Summa Elvetica: A Casuistry of the Elvish Controversy and Other Stories (31 page)

He flicked his wrist, and the magical whip slashed across the human’s face. Herwaldus did not cry out, but his eyes bulged out and five blistering burns appeared instantly on his left cheek. The watching crowd cheered and shouted insults at the suspended human. One enthusiastic young mage hurled a fireball high over the monk’s head, sending sparks raining down upon his white robe when it splattered on the stone wall.

“Galamiras, stop them,” Bessarias said grimly. “You’ll learn nothing from a dead man.”

“I imagine there are a few necromancers here who might disagree with you, my dear Magistras.”

“Silence, Mastema!”

Bessarias angrily kicked at his pet, but it easily avoided the blow.

“You came to tell us of your god?” Gilthalon was mocking the monk as he struck him a second time. “We, who are ourselves gods?”

Herwaldus lifted his head and started to respond, but the words never left his mouth. Bessarias, sickened by the barbaric spectacle, had had enough. He lifted his hand. A blast of soul-fire erupted from his open palm, burning through the monk’s heart and severing the mystic silver chain that linked every mortal soul to its body. There would be no necromancy here today.

Gilthalon whirled around, furious at being cheated of his victim, as a shocked silence descended upon the hall so fast one would have thought a mute spell had been cast. Galamiras, his face full of consternation, clutched at his sleeve, but Bessarias angrily pushed the Custodas away. Rage filled his heart, and it was all he could do to refrain from sending another blast or two at his erstwhile colleagues, not to mention Mastema. Lesser magicians scrambled to get out of his way as he stalked from the hall in search of Kilios.

• • •

“I thought you might come. Is he dead yet?”

“Yes,” Bessarias nodded. “I killed him.”

Kilios raised his eyebrows but did not rebuke him. He only frowned and looked off into the distance, before returning his gaze to Bessarias.

“You seem perturbed,” the former seer said.

“I am. He was a good man, but they were angry, and afraid. I did not want to see him suffer.”

“I know. Do you think they will seek to chastise you?”

Bessarias scoffed at the thought.

“Over a human? Even if they cared, they wouldn’t dare. No, I am not troubled by my actions, but by what I saw today. It is as if my eyes have suddenly been opened, and what I see of the world no longer fits my previous understanding.”

The former seer nodded, a faint smile playing across his lips.

“I understand.”

“Kilios, for my entire life, I have been seeking power, knowledge, wisdom. But to what end? Today, I saw the wisest, most powerful elves in all of Selenoth acting exactly like a barbarous gang of orcs! They saw something that they did not understand, they were forced to confront something they feared, and so they reacted in exactly the same manner as an illiterate, devil-worshipping, mud-rooting swamp goblin! But what is the point of all this painstakingly gathered knowledge if in the end we reap naught but a harvest of death?

“When I first began my studies, I sought nothing more than the truth behind all things. Today, I learned that I have found nothing of that truth here, nothing of beauty, nothing but ten thousand means of creating the utmost devastation and destruction!”

“I am sorry,” answered the seer. “What would you do?”

“If I cannot find the truth here, I must go elsewhere. I will follow in the footsteps of that orc of whom Herwaldus told us, and go to the brothers of the Tertullian Order. I don’t know if their truth is the one I seek, but I am certain that Herwaldus knew more of it than me.”

Kilios smiled, and he placed a hand on Bessarias’ shoulder.

“Then we shall travel together, my friend. And that your troubled heart may know some peace, let me tell you of the last vision I saw before my sight was taken from me. I saw a man with blood on his hands touch my eyes, and the dark cloud which surrounded me disappeared, replaced by a shining ray of brilliant light. I saw you striking down a white lamb with an iron dagger, then hurl the dagger from you, far beyond the horizon. And finally, I saw the two of us, standing side by side before the walls of a great city.”

“I will never give up my magic!” Bessarias growled at his friend. “If that is your interpretation, then your vision is a false one, and it comforts me not at all.”

“Who can say what the future will bring?” Kilios spread his hands. “But Herwaldus is dead, is he not, and by your hand. My friend, I do not tell you what you must do, I can only tell you what I have seen. For myself, I am glad to be freed of the prison of my visions.”

