by Vox Day
His silent lament for Aestus was interrupted by the elf king, however, as Mael pointed a languid, accusatory hand at Cassius Claudo and addressed him in a voice well laden with sardonic contempt. “My lord bishop, I must confess myself in awe. You are the first men to be permitted entry to Elebrion in the eighty-five years of my reign, and in less than twelve hours, you have managed to ruin the feast given in your honor, set your soldiers to disturbing the peace, and then, as some sort of piece de resistance, set fire to my city. Furthermore, I am informed by the captain of your guard that one of your companions here is plotting my death. And if that were not enough,” he said, glancing at Caitlys, “he appears to have somehow seduced one of the noble flowers of my kingdom.”
Caitlys, furious, started to open her mouth, but the king raised a hand in warning. “You will keep that pretty little mouth closed, my dear,” he commanded. “Rest assured, I shall deal with you anon, and you shall have the opportunity to explain yourself in full, whether you will or no.”
He turned back toward the disheveled bishop, who looked more like a scorched scarecrow than a lord of the Church. “Is there any explanation for these incredible actions—one that will be compelling enough to inspire me to depart from my natural inclination, which is to have the four of you beheaded, so that I may return to the rather more pleasurable discourse from whence I was summoned? And don’t be so foolish as to make the mistake of telling me what I would or would not dare, inasmuch as I care not a warhawk’s tail feather for Amorr and all its cursed legions!”
The elf king’s ire was all the more frightening for the icily polite way in which he addressed them. It was entirely clear to Marcus that they would be missing their heads in a matter of minutes if Cassius Claudo did not handle the situation correctly. And it was the hardest thing he had ever done to keep his mouth shut, knowing that his fate rested entirely on another man’s words.
Claudo bowed, not deeply, but merely to indicate a modicum of courtesy. His voice was calm and his demeanor was nearly as chilly as the king’s. “I do regret, your High Majesty, that your royal repose should be disturbed. I may not apologize, however, as I was not the author of these disturbances. It took place by neither my order nor my knowledge. Neither was this most excellent dwarf involved, who risked his life in order to save mine from a band of assassins in the guise of churchmen, but more importantly, to save your kingdom and your nation from the misplaced wrath of the Republic. As for the young man and my lady elf, I can tell you little, except in that they were intimately involved in that same rescue, and for that I certainly owe them my life.”
The High King seemed to take no offense at Cassius Claudo’s insouciantly unapologetic response. Marcus breathed a sigh of relief. Instead, a hint of a twisted smile touched the king’s lips as he turned to the dwarf. “So, you are the savior of my kingdoms, are you? In that case, perhaps I should reward you, dwarf. Is it true, what this priest says?”
“Most of it, your Majesty,” Lodi answered directly. “Except for that setting of the fire bit. It was me that set it.”
Mael blinked and shifted his weight forward to closer regard Lodi. “You are telling me that you set my city on fire?”
“I surely did, your Majesty.”
The king glanced at his guards, then at Caitlys, as if to confirm that he’d truly heard what he thought he heard. “I see. Would it be an imposition to inquire as to wherefore?”
Lodi’s heavy brow wrinkled. “What’s that mean?”
“Just tell me why, dwarf.” The king’s voice was flat and deadly.
“Oh, sure. I had to throw some blow dust at the door to keep out the treacherous assassins working for the wardog captain of this one here who calls himself a priest.” Lodi pointed to Zephanus. “They killed the fat little father before I could stop them, and then were going for the bishop here. I stood at the door and probably killed five or six of them with my axe there. But when Marcus threw a rope in and said it was time to run, I needed to cover my fallback. So, I covered it by roasting a few more of them.”
Mael tilted his head. “To say nothing of ‘roasting’ what was once a fine residence and a stellar example of the Bondonassian school of the sixth century. I shudder to think what you might accomplish had pyromancy been your intent. But we shall overlook the fire for the nonce. It occurs to me, however, that in the future we shall have to search our dwarven guests a little more thoroughly than has previously been our custom.”
