Arts of Dark and Light: Book 01 - A Throne of Bones

by Vox Day

  They reached the stables and Aulan was just dismounting when a centurion came jogging toward them.

  He did a brief double-take upon seeing Magnus, but his attention was otherwise focused upon Scato. “Legate, a rider arrived from Montmila. The XVth came under attack by an elven sorcerer two days ago, and scouts from an unknown legion were seen in the area the following day.”

  Magnus groaned, but Scato slapped him on his beefy shoulder. “My lord Valerius, I cannot tell you how pleased I am to leave this matter in your very capable hands. I assume the unknown legion is XVII, though I confess I am at a loss to explain the elves.”

  “I wish I could say the same.” Magnus all but growled. “I knew we should have left the damned boy safely in the clutches of the Church.”

  As the two generals followed the centurion back toward the forum, Aulan, forgotten and presumably dismissed, was accosted by Lucaras and the rest of his squadron.

  “Sir, if’n ye don’t think there’ll be any need for us, the boys and me were thinking we’d wet the whistle.”

  Aulan rolled his eyes at the transparency of the decurion’s request. The sizable town that had grown up over the years outside the legionary castra hadn’t escaped his attention either. “Wet your whistle as you like, Lucarus. But don’t you think the time would be better spent scouting the local talent and seeing if it was worthwhile wetting anything else?”

  “Ave, sir. We would be glad of your company.”

  They were just on the verge of finishing their first round of ale at what, according to the crudely painted sign nailed to the doorframe, was the improbably named Caela Floralia when the legionary horns began blowing the assembly from the walls to the east.

  Aulan looked at the three young women who were sitting in various degrees of deshabille on the other side of the dirt-floored chamber with no little regret, then sighed, drained his bowl, and pushed himself to his feet. There was no rest for the wicked, he thought regretfully. But it struck him as deeply unfair that he should be deprived of rest and wickedness alike.

  THEUDERIC

  How was he hungover without having engaged in any debauchery the previous evening? The painful mystery trampled its way through Theuderic’s aching head like an iron-shod Amorran legion as he tried to figure out exactly where he was and why he felt as if a dwarf had beaten him about the head with a forge hammer. Had the debauchery been so epic that he simply couldn’t remember it? Where was he?

  Ah, yes. It was coming back to him now. He was in Amorr, and the day before, someone who was a damned sight more powerful than any of the vaunted Immortels of L’Academie had very nearly blown his mind inside out with the ease of an accomplished glass-blower. Were it not for his shields, which in retrospect now appeared rather feeble, he might well be a mindless, drooling creature of the sort one occasionally saw in the asylums.

  He groaned, and in response, he heard Lithriel begin to move about in the attached chamber. Her footsteps made it sound as if the dwarf in his head had returned to his forge.

  “What happened?” she asked him without prelude or the slightest indication of tender concern for his state.

  Despite his throbbing head, her inhuman lack of sensitivity made him smile.

  “I’m not entirely certain. But someone doesn’t seem to like me very much.”

  Lithriel frowned. “You haven’t been here long enough for it to be personal. I don’t understand. One moment, you were sitting next to me. The next, you grabbed your head and collapsed. At first, I thought you might die, but the priests told me you were only sleeping.”

  “In a manner of speaking, I suppose.” He winced as a jolt of pain stabbed through his brain. “Keep your voice down, my lady, if you please. I’m not sure what happened, but I can guess. Last night in the throne room I felt someone probing about me. Sorcerously. I followed the aura and tracked it back to something. I think it was inside the palace. But whatever it was, I’m fairly certain it isn’t human.

  “It was impossibly strong. Stronger than I had ever imagined. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was a sorcerer from the Collegium. Once it realized I was tracking it, it hit me hard. I think…I think it might have said something to me, but I can’t remember now. The next thing I knew, I was waking up here.”

  She nodded grimly. “So, you think it struck you down. I did not think you would faint for no reason. I should have known it was something like this. Those chattering priests were convinced you were overcome due to your proximity to the holiness of the Sacred Father or some such nonsense.”

