Summa Elvetica: A Casuistry of the Elvish Controversy and Other Stories (28 page)

“I am heartened to hear that you are, at last, willing to contemplate the possibility of such things!”

“Good and evil? Certainly, if only for the purpose of this particular discussion.”

The monk sighed.

“As Stagirus writes, one is forced to wonder if it is possible to distinguish between you and a vegetable, if you yourself are incapable of distinguishing between the two. Good and evil, that is.”

“Ah, but I believe that Lathas had the right of it when he declared that there is only a better, and also a worse principle. When the better has the worse under control, then one is said to be master of himself; but when the better principle is overwhelmed by the worse, then he is a slave.”

“But you are speaking of slavery and mastery, not good and evil.”

“Exactly! What you call good and evil are only daimons, influences, outside factors which may help or hinder the proper development of the self. When one has mastered one’s self, by exerting control over one’s baser instincts, then one does what is right through the approach to a higher form of being. The nature of the self is not unlike the nature of magic; both are there to be conquered by the higher mind, through the exertion of the will. Some succeed, most cannot.”

“It is not hard to understand why you hold Lathas in high regard. Do you see yourselves as guardians, then, of your lessers?”

Bessarias spread his hands, as if to indicate all the world around them.

“Are we not? Without its masters, a community soon falls into ignominy and despair, as the meaner desires of the many must be held down by the virtuous desires and wisdom of the few. It is our responsibility to preserve and protect not only the bodies but also the minds of those we serve.”

“Hmmm … You deny good and evil, but uphold virtue?”

“Virtue is service to the greater community. The truly virtuous individual, having mastered himself, makes careful use of his skills, not for the sake of his own momentary desires, but for the sake of being able to perform his duty to the community.”

“I do not understand. What is this duty?”

“For the master, to command. For the slave, to obey.”

“I see, I see.” Herwaldus stifled a smile. “Does it fall to the individual, then, this vital decision as to which group he rightfully belongs?”

“No, that is a task for the community, or rather, the wise in their midst, although the potential for mastery is not difficult to detect. There is such a thing as a will to power, which can seldom be concealed, either from the self or from others. Certainly it cannot be hidden from us here in the Collegium; indeed one of our primary purposes is to find and guide those individuals with the potential, those who possess the will to master not only themselves but also the world around them.”

The monk nodded, and a look of triumph brightened his eyes.

“And that, I fear, is where you fall into error, my friend, so wise and yet so foolish. Not my will, but thine, that is the essence of the good. It is not the act but the motive alone that matters. That which is in accordance with God’s will is good. That which is not is evil. It is a question of means, not ends.”

Bessarias chuckled, but he betrayed no hint of mockery when he replied dryly, “I imagine it falls to the individual then, to make this decision as to motive?”

“Yes, for who else can know the truth? Otherwise, there is only the truth of appearances. Still, it is written that by their fruits ye shall know them … and, of course, God always knows the truth of the heart.”

“I cannot argue with you. You speak of things beyond reason, beyond rationality. Things I have not seen, not in more than three centuries. Nor, I imagine, has anyone else.”

The monk smiled at the magician. He looked almost complacent, as if they were playing cards and he was holding an unbeatable hand.

“I believe you will see, Bessarias, in the fullness of time. But for now, I will only say that in my humble opinion, your great college is well named. It is occluded indeed.”

• • •

The monk’s insufferable and judgemental certitude was often infuriating, but Bessarias also found it delightful. He had no doubt that he would win in the end, as all the human’s arguments held together only as long as their dialogue remained in the realm of the hypothetical. Eventually, the discussion would move from the ideal to the real, and in that realm, Bessarias knew he was a master without equal.

The game had been entertaining, but now, with the onset of winter only six weeks away, the time had come to bring the matter to a close. Bessarias had developed a certain affection for the stubborn human, and while he had no intention of allowing the man to remain and pose a distraction all winter, he also did not want to force the fragile old monk to return to his brethren amidst the throes of that harsh season. Thus he had invited Herwaldus to his own chambers that night, and since he was vain enough to enjoy witnesses to his victories, he had also invited Kilios as well as Lacellas and Amitlya, two of the Collegium’s greatest practitioners of vauderie and deep magic. Mastema, of course, was there as well.

