Summa Elvetica: A Casuistry of the Elvish Controversy and Other Stories (20 page)

Marcus blinked. “So you captured me in order to force me to testify in your favor?”

“No, of course not! It’s only that it would be difficult for you to do anything at all if you are dead. And I’m called Caitlys, Caitlys Shadowsong. Can you stand up yet?”

“I think so.”

She reached out a hand and he took it. With some difficulty the two of them managed to get him to his feet. Despite her slender build, she was stronger than she looked and managed to hold him up when his left leg gave out on him.

He didn’t realize he was so close to her until he found himself practically embracing her, with both arms around her shoulder.

Her breath smelled of honey, her hair of flowers, and his knees began to feel weak in a way that had nothing to do with the brutal cold he’d just endured.

He pushed himself away from her with a brusqueness that might have stemmed from pride, temptation, or fear. Or perhaps all three at once.

“Don’t … I can walk on my own!”

“As you like.” She seemed to take no offense, but kept one arm extended toward him in case he should lose his balance.

They walked toward a small stone dwelling that was rather more elegantly constructed than one would have imagined a hut perched on the side of a cliff to be.

“Come with me,” she said. “There’s someone here who can explain this to you better than I can.”

“Who can explain it?” he asked as he followed her inside the hut. “Who lives here?”

Despite being made of stone, the hut was warm and well-lit by the fire burning at the hearth on the far side of the room. The walls were covered with wooden shelving covered entirely with scrolls and parchments. A wooden desk stood in one corner, a large wardrobe in the other. In front of the hearth was a tall form standing silhouetted by the flames. An elf, obviously, although Marcus couldn’t make out much more than to note that he was wearing white robes.

The elf spoke. “I live here, and I welcome you to my humble home, Marcus Valerius of Amorr. Thank you for placing your trust in my emissary. I fear I am too feeble for such adventures of our faith anymore, but fortunately dear Caitlys is brave and her heart is true.”

Marcus caught his breath, stunned literally speechless. The elf had not said, “your faith,” but “our faith”!

Now that he was closer and his eyes had adjusted to the firelight, he could see that the elf was old, extremely old, judging by his thin white hair, the lines on his face, and the slight stooping of his shoulders. Yet even so, there was a sense of immense power inside him, as if the form of the ancient elf was merely a mask for the real being inside it. And incredibly, against all odds, he wore the sign of the tree around his neck on a silver necklace, something only one who worshipped the Immaculate would ever wear.

It seemed to Marcus that the ground spun. “Y-you are a brother? I don’t understand! How can this be?”

The elf smiled. “I cannot tell you how delighted I am to greet you in the name of the Most Holy Immanuel, Marcus Valerius. Long indeed have I waited for this moment.”

There was such an ethereal air of holiness about him that Marcus did not hesitate. He stepped forward and gave the Kiss of Peace to the old elf. The withered lips felt strangely soft and dry.

“Are you the only one?” he asked.

“In all elfdom, yes. You may call me Nomenlos. I chose that name for I have many deeds for which to repent, much pride for which to atone.”

“You need repent nothing,” Caitlys protested.

“Peace, child. You know naught of these things. In any event, it is not for you to judge. Marcus Valerius, the peril is great. For you, for your bishop, and for the elves. For months, the High King has known that the Sanctiff’s investigation was proceeding and that your embassy was to be the final inquiry into the matter of the elven soul.”

Marcus had thought the Sanctiff had hatched this idea just before summoning him to the palace. How did this elf know more than he did? “You have spies in Amorr?”

“Not me, but the High King. He has spies everywhere. There are few, man or orc, who cannot be purchased by one means or another. And everywhere a mouse or a crow can see,the High King’s wizards may see also. The warhawks are not our only servitors among the animals, you know.”

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 costs, 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!”