  “You didn’t argue with them, did you?” He had a dreadful vision of his elven mistress blithely critiquing Immaculate theology in the sacred heart of Holy Mother Church.

  She wrinkled her fine, narrow nose. “Of course not. What does it matter to me what nonsense they believe? But do you know, an eveque told me there are other elves in the city. I think we should go and speak with them first. They will have news, I have no doubt, and if anyone knows of this sorcerer who attacked you, it will be them.”

  “There are elves here in Amorr?” That was astonishing. He knew the previous Sanctiff had decided they were ensouled and thereby deemed worthy of civilization and salvation, but he found it hard to believe any of the folk ancien had been permitted entry, given the staunch Amorran hostility toward the arts. “Are they still here?”

  “Yes, they’re from Elebrion, and they’re acting as some sort of visiting representative for the High King. The eveque said they were excluded from the Senate order to expell all the strangers here by the order of the consuls. They’re on the west side of the city, though, and you don’t look like you’ll be able to walk so far.”

  “I’ll be fine,” he protested, but when he attempted to push himself upright, the sadistic dwarf in his head took severe exception and pain exploded just above his left eye. He cried out involuntarily and fell back onto the pillow.

  “Sleep,” Lithriel told him, lightly stroking his brow with her long, white fingers. “Just close your eyes and go back to sleep. We’ll see how you feel when you wake, and perhaps we’ll go and visit them later today.”

  Mercifully, the dwarf appeared to be content to bide his time so long as Theuderic held himself still and kept his eyes closed. After a while, once he’d stopped bracing himself against the next painful hammer blow, he managed to retreat into a restless, anxious dream in which the dwarf, beardless, big-nosed, and wearing a red cape, turned from his forge and drew from it a lithe, white figurine with long ears that vaguely resembled an elfess.

  “The price of a whore,” the dwarf demanded, waving it in his face, and Theuderic, inexplicably outraged, hurled fire at him, but as it struck him, it turned into a dagger and pierced the dwarf’s throat. The figurine dropped from the dwarf’s thick-fingered hands and fell to the floor, shattering into a thousand white little shards. And as the pieces melted away like ice on a hot stove, the blessedly insensate dark finally claimed him.

  It was several hours later when they finally found themselves sitting in Lord Silvertree’s luxurious dwelling, and Theuderic found it remarkable how Lithriel effaced herself in front of the high elf. It reminded him a little of the way a young noble from a backwater county had behaved upon his arrival at L’Academie. Elves, it seemed, were no more egalitarian than men. Still it was a little jarring to see her acting more humble and reserved than when he’d first met her in the company of dwarves, escaping from a whorehouse.

  But Silvertree was certainly intimidating. He was more than a head taller than Theuderic, with skin that was whiter than marble and impossibly aristocratic features that made even Lithriel’s look common by comparison. It was as if he’d found himself seated before a fallen angel that had not yet descended from Heaven.

  The elf lord held his power tightly in check, but even so, Theuderic could sense the strength of his sorcerous potential. It didn’t appear to be as overwhelming as the sorcerous power that had struck him down the night before, but he was sure it was considerably more
than the best he could muster himself. And disturbingly, the elf did not appear to be at all pleased to see him in the company of an elfess who was no longer a maiden.

  “So, a wood elf in Amorr,” Silvertree commented in glacial tones. “And with a Man, no less. You must have been persuasive, magician, to be permitted entry into the city under the circumstances.”

  “I don’t believe they know I am one of the King’s Own, Lord Silvertree. As it happens, I am also one of His Majesty’s vassals, being the lord of a small county in the Grand Duchy of Ecarlate, and I am here representing the king in that capacity. The capacity involved bringing some three hundred pounds of silver to the Sanctified Father, as well as a pair of archveques, for what I can only presume must be decorative purposes.”