The two archmages were seated on either side of the fire, studying the human with varying degrees of curiosity and disdain, when Bessarias gestured grandly and revealed a large crystal scryglass he had borrowed from one of the Collegium’s farspeakers. Inside the glass was the image of a hilly, wooded land, unmarked by signs of civilized habitation, but alive with the flutter of birds’ wings and the gentle rustling of green leaves in the wind.

“Fra Herwaldus, I have enjoyed our conversations. But I must tell you, for all your eloquence I remain unmoved. Your arguments are learned and internally consistent, for which you must be congratulated, but I have seen that they bear less relation to the world in which we live than do the idyllic reflections of Lathas on the perfect kingdom. That is why I have asked you here tonight, that you might see that my arguments are based, not on theory, but in the material, and to give you the opportunity to prove, in front of these reputable witnesses, the validity of your own.”

Bessarias gestured to the scryglass.

“Behold the land of Shimra, as it was. When I was new to my mastery of the fifth discipline, I was perhaps more reckless than wise. But I was pure in motive, seeking only the truth, when in pursuit of that knowledge I shattered one of the myriad spheres that serve as the invisible bricks in the mortar of the material world.”

The image changed abruptly, revealing a vast and lifeless desert, flat, and devoid of form. The unnaturally smooth ground had a glossy sheen, as if it was made of glass, which it was. It was the Glass Desert, the site of his most notorious and yet glorious accomplishment. Or was it a failure? He still wasn’t sure.

“God have mercy!” he heard Herwaldus mutter.

“You have seen me use my powers on a number of occasions, but without seeing this, you could not possibly understand the extent of them. Only now are you capable of understanding that I tell you truly when I say that those of us here who are known by the name Magistras are not only beyond your concepts of good and evil, but we may well exceed the very concept of your god!”

The monk seemed shaken, almost as much by his words as by the terrible display of his power, still reflected in the glass. He couldn’t seem to take his eyes away from the terrible image. Bessarias, noticing this, waved his left hand and the utter desolation disappeared. He didn’t particularly enjoy looking at it it himself.

“I trust that is an adequate demonstration?”

“More than adequate! My sweet Savior, how we must grieve you!” Herwaldus shook his head and looked up at Bessarias in disbelief. “And that was a virtuous act, by your reckoning?”

“Virtuous, yes. Unfortunate, costly, and misguided also. I would undo it if I could, but the act was a worthy end to justify an unlucky and regrettable means. The calamity was integral to my understanding of the calengalad.”

“Don’t break it, that’s the main thing,” Lacellas whispered across the hearth to Amityla, and the golden-haired sorceress laughed as she held Mastema in her lap and stroked his thick grey fur.

The human’s face wrinkled even more than usual as he peered at the beautiful elf. Her presence seemed to discomfit him a little. Or was he staring at the familiar? It seemed there was something about the cat that fascinated the elderly human.

“My own demonstration must needs be less dramatic, I’m afraid,” he said finally. “But I can think of one that would be fitting, under the circumstances. There are no sick here, but my Lord was ever one for warring against the demons that pollute this fallen world.”

He turned back to face Mastema, and the cat, sensing his hostility, hissed angrily. Unperturbed, Herwaldus pointed a knobby-knuckled finger at the cat and rebuked him.

“You are a creature of filth and shadow, feeding off the souls of the mortals you despise! Name yourself, demon!”

“I am Mastema, you wretchedly stupid human, as any here might have told you if you’d troubled to ask!” retorted the cat. “Now leave me alone and —”

“Begone, Mastema, in the most holy and sacred name of my Lord Immanuel!”

The gathered magicians gasped as one, for when the monk shouted the name of his god, Mastema suddenly slumped, apparently lifeless, in Amityla’s arms.

“You killed him,” she cried. “What have you done?”

Herwaldus stared at the dead cat, his jaw agape and his horror apparent to all. He reached out a hand, slowly, to touch the cat’s throat and confirm Amityla’s fateful pronouncement.

