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

by Vox Day

  As for their intelligence, upon which he’d thought to lay the foundation of his Summa, a passage from Augustinus troubled him deeply. For demons were also intelligent, and yet the philosopher called them “animals of the atmosphere” due to the way in which their nature is akin to that of aerial bodies. Marcus sighed as he watched a pretty elven girl pass by the fire. This was not going to be a matter quickly solved.

  The evenings were given over to debate between the bishops. Marcus was entranced by the bloodless but pointed duel fought nightly between the two evenly matched combatants.

  The jovial Father Aestus was inclined toward impassioned classical rhetoric, of which he was a master. His silver tongue wove a spell of words that were always compelling and entertaining. But Marcus sometimes found it hard to remember exactly what the Father had said or to retrace his train of logic.

  Bishop Claudo, on the other hand, was a living, breathing encyclopedia of literary quotes and obscure references. He could cite Aristotle and Augustinus with equal ease, knew well the prophets and philosophers, and once reeled off an entire cantos of Eurymenes without resorting to his notes. Marcus did not like his imperious demeanor or his droning, high-pitched voice, but his logic was like a remorseless battering ram, smashing again and again with devastating effect against the Jamite priest’s beautiful, but delicate, web of words.

  “What is man that thou art mindful of him?” Claudo said, quoting the Psalmist.

  “A little lower than the heavenly beings,” Aestus replied with a chuckle. “Above man: the angels. Below him: the beasts. Can it be said that there is room between man and angel, or between man and Beast? Can it be said—”

  “Your Ordo has already conceded the latter,” Claudo broke in before Aestus could get started. “And if you recall, I have written the same in the Summa. Furthermore, I have already demonstrated this line of thought is inconclusive. It proves nothing.”

  “A little lower than the angels,” Marcus repeated, and sighed as he thought of an elven maid he’d seen that afternoon. Her long hair was crimson shot with gold and fell to reach a waist so slender he thought he could probably encircle it with his hands. “Truly, they are as beautiful as angels.”

  “And why should they not be?” asked Father Aestus with an impish grin. “They are created by angels, fallen angels, not by God. What appears perfect can make its own likeness, and immaterial creatures are more perfect than material creatures, which nevertheless can make their own likeness. For fire generates fire, and man begets man. Thus you see that an immaterial substance can make a substance like to itself.”

  “Like to itself,” agreed Claudo. “But angels are an immaterial substance, while elves, as we can readily observe, are material. Entirely material, one would say, assuming that they do in fact lack a distinct and animating spirit. Augustinus agrees, for has he not written that that neither good nor bad angels can create anything?”

  “He has,” Marcus broke in. Three weeks of listening to their discussions had emboldened him sufficiently to allow him to take part sometimes, although he was careful not to take sides if he could avoid it. “However, from that, Augustinus concluded that since angels are incapable of creation, neither can any other lesser creatures create anything.” He drew the silver elvenblade. The edge was traced with fine etchings, which he’d been assured were nonmagical in nature. It was manifestly a beautiful creation and a wordless refutation of the great philosopher.

  Father Aestus nodded approvingly. “Immaterial substance can be made only by God, since it has no matter from which to be made. Its creation can be the action of God alone. But as Petrus Lombardus writes, God can communicate to a creature the power of creating, so that the latter can create ministerially, not by its own power. From this it follows that the first separate substance created by God created another after itself, in a process that continues to this day. Thus was the substance of the world created, and thus is it that the substance of the world creates the matter of inferior bodies, such as the elves.”

  “How can you say they are inferior when their beauty exceeds that of man?” Marcus asked.

  “Beauty? Pah!” Bishop Claudo glared at him over the dancing flames of the fire as he recited the words of Jeremaeus the prophet. “‘And your heart became proud on account of your beauty, and you corrupted your wisdom because of your splendor. I am against you, O Sidon, saith the Lord.’”

  “Nevertheless,” Marcus replied, and he turned his back on the endless debate.

