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

by Vox Day

  When Quintus opened his mouth to protest the outrage, the lictor behind him slipped in a gag and drew it tight. Despairingly, he thrashed away from the man, but four of the man’s fellows were quick to seize him. Quintus could not believe it! Had he survived Aldus Wald only to be murdered by his fellow Amorrans? The crowd was going wild, some were jeering at him, others, more rational, were shouting at the praetor.

  “To the rock!” the senator boomed in his deep, carrying voice, and Quintus knew that he was dead. Oh, the shame that this would bring his father! Immaculatus, why did You not let me die with honor at the pass? Did You bring me back here for this?

  I did not scorn a criminal’s death. The voice flickered through his panicked mind, sounding almost amused. Be at peace.

  Be at peace? Are You mad? I’m being murdered here! Quintus would have shaken his fist at the sky again if he could have only gotten it free. The lictors were wrapping him with thick ceremonial cords, the sort executioners used to strangle their victims; he noticed that the praetor had already disappeared. Off to collect his thirty pieces of silver, no doubt. Quintus hoped that the craven man would be dead with tomorrow’s dawn too.

  But as the lictors carried him down the steps, he could hear some sort of commotion ahead of him. “Stop,” he heard a commanding voice thunder over the crowd, and to his surprise, his would-be executioners stopped. He craned his neck around, trying to see what was happening, but as they were holding him barely above waist-level, he could see nothing but legs, togas, and the occasional sword.

  “Put him down … on his feet,” the voice ordered, qualifying the command just in time as Quintus felt the lictors’ hold on him relax. When they rotated him about and stood him upright, Quintus was surprised to see that this potential rescuer wore the royal blue cape of the Lazuli, the princely cadre of sixty-six archpriests who stood below no living man save the Sanctiff himself. Better yet, it was Julius Albus, a man Quintus knew to be an acquaintance of his father’s. “Get that out of his mouth.”

  Quintus retched and coughed so hard he doubled over. Still, he felt tremendously relieved, at least until he realized that Albus was not looking at him. Nor did the Lazulus show any signs of ordering him released. His heart sank again when he heard Albus tell Ahenobarbus and the head lictor that the verdict was void, not due to its irregularities, but because the Sanctiff was claiming prior right of trial.

  “The civil authority is subject to the Church authority where matters of sorcery and blasphemy are involved. Crimes of treason and the like are of no account when compared with the greater danger posed by mortal crimes against Church law.”

  When one of the lictors seemed disposed to argue, Albus gestured, and twelve Redeemed, ex-gladiators all, silently flanked him, six to a side. They belonged to the Church’s most fanatical order, and each of them was scarred and hard, for all that they now served the Lamb instead of the Wolf. The lictor quickly closed his mouth, and even the curator decided that he was not inclined to argue the issue. A second gesture, and Quintus was again swept up from the ground, no more gently than before.

  As the Redeemed carried him off toward the great alabaster building that housed the White Throne, Quintus found himself wondering if perhaps it wouldn’t have been better if they’d simply hurled him from the heights. From what he’d seen at the pass, a quick death on the rocks was likely rather better than a slow and painful one by earth, water, and fire.

  But once around the corner and out of sight of the crowd, the Lazulus ordered Quintus unbound. An armed Redeemed remained on either side of him, each holding an arm, but in a manner that suggested that they were primarily intending to help him keep his balance after his rough treatment. The walk to the Sanctiff’s palace was not far, and by the time they entered it, Quintus was starting to hope that he might even survive these bizarre machinations. The only thing that worried him was that Albus had not spoken so much as a single word to him.

  The Lazulus stopped before a tall pair of arched doors, nodding to the guards posted there. Then he turned toward Quintus, and for the first time his expression showed familiarity. “I cannot say that you have nothing to fear, Quintus Tullius, for I do not know the truth of the matter. But I can tell you this; the Sanctiff takes little note of the Senate and its political intrigues. So there may be hope for you. But if you have entangled yourself in the black arts, rest assured that there will be no saving you.”