“I am so very sorry, Bessarias,” he began to apologize. “I only meant to banish the demon from your dear pet. I did not think to kill it.”

Bessarias shouted with laughter.

“Oh, the blood that stains your hands, Herwaldus! Will you ever wash them clean?”

He chuckled at the shock on the old human’s face and waved away his attempts to express his regrets.

“This is not the first, nor the fortieth body Mastema has shed. I fear you misunderstand the nature of my pet, my friend. The demon does not possess my pet. He is the pet.”

The monk stared at the magician for a long moment, clearly at a complete loss for words, until he finally shook his head.

“If the Son of Man rebuked his own followers as a perverse and unbelieving race, what must he think of you elves? Making pets of demons? Faugh! But then, my Lord did not come to bring justice. He came that all might know mercy and grace. And since He was known for helping the blind to see, then perhaps there is a more apt exhibition of His power.”

He turned toward Kilios and met the seer’s blind eyes unflinchingly.

Bessarias frowned. Healing was one of the most difficult disciplines, and one of the most notoriously unsuccessful. Even at the Collegium, no one had ever attempted to restore the seer’s natural sight, since he had obviously been blind since birth. He wondered at the monk’s daring in attempting a demonstration so fraught with peril.

“With your permission?” Herwaldus approached Kilios.

The blind seer nodded his acquiescence, and the human gently placed his small hands over the strange, sightless eyes.

“Heavenly Father, Almighty God, in the name of Thy son Immanuel, who lives and reigns with Thee, I pray Thee heal the eyes of this, Thy child, that these others might bear witness to Thy power and honor Thy great name. Amen.”

He withdrew his age-spotted hands from the seer, and Bessarias gasped, incredulous at the sight. Nor was he alone in his astonishment. Amityla was sitting in stunned consternation, while Lacellas had leaped to his feet, his mouth working in awed silence. Kilios, meanwhile, was staring levelly at the human, and in the center of his formerly empty whites were black pupils surrounded by a ring of green.

“Amazing,” the seer whispered. “Your power is great indeed!”

“The power is not mine, but Him I serve.”

Kilios nodded, then smiled sadly.

“I must warn you that you have struck a spark here that may set alight your own pyre.”

“I am prepared.”

Bessarias found himself entirely confounded, confused not only by the human’s tremendous working, but his friend’s strange comments too. The monk and the seer seemed to be communing in a language untelligible to the rest of them.

“What is this? I don’t understand!” Lacellas protested.

“Explain yourself, Kilios,” urged Amitlya.

The seer glanced at Bessarias, and for the first time in an acquaintance that spanned centuries, their eyes met knowingly. It was strange, like being struck with a powerful jolt of static, but it was wonderful too. Until Kilios opened his mouth, and Bessarias suddenly realized that in welcoming the seemingly harmless old human inside the Collegium’s high walls, he had made a bad mistake, one that could have deadly ramifications for the magicians of the College, if not the entire elven race.

“I can see, but my vision is gone,” the seer declared, in a soft voice full of wonder. “My second sight. I cannot feel it; it has been taken away!”

• • •

Bessarias was displeased to receive the Council’s summons, but not surprised. In the three days since Herwaldus had “healed” Kilios, wild rumors had been circulating through the entire Collegium, to such an extent that some of them had even reached him despite his self-imposed seclusion. Elves were little prone to panic, least of all the powerful magicians of this college, but the incident was a disturbing one, especially due to the human element.

The magic of the elves, after all, was the protective shield that preserved their three small kingdoms, caught as they were between the hammer of Savondir and the anvil of Æmor. And in keeping with the metaphor, there was always the unpredictable danger posed by the raging furnace of the savage orc tribes and their terrible ogre kings.

“I’m glad you could join us, Magistras.”

Bessarias bowed respectfully to the only magician who outranked him here, the Custodas Occulti, Grandmaster of the College. The other five masters sitting around the semi-circular stone table were his equals, for all that some were glaring at him as if he were a prisoner and they the jury. Gilthalon particularly looked as if he would like to play the part of the executioner; the Magistras Daimonae was a handsome but cold-mannered diableriste with golden eyes that burned like coals.