Arts of Dark and Light: Book 01 - A Throne of Bones

by Vox Day

  When the Senate had met to discuss the High King’s request to establish a permanent embassy following the return of its Amorran counterpart, and when concerns had been raised about the potential unwillingness of property owners to rent a suitable building when its inhabitants would almost surely be engaging in occult and illicit arts, Publius Licinius absented himself from the debate, tracked down the elven ambassador, and placed one of his larger domuses near the city wall at the High King’s disposal.

  It was said the elves were paying five times the rent of the previous tenant, who was summarily evicted by Dives the following day.

  Maximus, who was married to Dives’s younger sister, Licinia, had assured Corvus the story was untrue. He was entirely confident that Publius Licinius was receiving at least ten times the rent he’d been getting before.

  The elves might be much reduced in numbers and in power from the days when their legendary Seven Kingdoms ruled over most of Selenoth, but the Church embassy had confirmed that their legendary wealth yet remained.

  However, very little of it was on display outside of Elebrion House, he saw as they approached its gate, affixed with an ornate brass symbol that was the only indication of those who resided within. The grounds of the domus were walled, which no doubt had recommended it to Lord Silvertree, and as the property backed up on the city wall, it was as defensible as any residence in the city.

  The gate doors unexpectedly swung open at their approach, alarming Corvus, his fascitors, and the crowd following them alike. Vecellius swore under his breath, others behind them cried out loud in dismay, and Corvus couldn’t help but agree with them as he, like nearly everyone else, instinctively sketched a tree over his heart to protect himself from the invisible evils of the elven magic.

  There were no guards, man or elf, in view, but Corvus had the distinct impression they were being watched. No sooner had the last fascitor entered the grounds than the gates swung shut again, as silently as they had opened. The crowd gasped, sounding for all the world like spectators at the stadium witnessing a gladiator receive his death wound.

  “A neat trick, wouldn’t you say, Captain?” His guards might be disciplined enough to conceal their nervousness, but Corvus had been with the legions too long to miss the signs of a body of men nearing a state of panic. The wide eyes, the rapid blinking, the convulsive swallowing. The only thing unusual was seeing it here in the city.

  “I heard they have ghosts to serve them, my lord consul, but I never thought I’d think to see it!” Caius Vecellius’s hands on his axe were white-knuckled.

  “I hear they trap souls and make things from them,” one of the men muttered.

  Cursed bloody elves, Corvus thought. Lord Silvertree seemed a reasonable sort, but he wouldn’t put it past the elf to be putting them to the test. Or simply amusing himself at their expense. Damn his golden eyes.

  As they crossed the well-maintained grounds toward the entrance to the domus, Corvus forced himself to laugh.

  “My good men, I fear in your alarm you are overlooking the good news here!”

  “Good news?” someone asked.

  Corvus couldn’t help but smile at the sight of eight pairs of extraordinarily skeptical eyes aimed in his direction. “Do you not understand what this means? It will be months before any of you need pay for your own drinks! Every man in the city will want to hear your tale.”

  No one laughed, but Vecellius nodded slowly, and several of the men exchanged speculative looks before shrugging and visibly relaxing. Nevertheless, they were startled again when the front door to the domus opened.

  This time their surprise was not due to the magic, but rather to the sight of Lord Silvertree.

  The elvish ambassador was resplendent in a white tunic, white leggings, and silver cape that looked as if it was spun from the metal itself. Being nearly a head taller than Corvus, who was himself considerably taller than his fascitors, the elf made an imposing sight despite his slender build, especially when both torches happened to go out at the very moment that the ambassador raised his left hand in greeting.

  “My lord consul, I bid you welcome to the residence of the High King of Elebrion. And I do apologize if the spell on the gates should have taken anyone by surprise. I fear it was necessary, as I have but the one companion, and he has been preparing refreshment for your guards.”

  The men brightened considerably at the mention of refreshment. If they were anything like the legionaries, Corvus knew, they would brave a lot more than a bit of soul-threatening magic if there was a reasonable prospect for free alcohol in sight.

  “Has my colleague arrived?” Corvus asked.

  “He has not, but I expect him soon. He sent a messenger informing me that he was momentarily delayed but would be with us before long.”

  Corvus glanced at Vecellius, whose face was unreadable.

  “I wouldn’t wish to offend the High King, of course,” Corvus said wryly. “Nor should I wish to unnecessarily imperil anyone’s soul with what I fear will touch upon some unseemly matters, so, if you would be so kind, Lord Silvertree, I should be pleased if you would inform my men where they might find these refreshments.”

  The elven ambassador nodded gravely and held up his hand. When he opened it, a disc of soft blue light appeared and hung suspended in the air without support when he lowered his hand again.

  The fascitors looked at each other, astonished, but this time there was none of the trepidation that had filled them at the sight of the ensorcelled gate.

  “Follow this,” Silvertree said, “and it will take you to the dining hall. Pray relax and enjoy yourselves. I believe you will find the wines well worth drinking.”

  The blue disc began to move, and after a mere moment’s hesitation, Vecellius and his seven men followed.