  Quintus nodded. “I understand. But if I may ask you for a favor?”

  “You may ask …”

  “Please tell my father that I am here. Otherwise, I fear he will think me dead. And please assure him that I have never soiled my soul with sorcery of any kind.”

  Albus nodded his acquiescence without expression. “I will do so.”

  “Thank you, Julius Albus,” Quintus bowed deeply, and when the Lazulus departed, he allowed the waiting guards to escort him through the doors and down the long corridor to the cell that awaited him. He smiled upon entering it; for all that it was a prison, and a sparse one at that, it was the height of opulence compared to what he’d known of late.

  • • •

  Locked in his windowless cell, he might have lost track of the time were it not for the faint sound of the priests singing the evening Vespers every night. By his reckoning, it was five days before he was visited by anyone but the silent father who brought him a simple but healthy meal of bread, wine, and fruit three times a day. Lacking anything for entertaiment, Quintus found himself musing uncharacteristically on the utter pointlessness of Æmor’s war with the wood elves. Even if Varus had been a wiser general, even if Everbright had not proved to be so cunning, what would have been the benefit?

  Treasure? The Amorran treasury was full, at least as far as he knew. Fame? Æmor’s legions had been victorious so many times that only the historians could count the number of triumphs that had been celebrated, let alone who had won the glory. Power? Quintus was no merchant, but he found it difficult to see how possession of the Merithaim elvenwoods would bestow the city with any additional strategic advantage against her foes. The legions much preferred the more straightforward fighting that took place on the plains and hills than the chaos that so often prevailed in the wilder hinterlands.

  About the time that he was expecting his last meal on the fifth day, he was surprised to see Julius Albus standing at the open door of his cell. But this time, his blue cloak was pinned with a gold broach and he was not accompanied by uncouth ex-gladiators, but six Sanctal Guards resplendent in silver and scarlet.

  “Come with us, Quintus Tullius,” he ordered. Something in his eyes warned Quintus to hold his tongue and reserve his questions for later. He obediently followed the Lazulus, and as he did so, the Guards fell into position on either side of him, though they did not lay hands on him or on their weapons.

  At the end of a walk that took him through enough turns to leave him thoroughly confused, they came to a small wooden door, unmarked. Albus held up a hand and entered, then returned and bid him follow. It was, Quintus learned, a side entrance to the great chamber in which the Sanctiff was enthroned.

  It was not, however, the sight of the small elderly man in a light blue robe that caught his attention and took his breath away. Nor was it the huge alabaster throne on which he sat, carved from a single piece of ivory that was purported to have once been the jawbone of Leviathan. No, it was the welcome, if unexpected sight of six men standing in chains before that throne that caused his heart to leap within his breast.

  Gaius Aufinius, the Urban Praetor, was there, and next to him was Ahenobarbus, the red-bearded cousin of the late general. Nicander too was there, along with another of his accusers and a broad-shouldered man that might have been one of the lictors. Aufinius seemed to shrink at the sight of him, though his eyes turned to the Sanctiff when the old priest raised his hand and pointed to a man standing near the back of the wall.

  Quintus nearly fainted with relief at the sight of Brutus, still clad in his battered, batt
le-stained armor. Never had he seen a more welcome sight than the centurion’s ugly, weathered face. And accompanying him were at least ten men of the legion, including two tribunes and several centurions.

  “Publius Junius, we have already heard your testimony and that of your men. Now, is the man who has just been brought before us the man of whom you spoke?”

  Brutus glanced over and met Quintus’s eyes. He looked as determined and ready to fight as he had in the mountain pass, but he half-smiled and nodded his head briefly in acknowledgment of Quintus before answering.

  “He is, your Holiness.”

  “What is his name?”

  “Quintus Tullius Acerus, senior tribune of the Seventh Legion, your Holiness.”

  “Thank you, Publius Junius.” The Sanctiff turned to the look at the six men, and for the first time, Quintus understood that it was not him who was on trial, but his former accusers. His would-be murderers. Then the Sanctiff cleared his throat, and in a loud voice that echoed through the chamber, pronounced his judgment.