  “Ah, that would explain why the gates were opened to you.” Silvertree turned his attention to Lithriel. “And you, little one? What is your name? How come you to be accompanying a Savondese battlemage to Amorr, of all places?”

  “I am called Lithriel. I was separated from my friends while riding in the forest one day and was captured by a human slaver who specialized in exotics. He sold me to a whoremaster in Malkan. I was rescued by a dwarf who was attempting to free several of his own race. Then the comte here saved me from being recaptured, and I chose to accompany him to Savondir.”

  “Rather than return to your own kind. I see. You were a sorceress once?”

  “Once. No more,” she said. Theuderic noted that she did not see fit to tell the high elf her family name or let him know she was cousin to the king of Merithaim.

  “No, of course not. I see.” The high elf showed no pity, but Theuderic thought he saw a flicker of some unidentifiable emotion flash in the strange green eyes. “And you have come to visit me for what purpose, my lady? I agreed to receive you because I found it marvelous that you should be here, but now that conundrum is solved. What can I do for you?”

  “I’d thought to come here because it has been more than a year since I saw my own kind. And like you, I expect, the comte is supposed to gather information for his king, and I thought you might have some notion as to why the Amorrans have abruptly turned against foreigners. We saw many of them on the road as we rode south, and my thought was that you would have a much better understanding of events than the common traveller.

  “But the main reason is that, yesterday evening, just after the comte had presented the king’s silver to the high priest, he collapsed. When he woke this morning, he told me that he’d encountered the aura of a very powerful sorcerer who had struck him down. I was surprised, since I’d always been told there are no sorcerers in Amorr.”

  The high elf blinked once, and although his face didn’t change expression, Theuderic had the distinct impression he was considerably more interested than he’d been a moment before.

  “There are no sorcerers in Amorr, little one, save me and my colleague. And your companion here, of course. You said you were struck down, magician?”

  “Yes, my lord. I felt someone spying on me. But when I attempted to determine who it was, I was too clumsy, and he noticed me. I say he noticed because it wasn’t a woman, I’m sure of it. The next thing I knew, I awoke the next morning with the feeling that someone had tried to smash my head with a warhammer. The whole episode seemed extraordinary, since I too was under the impression that anyone with any training in the arts would not survive long here. My lady suggested we first come here and speak with you, if you would grant us an audience, and that seemed a wise course of action.”

  “We shall see. So it was a Man, or at least something male, at any rate. Did you notice anything else?”

  “No,” Theuderic shook his head. “Wait, yes, there was one thing. It was close, very close. In material terms. I’m convinced it was either in the palace or somewhere very nearby.”

  “Could it have been the Sanctiff himself? I have only seen him once, from afar, but he was only recently raised to the sanctal throne.”

  “No, absolutely not. I’d spoken with him and kissed his ring only a short while before. As far as I could tell, he has no magical capabilities at all.”

  “You are confident of your ability to notice such things?”

  “I can sense yours, my lord, even though you keep it well-cloaked. You’re very strong, and yet, I’m not sure even you are as powerful as whatever I encountered last night.”

  “‘Whatever’? It’s fascinating you should say it that way. Wouldn’t ‘whomever’ be the more natural term to use?”

  Theuderic paused to think about it.

  “It would,” he admitted. “I suppose I don’t truly think it was a man. I’ve known all the most powerful Immortels at L’Academie, and none of them was anywhere nearly as strong as that thing in the palace.”

  The elf lord nodded. His face was still impassive, but he had abandoned all pretense at disinterest. “Yes, your academy magicians are poorly trained by our standards, and of course your lives are much too short to develop any real mastery, but even so, your powers are far from negligible. I wonder, was your lamaranth in place?”

  “My what?”

  “I think you would call them your shields.”

  “Yes, absolutely. He blew through them as if they weren’t even there.”

  “I see. Then I believe your initial instinct was correct. What you encountered was no Man.”

  “In the Church?” Lithriel was skeptical. “Do you know what this creature might be, my lord?”

