giloi. Let me ask you, what do you do when the impossible happens before your very eyes?”

  A faint smile flickered past the blind seer’s lips.

  “I hold my silence and hope I was mistaken, until events prove otherwise. Which
they inevitably do. Thus am I thought a poor visionary, but a sane one. It is better that way.”

  “Ah, your mind is sharper than the proverbial razor of Ockham, old friend.” Bessarias clapped his colleague on the shoulder. “Now come, walk with me, and we shall go in search of our exotic guest. Mastema, will you join us?”

  “To see a human?” The cat’s rasping voice was scornful. “Why would I want to do that?”

  • • •

  The Amorran had been installed in a small, elegant guest building which was separated from the great tower by a splendid garden, the centerpiece of which was a cunningly constructed maze. Bessarias, not in the mood for puzzle games, easily made his way through the tortuous hedgerows by the simple virtue of a navigational spell. Left … right … left … left … right … he followed the little crimson spark as it leaped inerrantly from one nexus to the next.

  “I will leave you here, Magistras,” Kilios told him as they reached the intricately carved doors of the building. “I feel a vision descending upon me, and I think it would be best if I did not risk polluting my sight with the presence of the human. I must go now and meditate.”

  “Very well. But if what you see has anything to do with the calengalad, anything at all, you must let me know at once.”

  “I will do so,” the seer promised, but for a moment, his unearthly eyes seemed to glow with amusement. “Nevertheless, I fear the likelihood is small. Be well, Magistras.”

  “Be well, my friend.”

  Bessarias raised his hand, and the two doors swung open silently. The entryway wasgrandiose, for all that the guest building was small in comparison with the great tower of sorcery. It was palatial and literally fit for a king. It had to be, for it was often occupied by visiting royalty hailing from one land or another who came to pay their respects or, more usually, to beg for favors.

  “Magistras.”

  Two elven guards bowed respectfully to him. He did not know them, but they had the look of Kir Donas. That breezy maritime kingdom lacked both the regal tradition of Elebrion as well as the martial prowess of Merithaim, but it was wealthier than either and was even said to be richer than mighty Æmor itself.

  “Take me to the human, the Amorran,” he ordered.

  The guards led him up the grand marble stairway to a small apartment on the second floor. It was small compared to the other apartments here and was usually used to lodge a minor courtier or a squadron of royal bodyguards. For a single religious, though, it was ludicrously spacious, especially if their guest happened to be a member of one of the more ascetic orders and was accustomed to a simple cell.

  Bessarias nodded his thanks to the guards and politely refrained from opening the door with his magic, instead choosing to knock softly with his fist. He waited patiently until the door opened inward and revealed the lined face of an aged human monk, with closely cropped grey hair and a bland, harmless expression. He was short, even by human standards, as the top of his tonsured head did not quite reach Bessarias’ chest, and he was wearing the orange robe of a third-day guest with the cowl thrown back upon his shoulders.

  “I greet you, good sir, in the name of whatever god you worship. My name is Bessarias. May I enter this room in peace?”

  The left side of the Amorran’s mouth twitched in what might have been a grin.

  “In peace, you may enter. In the name of my Lord Immanuel, you may enter and be welcome. My name is Herwaldus.”

  “I thank you, Herwaldus.”

  Bessarias inclined his head briefly and entered the apartment. It was richly decorated with thick carpets and gossamer-thin silk wall hangings, in a green-and-yellow springtime theme of new life.

  “May I offer you any refreshments?” Herwaldus offered. “My kind hosts have provided me with every kind of luxury here, three different kinds of wine, many fruits and vegetables, and enough cakes and bread to feed an army.”

  “I shall have a glass of wine, thank you.”

  Bessarias lifted his hand, and one of the wine decanters began to pour itself into a nearby glass of crystal. Herwaldus, to his credit, did not flinch, or even appear to notice. Bessarias also saw that with the exception of a half-empty carafe of spring water, the well-stocked table appeared untouched. The monk must be from one of the ascetic orders after all, he decided. No ordinary human would have passed up the opportunity to sample the exquisite delights of elven fare, so much more delicate and sophisticated than the cruder foods upon which humans normally subsided.

  “May I ask what brings you here?” he asked the monk, after sipping delicately at the Savondese red. It was an acceptable vintage, if not a particularly good one.

  “The truth. I come to share it with your people.”