  His blankets were warm, and that night his dreams were filled with the laughing vision of elven girls with white skin and green, green eyes.

  • • •

  On the evening of their second and last day with the royal court of Merithaim, Marcus was sitting by a fire, gnawing on a roasted rabbit haunch, when Marcipor sat down to join him. On the morrow, they would leave and travel the final stretch of their long journey, where they would finally see Elebrion and meet the High King of the elves.

  From what Marcus had slowly gathered throughout their travels, Bishop Claudo would present the high king with a peace offer from the Amorran Senate, formally ending a war that had, in truth, ended three generations ago. It seemed a strange thing to do, considering how quickly afterward it might well be rendered meaningless by the Sanctiff’s forthcoming decision. But then, Marcus had grown to manhood in a proconsul’s house. He well knew how little diplomacy sometimes had to do with the actual situation.

  Marcus nudged Marcipor and pointed the rabbit at Lodi, who sat at a nearby fire staring into the flames. “This is as close to the dwarflands as we’re likely to get, Marce. Do you think I should free him?”

  “Free him?” Marcipor looked aghast. “Why?”

  “Well, he did save my life. I understand it’s customary.”

  “Only in the theatre! How many times has your father’s man, Black Arcus, saved him? Ten times? Twenty? Did your father ever free him?”

  “Maybe he should have. No one ever said Corvus was perfect.”

  “You idiot.” The flames danced across Marce’s face. With his golden hair and his ragged beard, he looked like a pagan idol. No wonder the elven maids were curious about him. “Corvus gives Arcus whatever he wishes whenever he asks. The only reason he hasn’t manumitted him is because Arcus doesn’t want it.”

  “He doesn’t?” Marcus was shocked. “Don’t you? I always thought—”

  “Don’t even say it! What, do you hate me? Do you have any idea what I would do to survive if you freed me?”

  Marcus shrugged. “I don’t know. I suppose I assumed that Corvus would adopt you. You could do whatever you liked.”

  “Valerians only adopt within the House, Marcus. And I do whatever I like now, for the most part. But suppose you did free me and Corvus adopted me. What then?”

  Marcus took a bite of the rabbit and considered the question. He offered it to Marcipor, who waved it off. “Well, you’re not so interested in the Church, obviously, but whether Corvus adopted you or not, you’d still be his client. And mine. We’d certainly get you a commission in the legions.”

  Marcipor laughed and shook his head. “That’s why I can’t ever be a free Valerian, Marcus. That noblesse oblige is so bred into you, down to your patrician bones, that you can’t even imagine doing anything but your cursed duty. A slave of the Church or a slave of the State—either way, Marcus, you’re far more of a slave than I could ever be! I don’t want to spend the next twenty years of my life tramping around the borderlands killing a wide variety of people who’ve never done any harm to me. I want to live life, to love beautiful women, and go to the theatre whenever there’s an actor worth watching!”

  “There’s not a lot of theatre here.”

  “Are you blind? There’s nothing but theatre on every side of us! If not the pageantry of the elves, what about the dialogue that transpires when you and those two old priests start yammering away about whatever old Paleoscrivus wrote on his goatskins back when Amorr was nothing but a pair of stone hut
s on either side of the Tiberius? That’s theatre! And Marcus, think about what we’re doing here. This is the first time, and probably the only time, I’ll ever be anywhere this close to the center of events before they happen. I’m on the front row of one of the biggest theatrical events of our time.”

  Marcus chuckled. “I hope things don’t get any more dramatic than they’ve already been.” He rubbed his shoulder wound. “Well, then, what are you going to do when I take my vows, Marce? I always planned to free you then, but if you hate the idea so much …”

  Marcipor shook his head. “You’re never going to take them.”

  “Everyone else thinks I am.”

  “I don’t. Sextus doesn’t. And no one else knows you as well as we do. The truth is that Corvus doesn’t want you to, so you won’t. You may want to please God, but you want to please your father even more.” He grinned. “Anyhow, if you do, you’ll give me to Sextus. We’ve already settled it.”