  “Let it be known that these men are oathbreakers, false witnesses, and are guilty of attempted murder under the color of Amorran law. They have offended not only the dignity of the city of Æmor and its citizens, but also that of its Most Holy and Immaculate Church. I hereby remand them to the justice of the Curia and may God have mercy on their souls, for they shall find none here in Æmor.”

  “It is written,” said a clerk from the side of the room, scribbling furiously. He passed the parchment to a young man seated next to him, who added no more than a line with a quilled pen.

  “It is signed,” he said, passing it to the third man at the table. The last clerk dipped a great stamp in wax that was heated above a small brazier beside him and slammed it down upon the parchment.

  “It is sealed.”

  Quintus looked at the doomed men. No influence would save them now, not even if all three Consuls spoke for them. Ahenobarbus had turned white under his beard, and a mixture of horror and fear filled the faces of the others, though they remained silent. Aufinius alone remained composed; he looked more thoughtful than afraid. Nicander looked as if he might be sick. As Quintus watched, he swayed on his feet and nearly fell.

  It would be better if he held silent. And yet, how could he allow a man, a fellow soldier, to go to his grave for nothing more than speaking the truth. Oh, but the temptation was great indeed. Then he saw a tear roll down Nicander’s cheek, and he knew he could not hold tongue, not if he wished to live with himself.

  “Your Holiness!” He stepped forward, and in a flash, two swords were pointing at him, arresting his progress. “May I speak?”

  The Sanctiff regarded him with an air of curiousity, then nodded.

  “I do not believe Marcus Longinus, the tribune there, bears any guilt in the matter. He spoke truly when he told them that I could see the spellcasters, so he did not perjure himself, as did the others. He has committed no crime.”

  The white eyebrows of His Holiness, the Sanctified Castimonius II, seemed to rise of their own accord as a brief, disbelieving murmur swelled throughout the room, then hushed as quickly as it had arisen. The Sanctiff, staring hard at Quintus, pushed himself slowly from his throne, then made his way down the seven steps from the dais upon which it sat. He walked, somewhat stiffly, and approached Quintus; though his shoulders were hunched and his head barely came to Quintus’s chest, the young officer could feel power radiating from the man like the heat of the mountain sun. His eyes burned like flaming emeralds, seeming to see right through to the depths of a man’s soul.

  “You are no sorcerer, my son?”

  “No, your Holiness.”

  “And yet you could see the works of the evil ones?”

  “Yes, your Holiness.”

  The Sanctiff peered into his face, but the green eyes no longer burned. Instead, they seemed to be unsettled. “You had only to keep your counsel, and yet you chose to speak to defend your accuser. Most interesting. Is it possible that you have an explanation for this … seeming dichotomy?”

  “Yes, your Holiness.” Quintus swallowed hard. “I believe I could see them because we were being slaughtered and I … called out to the Immaculate One. In … in anger, your Holiness. I am sorry.”

  He was surprised to see a flicker of amusment suddenly appear on the old man’s face. It was gone in a moment, but it had unmistakably been there, if only for a moment.

  “The best prayers come from the heart, my son. It seems that yours was answered.”

  Then the Sanctiff did the last thing that Quintus, or anyone else in the great chamber, expected. He clumsily kneeled down in front of the young officer and drew Quintus’s hand to his forehead.

  “Bless me, your Holiness. Bless you me, my son.”

  • • •

  The young priest frowned as his elder finished the story he had been telling. “That’s it? But, I always thought Saint Oculatus was a mighty warrior?”

  The older priest smiled. He was a big man, built like an oak, and his skin was nearly as wrinkled and sun-hardened as bark. “He was a mighty warrior, merely not in the sense that you are thinking. After Aldus Wald, Saint Oculatus never took the field again, Horatio. Nor did he join the priesthood, although his second son did join our order after it was founded by Gnaus Gallus with the blessing of His Holiness. And yet, are we not as surely his children as those who sprang from his loins? Now, are you ready to try again?”