  “How interesting.” Bessarias smiled inwardly. Now he understood why the High King had foisted this man off on the Collegium. Mondrythen would have no wish to have the pleasure-seeking chaos of his court interrupted by what he could only see as dreary human moralizing. The surprise was that the king hadn’t simply slain the man outright, or at least sent him back to Æmor with stripes upon his back. “As I, like many of my colleagues here, flatter myself in aspiring to be a seeker after truth, I shall be most interested to hear what you have to share with us. You are a monk, I see. Of what order?”

  “Tertullian.”

  “I am not familiar with it. What distinguishes your brotherhood from the others of which I have heard, the Alessians, for example?”

  Herwaldus nodded.

  “A good question. We all serve the Lord Immanuel, of course, but whereas our Alessian brothers seek to withdraw from the world to further their pursuit of righteous holiness and purity, we are charged with embracing it in all its foulness.”

  Bessarias lifted an eyebrow.

  “Ah, foulness. That would be my people, yes? If my memory serves me correctly, ‘children of demons’ is the specific appellation favored by your priest-king, is it not?”

  “Æmor knows no king,” Herwaldus answered, unperturbed. “The Sanctiff is only the head of the Church, the first among equals, and he is not infallible, though some wish to believe him so. Please understand that I do not consider any of the elven folk to be foul in their essence, I only refer to the state of sin in which your people, like every other race on this fallen world, are imprisoned by the foe.”

  “The foe? Ah, yes, your Lord Sathanas. I have never had the honor of speaking with him directly, but I am acquainted with a few of his lesser servitors.”

  The human looked confused. Bessarias smiled again, but this time, he allowed a touch of cruelty to enter his voice.

  “I am not a child of demons, but among other things, human, I am a master of them. If I should so desire, I could summon one here and command it to burn the skin from your body without harming the robe you wear. Or I could have you borne through the air to a deserted isle, and leave you there to contemplate your so-called truth until you died of thirst.”

  “If you wish,” the monk acceded politely.

  “You do not believe me?”

  “I believe that you have the knowledge, yes. The power, certainly. Beneath your beauty and your courteous manner, I see great arrogance, the terrible pride that comes only from the possession of great power. I think that if Raphaelus were to paint an image of Lucifer before the fall, he could do no better than to use you as his model. But I also know that you will not harm me, because it is not permitted at this time. My mission is not yet finished.”

  “Permitted? By whom?”

  “My Lord Immanuel, of course.”

  Bessarias studied the human. The elderly monk did not seem to be afraid of him, but his eyes held no hint of madness either, only calm determination and, just possibly, a small spark of defiance. The magician decided that he rather liked this little old man, who was undaunted in the face of one whose very name was enough to cause kings and warlords alike to shake with fear.

  He fluttered the fingers of his left hand, and Herwaldus’s robe changed colors, from orange to sp
otless white. The monk looked down, startled, then up again at Bessarias.

  “What’s this?”

  “An invitation.” Bessarias made a circle with two fingers, and a sigil in red was magically stitched onto the robe’s left breast. “This will demonstrate to all that you are my guest, and you may stay beyond the ten-day for as long as you wish or until I withdraw my invitation.”

  “Thank you … I thank you, Bessarias. May I ask why?”

  The magician smiled, and lifted a warning finger.

  “Do not think I am inclined to accept your so-called truth. I am three hundred and twenty-two years old, and I have seen more of this world in all its foulness than you can possibly imagine. Before Fabian rejected the crown and founded your empire, I was numbered among the greatest masters here. But in my wisdom, such as it is, I have learned to always listen first and to judge later. You shall have your chance to speak, and then you will leave, in peace.”

  The monk nodded humbly.

  “That is all I seek. You are courteous indeed, and I thank you for your consideration, Bessarias.”

  “We shall talk again soon,” Bessarias promised the little man, and after wishing him good health, walked from the chambers. Before he had even reached the bottom of the stairs, he was already filing away their conversation to a corner of his mind as a new approach occurred to him.

  “What about an impenetrable barrier?” he mused aloud. “If the giloi were forcibly reflected, then tracking their vector might provide some interesting information …”

  Neither of the two guards betrayed any sign of anything but respect as the Magistras walked past them, unnoticing.

  “I hate it when they mumble,” the taller guard remarked to his companion as they watched Bessarias disappear into the maze.

  “I know. I’m always afraid they’ll turn me into a newt or something, and not even notice.”

  “He’s the one that made the Glass Desert, you know.”