  When they had gone, Corvus shook his finger at his host.

  “You can’t possibly convince me that was necessary. My understanding was that you were to keep your sorceries to a minimum.”

  The elf laughed. “I’m not attempting to corrupt your people, my lord consul. But I don’t find it conducive to intelligent conversation to have twenty frightened men armed with axes standing over me. If one of your men happens to be murderously inclined toward those skilled in the arts, my preference is to learn that before I’m absorbed in discussing more important matters—such as the reason for your visit here this evening.”

  “Are you sure pouring wine down their throats is the wiser alternative?”

  “A salient point, to be sure. I don’t suppose you would like a tour of the residence?”

  “My wife will be disappointed, but if you don’t object, I’d much prefer to get your thoughts on the murders in the chapel. Brother Ignatius appeared to be rather out of sorts, which was disturbing.”

  “Very well, then. I trust you won’t mind if we take some wine ourselves while we speak?”

  The elf led Corvus through a high-ceilinged entryway, past a wide set of steps that revealed an unexpected lower level to the domus, then down a corridor with exposed wooden beams overhead. The corridor terminated in an large, rectangular room that spanned two floors.

  The walls of the room were lined with a vast collection of leather-bound books that filled shelves all the way up to the ceiling high overhead, broken only by a fireplace on the far side of the room and wooden stairs that let to a narrow walkway lining the walls where the first floor had once been. The stairs continued in a highly unusual fashion to what appeared to be a large trapdoor on the ceiling. The room was warm, as the walls were lined with thick, colorful tapestries depicting events and places Corvus had never seen, and flames were leaping high from the wood that had been generously stacked to form a sort of ziggurat within the fireplace.

  Lord Silvertree walked toward a table upon which rested a clear crystal decanter full of a lightly bubbling golden liquid and three impossibly delicate transparent goblets. “I think you might find this wine from Kir Donas to be interesting. The spirits within the wine are sti
rred to animation, which produces the movement you see within the liquid. It’s more of a sensation than a flavor, but you’ll find it does enhance the taste.”

  He poured two goblets without losing a drop.

  Corvus took one from him, sketching an abbreviated tree from his forehead to his heart in the hopes that accepting his host’s offer would not be viewed by the Almighty as dabbling in the forbidden. He raised the glass as if to offer a toast, but then his conscience overcame him and he lowered it again.

  “They’re not spirits of the dead, by any chance?”

  The elf looked startled for a moment, then burst out laughing. “Oh, do forgive me, my lord consul. What you must think of us! No, the spirits to which I refer are merely spirits of the grape, very small ones and utterly devoid of anything you or I would consider sentience, much less animus. I will confess to being no theological expert, as my esoteric studies were rather more concentrated on alchemy than animalogy or what the Savondi sorcerers call diablerie, but I am certain you can safely drink it without offending either your god or your Church.”

  “How would an elf know what would or would not offend the Almighty or His Church?”

  “You’d be very surprised to know how often such matters are discussed in Elebrion these days. Thanks, in part, to the good services of your son. I trust he enjoyed our city?”

  “He still talks about writing a monograph about it. And one of your ladies appears to have made a particular impression on him. I believe they write to each other still.”

  “Ah, yes, the Lady Shadowsong.” Silvertree drank from his glass. “Such an encouraging sign of friendship between our two peoples. It can never go anywhere, you understand.”

  “I should be very unhappy if it did.”

  “Then you will be pleased to know High King shares your opinion, my lord consul.”

  Corvus raised his glass and tasted the wine. It was a most unusual sensation. It didn’t burn like the similarly colored wine from Savonderus, but it seemed to almost move and swell inside his mouth. It was like drinking a living thing. It was startling, not unpleasant. And as the liquid tide flowed around his teeth and his tongue, the flavor changed, almost imperceptibly, with the motion.

  “It’s like…like drinking the ocean!” he cried despite himself. “I’ve never tasted, or felt, anything like it!”

  “Do you like it?” his host asked with an amused expression on his face.

  “God help me, I do!” he confessed. “It’s truly remarkable. I imagine you won’t have any trouble finding a market for it here.”

  “No, the landlord appeared to be most enthusiastic about its prospects.” Silvertree looked so self-satisfied that a thought occurred to Corvus.

  “You know you overpaid for this residence, don’t you.”

  “Let us simply say that I am aware that one is unlikely to take advantage of the richest man in Amorr. Or expect much in the way of a bargain from him.”

  Corvus reflected that, by the simple mechanic of one seemingly bad deal, the ambassador had managed to purchase close contact with House Dives, the wealthiest in the Republic, if not the Empire, as well as disarm a public that otherwise might have been inclined to fear his centuries-old wiles. No doubt Silvertree would think his rent cheap at three times its current, exaggerated price. Corvus reminded himself that the elf sitting so affably across from him had been alive for more than a man’s lifespan when the Houses Martial had first risen against King Andronis. He had not only seen every trick in the book, he was old enough to have invented some of them.