  “Yes, brother.”

  The older man nodded to a small figure standing in the shadow of a tree. It was a goblin, and a small example of the type at that. But the young priest couldn’t help trembling a little as he stepped out and advanced toward it, holding his shield as if he was hoping to hide his entire body behind it. For the goblin was no ordinary ahomus, but a battlemage, a captured prisoner given special dispensation to practice his unholy magic here so that the Michaeline warrior-priests might learn how to defeat it with their immaculate faith.

  “Remember, we are not given a spirit of fear, lad,” his instructor called, even as he raised a finger. The goblin pointed both hands at the armor-clad young man and said something in his guttural, inhuman tongue. They began to glow, and a moment later, two bolts of purple fire leaped from his hand toward his target.

  As they did, the young man shouted something unintelligible, but there was a noticeable tremor in his voice. The bolts slammed into the shield and sent it flying into the air as the lad tumbled onto his back. His shield landed in front of the elder Michaeline, showing two more scorch marks on the much abused metal. The warrior-priest sighed, shook his head, and went to help the shaken youth back to his feet.

  “I don’t know if you’re watching, Quintus Tullius,” he muttered to himself, “but if you are, I suspect this one may need your help.”

  FINIS

  THE LAST WITCHKING

  THE SOUNDS OF BATTLE were getting louder, and the smell of smoke penetrated the chamber despite the heavy wooden door and the single shuttered window. Inside, a man and a woman lay sprawled on the bed, breathless and entangled, their long, white limbs unencumbered by clothing.

  “Do it,” she murmured, her face pressed against his chest. “Do it now, my love.”

  “How can you ask it of me?” His voice was filled with anguish. “Why did you not let me send you away with them?”

  “He will be safer without me. They would know. They would break me.”

  “They cannot break what they do not find.”

  “They know I am yours. They would hunt me down. And besides, I will not live without you!”

  He pulled away from her, looked down at her, stroked her long, pale hair. Tears filled his eyes as he smiled at her. “How fierce you are. How beautiful.”

  She looked up at him and returned his smile. Her eyes were dry and fearless.

  “Have courage, my lord. I regret nothing. Not a single moment.”

  He wiped at his eyes. “The dream is dead, but it was glorious indeed.”

&nbs
p; “Then you must give me a glorious pyre, my love. My body cannot be found. They must never learn I bore you a child.”

  “Not a child, my love. A son. Our son.” The man nodded and caressed her cheek. “They will love him. They will raise him as their own. But he will learn the truth in time.”

  “Blood will tell,” she agreed. “Blood will always tell.”

  A clash of metal from just outside the chamber caused them both to start.

  He met her eyes.

  “I loved you from the moment I laid eyes upon you. From the beginning to the end.”

  She laughed and shook her head.

  “No, my lord, there is no end. You are mine and I am yours, from the beginning of time to the end of whatever lies waiting on the other side of the grave.”

  “There will be no grave for you, my love. My wife. My life. I would burn all the earth and sky if it would save you now.”

  “I know.” She closed her eyes. “Now, my love. They are coming for you, and there is no more time.”

  He kissed her lips. Then he folded her to his breast again and held her tight as a single tear slowly made its way down his bloodless cheek. Softly, gently, he whispered the killing words. She did not move or make a sound, she merely seemed to relax against him, as if giving herself entirely to him once more.

  She was gone.

  He kissed her forehead, then gently laid her down, lifeless, on the bed. For a long moment he stared at her, drinking in her beauty one last time. Then there was a shriek outside the chamber, followed by a series of triumphant shouts. A moment later, something heavy crashed against the door.

  He dressed without hurrying. By the time the wood began to splinter, he was fully attired in rich black velvet. He wore a cape, and his pantalons were tucked into the high leather boots of a cavalryman.

  He pointed at the door, and it exploded outward, eliciting screams from those who had been striving to break it down. He raised his left hand, and the bed behind him erupted in white flames hotter than any blacksmith’s forge. He did not look back at it.