“I rejoice to hear it. But I will not give up my magic, I don’t care what you have seen.”

“The choice is always yours, Magistras. Shall we seek that great city together nevertheless?”

Bessarias nodded.

“We will do that, Kilios, and we will leave immediately. First we travel to Æmor, and if what we seek cannot be found there, we shall go to lands and cities yet unknown.”

“You would leave today?”

“At once,” answered Bessarias without hesitation. “I have wasted three centuries here. I would not squander another night!”

Kilios nodded sagaciously. “I expected as much, and so I have already arranged for supplies and clothing to be prepared for both of us, as well as four horses for the journey. Go and fetch whatever else you would bring, and I will await you at the front gate.”

Bessarias laughed aloud. He was amazed at how his frothing anger had suddenly been transformed somehow into something approaching joy. Herwaldus had spoken often of dying that others might live, and for the first time, Bessarias felt some inkling of understanding what the little human might have meant by that.

• • •

It took him little time to gather those possessions he felt he could not do without. Where he was headed, he would have very little need of anything. He packed up a few of his most precious belongings, among them an old manuscript enscribed in the hand of his master, the scryglass, and a small gold-and-silver working of the calengalad. He took it for remembrance’s sake; as for the calengalad itself, it was a conundrum that would have to await some other inquisitor. He had other, more important riddles to solve. He took one last look back at the well-appointed room in which he had spent so many decades, then softly closed the door and began to make his way down the countless stairs of the broadly twisting staircase.

He had just turned the corner of the tower’s final landing when he heard someone call his name.

“Bessarias!”

It was the Custodas, Galamiras. The Grandmaster was waiting in the shadows at the bottom of the dark granite steps.

“I heard that you were leaving. It’s true, then?”

“It is true,” Bessarias said, in a firm, but friendly manner. He held up a small bag of jewels, which held centuries-old Vingaaran rubies of such quality that they would do honor to the High King’s crown. “Kilios and I are going to Æmor. Do you think these will pay for a month’s worth of inns along the road?”

“Don’t use those. If those happen to be the stones I think they are, someone will burn down the inn around you in hopes of getting at them. Take the eastern route, and I’ll arrange for Mondrythen to provide you with a bag of Amorran coin before you reach the border. But the human city? Why there, and why so suddenly? Because of your guest? I do not understand. What is a human to the likes of you and me?”

Bessarias stared at Galamiras for a long moment. He wasn’t sure he could properly explain himself, not in a manner the other elf would comprehend.

“It has little to do with the human. He was only the catalyst. I think the reason I must leave is that I’m beginning to suspect that the truth I’m seeking is one which cannot be found here.”

Galamiras frowned, but finally, he nodded in sympathy if not understanding.

“I hope you find your truth, Bessarias. Will you return to the College?”

“Someday. I think so. But, Custodas, I must tell you, I do not think it will be the same Bessarias you see before you now.

The Grandmaster laughed.

“I am not entirely sure I know the Bessarias who stands before me now. But you will always be numbered among us, old friend, whatever truth you find and however far you travel. Be safe, and be well.”

Bessarias bowed deeply and respectfully. He raised a hand in farewell and turned to leave. Then a thought occurred to him, and he lifted his head.

“Galamiras, will you do me a favor?”

“Of course.”

Bessarias reached into his robes and drew out the intricate model of the calengalad. He studied the precious metal for a moment, almost wistfully, then sighed and handed it to Galamiras.

“I don’t need this anymore, but I suppose someone will someday. Give this to them, with my regards, will you? And my sympathies.”

“I will do that,” the Custodas Occulti agreed, but he had a suspicious look on his face. “You’ve given up on that particular line of inquiry, then?”

“Do you know, I think I might have.”

Galamiras smiled wryly.

“So the door to that particular abyss shall remain locked for a while longer. I imagine that’s something that I really should regret given my position, but somehow, I find that I cannot. Hark,is that the world I hear, breathing a deep sigh of relief? Fare you well, Bessarias.”