  Marcus laughed. The thought of losing Marcipor to his cousin’s service did cause him a slight pang of jealousy, but that was drowned out by the amusing thought of what exceeding mischief the two of them, unfettered by the solitary voice of reason in the domus, could get into together. If the Senate had even the slightest notion of what Amorr might be in for, it would pass a law exiling both of them to separate provinces. And they’d have to punish Marcus as well for the treason inherent in creating such a threat to the Republic.

  “And, Marcus, I have to ask you something.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Before you free Lodi, if you decide to free him, you have to tell him to flog me.”

  Shocked, Marcus stared at his oldest friend. “Why would I do that?”

  “Because this stupid slave forgot his responsibility back there in the forest. Marcus, you treat me like a brother, and sometimes I forget I’m really not. I wasn’t thinking about you when I took off with Justin and the other Michaelines when we caught that wolf-thing. I was just curious. But you, you never forget, and you came after me, like a good master should.”

  Marcus was suddenly furious. “Are you implying that I was chasing after you because I wanted to protect my property?”

  “No, no. I’m just saying that you remembered your duty to me, and I forgot mine to you. A slave is supposed to look after his master, not nearly get him killed by putting him in needless danger. If Lodi hadn’t disobeyed and followed you, you’d be dead. So, you have to have him flog me.”

  “I have to do no such thing! I’m not having you flogged.”

  “But you should!”

  “Well, I’m not. I won’t hear of it.”

  “Just do it, will you?” Marcipor sounded as if he wanted to cry.

  “No, you idiot! Who’s the cursed master, Marce? I am, right? Now, shut up or I’ll… I’ll…”

  “Flog me?” Marcipor suggested sarcastically.

  Caught up in a raging temper, they stared angrily at each other for a moment, until Marcus burst out laughing.

  “Look, Marce, you’re just feeling guilty. But a whipping isn’t going to make you feel any better. Really, it isn’t. I understand why you’re asking for one, but you must remember, we are freed from the chains of guilt by the blood of the Immaculate.” Marcus shook his head and sketched the sign of the cross in the air. “Ego te absolvo. There, it’s done. Forget it.”

  “I don’t think that counts until after you take vows.”

  “I’ll take them just to get away from you if you won’t shut up.” He glanced back at Lodi, who was still sitting there in silence, seemingly unaware that anyone else was nearby. “But what makes you think he feels the way you do? He’s a dwarf, not a man.”

  “Ask him, I suppose. You know, it’s a good thing we saw him shaved in Amorr, back before that bird’s nest of a beard grew back. Otherwise, for all he talks lately, you’d never know he had a mouth.”

  • • •

  Marcus did ask Lodi if he wanted to be freed. That very night.

  As it turned out, Lodi had no burning desire for freedom. Like Marcipor, he was more concerned about the problems that freedom would present him at the moment than its future promises. The elven wood of Shadowald was not a place where a lone dwarf could expect to survive long. Lodi might bear the king of Merithaim’s gift-knife, but he was surely the very last individual in the party to be inclined to place any trust in the value of the elven king’s goodwill.

  He also pointed out that as Marcus’s bodyguard, he was expected to save Marcus’s life from time to time. He had no desire to have one of Amorr’s most powerful magnates placing a bounty on his head for shirking what was, after all, nothing more than his duty.

  “Your uncle told me to bring you back from Elebrion or he’d have my head. So, I’ll bring you back, one way or another. Alive, I hope. Once I get you back to your uncle, then we can talk about freedom.” Lodi stared into the flames. “It’s not the words that matter anyway. Call me free or call me slave, but either way, I’ll need enough gold to buy passage to Malkania. From there I can get back to the Volpiscenes.”

  “Ask for it and it will be yours,” promised Marcus. Even if Magnus didn’t want to free the dwarf for his own incomprehensible reasons, he’d have to if he didn’t wish to cause his nephew to be foresworn. A Valerian’s word wasn’t merely binding on the Valerian, it bound all of House Valerius.