  “Do I know?” Silvertree spread his hands and shrugged. “I cannot say that I am certain. But I have some very strong suspicions. Indeed, if what you say is true, I may have to give serious thought to returning to Elebrion myself. But first, I have a few more questions for your magician. Have you noticed any unusual upheaval in the north of late, either in Savondir proper or anywhere in the Seven Seats?”

  “A year ago there was a rebellion in Montrove,” Theuderic said. “The duc was killed and the city was sacked by the Red Prince. I was there, and I am confident it wasn’t anything more than a discontented noble attempting to throw off his liege lord. Hardly the first time, and I can’t imagine it will be the last. Although around the time we departed for here, the prince was sailing across the White Sea, as it seems the Dalarn have been all but wiped out in the Wolf Isles.”

  “Have they now?” The high elf’s casual tone belied the sudden gleam of interest the news had sparked in his eyes. “And what nearly wiped them out? The demonspawn?”

  “If by demonspawn, you mean the beasts they call aalvarg, yes. We call them ulfin. It seems they have all but destroyed the reavers. A pair of their young royals appeared before the king to beg his assistance in helping them drive back the monsters, which he granted.”

  “I shouldn’t be at all surprised if the second one is behind those events. This bears a closer look. But where are the others? That is the question.”

  “The second what?” Lithriel asked before he could do the same.

  “You think there are more of whatever this creature that attacked me is?”

  Silvertree nodded. He rose gracefully from his seat and strode toward a table upon which was piled various old codices and capped cylinders containing scrolls. “About a month ago, two of the consuls visited me concerning some murders that took place within the palace. My companion and I were permitted to visit the chapel where the men died, and in the course of our investigation I observed the signs of a highly unusual sort of magic. It’s not one with which you would have been familiar, as it has been some time since such spells were in use. Hundreds of years, to put it in perspective.

  “Ah, there we are,” he interrupted himself as he located the cylinder he wanted and unscrewed the brass cap. “As I told the consuls, the magic was distinctive. It’s not a sorcery we elves have ever utilized, and it is well beyond the limits of Man’s wizardry or the various primitive arts of the western races.”

  “What is it?” Lithriel asked.

  “You could do worse than to view it as a
perverted form of daemonology, which I believe your Savondese companion would customarily refer to as diablerie.”

  Theuderic considered himself more or less a prodigal son of the Church, the Sanctiff’s blessing notwithstanding, but this shocked him more than just about anything had since his boyhood, when the elderly king’smage had first told him that he possessed a talent for the arts. “Are you saying there is a diableriste in the Coviria summoning demons—in the very bowels of the Church?”

  “Oh, I’m afraid the situation is rather worse than that,” Silvertree answered. “What I suspect is that there is not a diableriste but an actual immortal being residing within the bowels of Holy Mother Church. And I believe it intends to shape the Amorran Empire into a weapon capable of serving his purposes. And it would not surprise me in the slightest if it should turn out that there is another of its kind making use of the northern demonspawn for precisely the same reason.”

  Theuderic couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “An immortal being? My lord, you elves are the closest things to immortal beings I’ve ever heard of, unless one counts dragons, I suppose. And I can’t imagine you’re suggesting that the Sanctiff is keeping a pet dragon in a giant cave underneath his palace.”

  Silvertree smiled thinly. “No, magician, I am not suggesting any such thing. Here,” he said, extending the scroll he pulled from the cylinder. “Read this, and perhaps it will shed useful light on these matters. After my suspicions were aroused by the deaths in the chapel, I contacted an old friend of mine, the Magistras Daimonae at the Collegium. He has long been interested in these beings, for obvious reasons, and he sent me this document, which predates your calendar, as it was composed some three hundred years before the war with the Witchkings.”

  Lithriel glanced at Theuderic, and he nodded. They both knew he wouldn’t be able to read such ancient elven writing. She took the proffered scroll from the high elf and perused it, clicking her tongue several times as she did so. Theuderic forced himself to wait patiently until she finally nodded and began translating it for him.