Lodi didn’t look as if he’d followed everything the king had said, but he caught enough of the gist of it to understand that he wasn’t going to lose his head immediately as punishment for starting the fire. It was, Marcus considered, a good start, and the situation appeared to continue improving as the king turned his attention to Zephanus, who, despite not being a prisoner, had remained silent throughout.
“There appears to be some divergence between your version of events and theirs, Zephanus,” the king said with an apparent disinterest that fooled no one in the room.
“In appearances only,” the mercenary calmly replied. “As a matter of actual fact, the details of their story entirely support what I’d told you before.”
“Enlighten us, for I fear I do not follow.”
Marcus had spent enough time with Zephanus in the last month to know that they were dealing with a wicked and devious foe who, despite his lack of scholarly learning, was quite cunning in a low but effective way. The false priest spread his hands and expressed a sense of mild regret as he gestured toward Cassius Claudo.
“Your Majesty, the Order of Saint Michael, in which I have the honor of serving as humble priest, was given the honor of escorting Bishop Claudo to your great city. We did so at the request of the Sanctiff. Our captain gave us to understand that an embassy of reconciliation was in the works. We did not know, your High Majesty, that in truth, a small cabal of merchants and powers within the church were conspiring to compel your people into war with the Republic by assassinating your Majesty.”
“That’s a lie!” Marcus shouted, and the guards on either side of him grabbed him tightly. “He’s no priest!”
“If he speaks out of turn again, cut his tongue out,” the king instructed a guard, then returned his attention to Zephanus. “Pray continue, good sir priest. A cabal of traders and churchmen—surely an exotic combination!”
“It happens they share a common interest, High Majesty. The traders seek the usual war and military contracts, while the churchmen are fanatics who seek the abolition of those they view as the spawn of devils. You are not, after all, created in the image and likeness of God, or so they say. If I may ask a pertinent question, when your High Majesty first received our delegation, did you not make comments indicating your Majesty was aware of the elvish controversy that has riven the scholars of the Church?”
“A tedious and specious matter, but necessarily of some interest given the potential ramifications. Yes, I am informed.”
“Then perhaps you are aware that the two scholars in the delegation, Bishop Claudo and Father Aestus, are supposed to have reached opposing conclusions in the matter. What you surely do not know is that they were secretly in agreement with the anti-elven fanatics, and their rivalry was intended for public consumption, and more importantly, the Sanctiff.”
Marcus almost couldn’t restrain himself from contradicing the traitor on this point. But he managed to, quite literally, hold his tongue.
“When the Sanctiff chose a representative of each view for his embassy,” Zephanus said, “he unwittingly chose two elf-hating clerics. The Knight-General of my Order, who knew Cassius Claudo well from the days of their youth, also knew that he did not in fact hold the positions he argued so famously in his Summa Spiritus, and therefore offered our company as guards. Guard them we did, but we were also charged with watching them, which we have done throughout.”
“And the other scholar, Aestus—is he dead, as they say?”
“I don’t know, your Majesty. You may perhaps recall that wh
en Aestus and Claudo were overheard discussing their plans, my captain sent me to you at once with word of their imminent attempt on your life. That was before any of this had happened, except for the absence of the young Valerian there. When he disappeared, it was assumed that he was to be the assassin and that he was in the process of preparing to assault you.”
Marcus felt his face flush. Would he be given a rebuttal?
The High King regarded Marcus neutrally. “How, Zephanus, would my death convince your Sanctiff of their philosophical point?”
“According to my captain, their goal was to provoke a violent reaction from your heir,” Zephanus said. “They hoped he would react in a way that would justify their assertion of intrinsic elven malfeasance. With the delegation dead, news of how your death took place could easily be suppressed.”
The king looked dubious. Again he gazed at Marcus. “But these men are members of the delegation themselves.”
“They are fanatics, High Majesty. Such men glory in their martyrdom.”
King Mael’s eyes turned to Caitlys. “And the involvement of the High Lady Shadowsong?”