  • • •

  Four days later, they began the long approach to the High City of the elvish kingdom of Elberion. If the city was not truly one of the great wonders of the world, it deserved to be. The twisted forest pathways of the Shadowald slowly gave way to the foothills of the Montulae and finally to the climb that would lead them to the forbidding walls of the royal elven city. There was now a chill in the air, even at the height of summer, as they traversed the seven gorges that had swallowed entire armies during the War of the Three Peoples. After crossing Ol-Oropon, the sixth bridge, Bishop Claudo halted the train and, in his pinched voice, led the Michaelines in a ceremonial mass for the two thousand noble souls that had been lost here.

  Marcus knew their splintered bones smouldered unburied somewhere in the cruel, unhallowed depths below. “I wonder if anyone has ever crawled down there?” he mused, as he and Marcipor peeked cautiously over the edge of the rocky chasm. The drop was tremendous, on the order of three thousand cubits.

  The wily elves had allowed half the Amorran Legion to cross the bridge, then their sorcerers had destroyed its moorings while the latter half was still crossing. A surprise cavalry charge, its approach masked by illusion, had then swept those already across the bridge down into the gap, while Octavius Severus the Elfslayer helplessly gnashed his teeth on the other side. The Battle of the SixthBridge was one of the great disasters of Amorran history.

  It was the elves’ lethal use of battle magic in this engagement, taken in company with the rout of the three legions at Aldus Wald, that had been one of the chief spurs in encouraging a dubious Sanctiff to allow the Michaelines to pursue their potent anti-magic skills as a much-needed countermeasure.

  “You’d probably find some useful things down there if you did,” replied Marcipor thoughfully. He shrugged off Marcus’s dismayed expression. “It’s not doing them any good now, is it?”

  Each waystation they came to was a sort of small community in its own right. The elvic guards, four at each bridge and twenty at each waystation, were civil, but markedly less friendly than their forest brethren had been. Judging by the flicker of curiosity in their pale eyes as the Amorrans rode slowly past, Marcus judged that very few men ever dared pay court to High King Mael. The path was paved at this point, and despite the incline, it was a broad and easy way.

  “How come it’s never been taken?” asked Marcipor on the tenth day of their climb. “Even if you couldn’t get past the bridges, I haven’t seen any farms or livestock since we crossed the first one. Couldn’t you simply lay siege and starve them out in a season or two?”

  Marcus shook his head. “No, the
re’s an underground river that links Elebrion to the sea, somewhere near Kir Donas. I’ve read that they even have a fish market.”

  “Brrrr.” Marcipor shivered. “Swimming to safety in an underground mountain river? That would be a horribly long row—in the dark, no less. It must be two hundred leagues to Kir Donas!”

  “It’s not dark,” Lodi said unexpectedly. “It’s lit by lights enspelled five hundred years ago and still shining. No magic older than elvish lore.”

  Marcus and Marcipor looked at each other. “Have you been there?” Marcipor asked. “Have you seen the river?”

  “No, but I been plenty of other places underground. I’ve seen elf-lights. They never stop glowing, so there’s no night down below. Some say they been put there by their diableristes, burning souls caught by their filthy soul-drinker swords. Lights of the damned, some say.”

  Lodi scratched at his thickening stubble, which was now almost long enough to qualify as a beard by human standards, if well short of the dwarven. “Dwarves don’t hold with such. Pyromantic lanterns don’t work so well or last so long, but at least they’re not witchen filth.”

  One of the Michaelines glanced back at them.

  Marcus shushed the dwarf. “Lodi, don’t talk about such things, at least not like you know something of them.”

  “Me? I don’t know more than any other dwarf. We’re not afraid of magics, but we don’t hold with it.”

  “That’s good.” A dwarven slave might be permitted some license that a human slave was not, but no one except those expressly granted permission by the Sanctiff could practice magic in Amorr—under pain of death by fire and water. Even the unknowing possession of an ensorcelled object might suffice to land one in speedy exile, or worse. A slave—especially a breed slave—caught practicing any form of magic would be immediately put to death.