Bessarias only chuckled and raised his hand in benediction. He started to leave, thenpaused as he sensed someone watching him. He turned around and saw that Mastema was staring at him, unblinking, from the shadows underneath the circular stairwell. The cat’s yellow eyes seemed to radiate contempt, but there was a hint of distress in its harsh voice as it called out to him.

“You leave without so much as a word for me, Magistras?”

Bessarias tried to think of something, anything, to say to his longtime companion, who had served him so faithlessly and well, but he found himself at a loss for words. As he stared back at the cat, a question Herwaldus had asked him once before entered his mind, unbidden. It was a question, but it was also an answer.

What fellowship can light have with darkness?

And so without a word, without even a final gesture of farewell, Bessarias turned his back on the demon that had once been his pet, and it was as if a burdensome weight was suddenly lifted from his shoulders. The great iron doors of the Collegium Occludum opened before him, spilling warm autumn sunlight onto the cold stone of the ancient hall, and he strode resolutely forward, out of the shadows and into the blinding embrace of the light.

FINIS

QUINTUS TULLIUS WAS exhausted. His thighs were chafed raw, his entire body ached, and he had neither slept nor eaten much in the last three days. Nevertheless, he held his head high and sat erect on his horse despite what the effort cost him. General Varus was determined to bring the Merethaimi army to battle, and every man in his three legions knew he would march them straight into hell itself before he’d give up the pursuit.

Miserable as he was, Quintus couldn’t feel sorry for himself. At least he was on horseback. Varus was driving the men mercilessly; yesterday, Quintus heard they’d marched almost twenty-two miles overland. That was nothing special for a legion travelling along a well-constructed road, but here, in the hilly roadless wilds of the Ippolese borderlands, it was a brutal pace.

And yet, Varus had little choice. The elf king’s army was half cavalry, and its infantry consisted mostly of long-legged archers. For the last month, the cursed elves had marched circles around Varus’s three legions, maddening the general with their tantalizing proximity. Twice, King Everbright had even drawn up his forces as if to offer battle, only to melt away silently in the deep of the night.

Quintus smiled wryly as he recalled the curses that had echoed throughout the camp when the general emerged from his tent only to discover that the enemy had again disappeared. That was three mornings ago, and it seemed as if they’d been rushing headlong in mad pursuit ever since. Quintus didn’t even want to think about how many miles behind them trailed their supply wagons and the artillery; it would be half-burned polentus and no meat again tonight. Even the most desperate camp followers had been left in their dust for more than two days.

His horse staggered wearily over the top of a steep rise, and as he surveyed the long lines of troops below, he felt an unexpected burst of energy at the sight of two Vezian outriders galloping toward the head of the first column, directly toward the general’s eagle. With luck, they’d have news of the enemy’s precise whereabouts, not far off, he hoped. He wheeled his horse about and made his way carefully back down the slope he’d just climbed, looking for his legatus, who, as was his wont, was riding with the legion’s rearguard.

“Sir, a party of scouts returns! They ride hard!”

The legatus, Flavius Mamercus, was a stout old soldier, bitter and cynical from more than thirty years on the campaign trail. He received the welcome news with little more than a scowl. A plebian, he was as apolitical a man as had ever marched a mile with sandals, shield, and sword. Quintus, whose patrician family had seen better days, was at first grieviously disappointed when he learned that he’d been assigned to the man as a tribune of the Seventh—serving a Flavian would do nothing for him in the circles that mattered back in Æmor—but he’d since learned that if Flavius Mamercus could do him no political favors, he was a treasure trove of martial experience.

“Did they come from the east or west?” Flavius asked. He nodded thoughtfully at the answer. “Demmed demonspawn ran into the horse Varus sent off two days ago. If they declined the engagement, they’ll head for the ford at that little village. What’s it called?”

“Rovina,” Quintus answered immediately. Mamercus expected his tribunes to read their maps and read them well. So, he was surprised when, without warning, the legate frowned and spat contemptuously.

“Varus is a demmed fool. Lad, you’d better pray the elf king is stupid enough to tie himself down with Tertio’s horse, because mark my words, we’re in for it if he doesn’t.”