Zephanus shrugged. “I couldn’t possibly tell you, your Majesty. I am no scholar. I am merely a priest and warrior, and naturally my ignorance of elven politics is complete.”
Despite himself, Marcus had to feel a momentary admiration for the way in which the false Michaeline planted his devious seeds of doubt. No doubt there were plots against the throne, perhaps even some that had involved Caitlys’s family in the past. He saw the king glance at Caitlys before turning the royal gaze on Cassius Claudo. In his current disheveled state, with his half-burned clothes and his thin, hawkish face, the bishop did look convincingly like the sort of fanatic who believed it to be God’s will to strike down a soulless, inhuman king. Marcus desperately wanted to speak, to puncture Zephanus’s lies, but the hands still gripping his arms reminded him of what the cost would be.
“What do you say for yourself, emissary? Are you a fanatic? Is your Summa nothing more than a charade?”
“As the author, it is hardly for me to judge, your Majesty.” Claudo smiled thinly. “I will confess that I admire the young man’s ability to speak so inventively without prior notice of a need to explain the actions of others. He must be formidable in the field, where such animal cunning has great utility. What he said, however, is little more than a concoction of unadulterated lies, insinuations piled upon inveracities, and, fortunately, a construction that I imagine might be readily penetrated by one such as yourself.”
Zephanus was indeed a quick-thinking man, Marcus thought, for he began to perspire almost immediately when Cassius Claudo coolly spoke the word “penetrated.” His hand twitched, and for a moment Marcus thought the mercenary might attempt to draw a dagger hidden somewhere on his body.
“Yes,” said the elf king slowly. “I scryed the scene prior to your arrival, and, improbably as it seems, both of your wild tales are essentially congruent with what I saw. The bodies, the fire, and so forth.” He looked squarely at Zephanus. “But it occurs to me that earlier this evening I suggested a battle of magics, a trial of Amorran fidelie contra elven sorcery. Will you consent to such a trial now, on behalf of your Order?”
Cassius Claudo caught Zephanus’s eyes and smiled coldly. “Yes, High Majesty. Such a test might well be pertinent right now.”
Caitlys shrugged herself out of the slackened grip of the guard at her side and stepped toward the false Michaeline. “Allow me, your Majesty,” she demanded, her fierce green eyes blazing. “Let me try the man magic!”
“As you like,” the elf king said with a shrug. “It will save the time of finding another adept. The sooner we’re done here, the better. Sir priest, are you ready?”
“No,” shouted Marcus, wondering at his own actions. “He’s got no magic. This would be murder!” He shrugged free of the surprised guards and threw himself in front of Zephanus. Even a traitor deserved to be given a—
Zephanus used Marcus’s body as a shield to step around and elbow the nearest guard in the face, breaking his fine elven nose. Zephanus pushed Marcus toward the guards, attempting to buy himself a fraction more time before the guards could draw their swords and reach him. A dagger appeared in his hand, and he drew his arm back over King Mael.
But before it even began to move forward, Caitlys cried out in elvish, and a silver storm of thirty knives appeared out of nowhere and slammed into both Zephanus and Marcus.
A crimson spray of blood flew into the air as the force of the blades hurled Zephanus back into the white walls, nearly cut in half.
Marcus looked down at his unmarked body in confusion. The deadly blades had passed right through him as if they were nothing more than illusions, while Zephanus’s eyes were already beginning to glaze over in death.
Despite the unexpected violence, High King Mael hadn’t moved from his seat. He looked more irritated than alarmed despite the spatters of blood that stained the right side of his robe. “Blade Rain, Caitlys? Was that really necessary?”
The pretty elf girl was still facing the remnants of the erstwhile mercenary, holding out her left hand with her fingers splayed. She grinned mischievously and flexed her fingers twice, then lowered her arm. “Merely a show of appreciation for the great wisdom of your adjudication, Majesty. Yours was a test worthy of … What was the name of that human king? I’ve forgotten.”
“Solomon,” Marcus said as if in a dream, stunned by Caitlys’s casual violence and his lack of injury. He couldn’t take his eyes off the blood of the shredded thing that only moments before had been a living man. One he had once thought to be a friend. The dark power of elven sorcery was terrible indeed.
He found himself thinking of Nomenlos, his elvish brother in faith. What had Nomenlos—or rather, Bessarias—done with magic so long ago that he should still feel his remorse so bitterly?
Back to Solomon. “How is this like Solomon’s adjudication in the least? His wisdom entailed avoiding any division.”
“We should all be grateful that the little darling didn’t elect to throw a Flame Wind and incinerate us all,” the king said sourly. “I am curious, though. Why did your spell only affect the one and not the other here?”
“I don’t know,” Caitlys said, looking at Marcus. “Are you a wizard, Valerian?”
Marcus frowned and felt the relic he’d been keeping in his pocket. The gift that Magnus’s client had given him, Saint Ansfrid’s knucklebone, was hot to the touch. Had it really just saved his life? He didn’t quite know if he should feel guilty or grateful, but he was entirely sure that it would not be a good idea to let the elves know what appeared to have happened. “No, I’m no wizard, Lady Shadowsong.”
He looked down at the bloody remains of Zephanus. His gorge rose, but he managed to suppress it. For all that the mercenary had been a treacherous, murderous killer, it seemed impossible to accept that such a friendly, charming man could be no more. He forced himself to look away from the corpse. When he did, he realized the king was addressing Cassius Claudo.
“My lord bishop, are we agreed that there are two possible conclusions? Either the priestly order is helpless against elven magic in general—and mad young sorceresses in particular—or the young mercenary was not, in fact, a priest of the order as he claimed, rendering the rest of his story suspect. I suggest that the latter is the more useful conclusion.”
“I concur,” Claudo agreed somberly. Unlike the elves, he appeared grieved by Zephanus’s death. It occurred to Marcus that the bishop too may have come to like him the vibrant young mercenary. “But more of the false priests remain.”
The king smiled cruelly. “Leave them to me.”
“No, your Majesty,” Claudo said. “Their crime is against the Order of Saint Michael. The Knight-General alone must judge them.”
“He may judge what remains of them.”
“I have seen what passes for elven justice. It is nothing of the kind.”
The High King’s eyes narrowe
d dangerously. “Perhaps I dare not permit you to return to Amorr after all, emissary. Is your influence with the Sanctiff to be as pernicious as the late captain claimed?”
“The Sanctiff speaks with God’s voice, not mine. I am merely his eyes here in Elebrion.” He gestured toward Marcus. “And not the only eyes.”
“I see.” The king stared at them, stroking his hairless chin with his thumb and forefinger.“Very well. Then hear my voice, which in this place is as good as a god’s. Get you gone from my city tonight, bishop, and speak good or ill of the elves as you must. Four hawks will fly you to Kir Donas. From there, you will take ship. Caitlys, you will lead the portage wing. That shall be your punishment, though there may well be more once I have the chance to ask further questions and discover what other havoc you have wrought.”
Caitlys rolled her eyes. Marcus flushed, trying not to look at her as he realized how happy he was that he could see her for a little while longer. If only he could fly with her and not one of the others.
“The brass eagles,” Cassius Claudo said. “And the dwarf and the men. Further, this boy has a young slave. He, at least, bears no guilt.”
The elf king waved an indifferent hand. “I care nothing for any of them. They shall be returned to Amorr under guard, alive and well, and you may dispose of them as you see fit. Mark you, Amorr will bear the cost—if it wants them, it can pay for them. I’ll send the eagles with them, assuming your cursed dwarf-fire didn’t melt them down. And never again shall man set foot in Elebrion. Oh, I suppose there may be the need for the occasional emissary, won’t there? Very well.” The king rose from the divan. “It’s late, I’m tired, and I’m in no mood to pontificate. Now go away, Cassius Claudo, and be damned or blessed as you please.”
“It shall be even as you command, High King.” Claudo actually smiled as he bowed, deeply, to the king of the elves. “Farae thutoth genel naraeparan.”