  “Do you know, my lord consul, it is not only the faith of your people that is of much interest to Elebrion, but your House as well?”

  “House Valerius?”

  “Indeed. You are well aware of the part your son played in averting what could have been a very costly war between Amorr and Elebrion. And the correspondence between the Lady Shadowsong and your son is of potential use to our two nations, so long as things are not permitted to get out of hand.”

  Corvus nodded. “For my part, I am deeply indebted to the lady. I’m convinced it was encountering her that persuaded him to refrain from taking vows. I could have kissed her myself when my wife wrote to tell me that Marcus wasn’t entering the priesthood.”

  “You speak as if his entering the Church would have brought shame upon your House. But is it not a great honor if a family member devotes himself to the service of your god?”

  “Of course it is, of course it is.” Corvus took another drink of the strange but compelling wine. “But each House has its tradition, and the tradition of House Valerius happens to be the legions. Naturally, a father wishes for his sons to continue the customs established by his forebears. But his calling wasn’t genuine. It wasn’t God that was calling to him—it was the Church library.”

  “We have one of some note in Elebrion.”

  “I know. My son was almost as taken with it as with the girl.”

  Silvertree leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner. “You do realize that the girl, as you call her, is eighty-two years old, do you not? She is still quite young by elven standards, of course, but nevertheless, she is old enough to be your son’s grandmother. And in addition to being a sorceress of some skill, she also happens to be cousin to the High King.”

  “You needn’t convince me that she’s unsuitable for the boy, my lord ambassador. My wife and I were discussing various marital possibilities for him just last night. You can assure the king that there were no elven maids, royal or otherwise, on my wife’s list of suitable matches.”

  “No doubt you will receive some interesting offers now that you have reached your present standing.” The elf leaned back and regarded Corvus with amusement. “I realize that the idea we might be possessed of souls and are therefore worthy of some modicum of regard is a relatively new one for your people. But you should understand that we elves have had similar debates amongst ourselves in the past. And whereas your debates tended to concern whether my people were angels or mortals, ours were more likely to revolve around the possibility that your people were genuinely sentient or only talking beasts with little more capacity for true reason than those birds that mimic the sounds they hear.”

  Corvus laughed. “Don’t spend too much time at the arena, or you’ll be forced to conclude the latter.”

  “Indeed?” The elf chuckled. “You are a young race, a young society. Such forthright customs become increasingly embarrassing to the more sophisticated, but sophistication leads to problems of its own. Which is why I broached what I understand must be an uncomfortable subject. I wish to ensure that if there is any such future rapproachment between our peoples, whether it involves your son and our royal family or not, there will be no unfortunate incidents such as the one that sparked the last war between Elebrion and Amorr.”

  Corvus frowned. He was much better versed on what had happened during Amorr’s past wars than the various events that had led up to them. But if he recalled correctly, the elves hadn’t initially objected to the destruction of the little colony of half-elves in Pannonia. “Unfortunate incidents? I was under the impression that the Sanctiff of the time had written to the High King informing him of his intentions to declare Crusade, and when he received no response, assumed there were no objections.

  “There were no objections to eradicating the half-breeds,” Silvertree said with a pleasant smile. His eyes, however, had gone strangely dark. “The misfortune to which I referred was that the general responsible—a Lucretian, I believe—did not content himself with killing the half-elven, but massacred their true-blooded kin, as well. I lost a sister there.”

  “I’m sorry,” Corvus said reflexively.

  “There was much anger, particularly among the families who had lost sons and daughters. You see, for many of the elves there, it was little more than a game. What is thirty, forty, at most fifty years to an elf? That is why the colony grew so rapidly: It was a fad among elves and a few elfesses like my sister, which turned out to be
a fatal one.”

  Corvus nodded gravely. He really didn’t know what to say. It seemed a little much to apologize for something that had happened so long ago.

  The elf seemed to read his mind.

  “You needn’t apologize. I am aware it happened long before your great-grandfather was born. An elf would have to be a fool to hold the Amorrans of today responsible for the excessive zeal of a single man who has been dead and all but forgotten for centuries.”

  “Though not by the elves.”

  “Though not, as you say, by the elves.”

  “Why is the High King interested in a rapprochement now?

  “We are a dying race, Consul. Our warriors don’t wish to marry and are more interested in making war than children. Our elfesses are too enchanted with their freedom and their sorcery to devote the thirty years or more required to properly raise a child. Our poets are but a limpid shadow of their predecessors. Our aristocracy is decadent to the point that half our nobles only manage to get out of bed to crawl into another one. And our mages are too caught up in their esoteric interests to care what happens to the race. What were once seven great kingdoms have now been reduced to three moderate powers, and Elebrion is more a collection of tombs and tomes of past deeds than a proper city, let alone a kingdom.

  “We need something to spur us to life again. There were those who favored encouraging another crusade against us, as perhaps the sensation of a sword at the throat might be enough to awaken the insensate. The problem, of course, is that this time we might not be strong enough to defeat the legions so easily, especially now that we would also have to contend with the Order of Saint Michael. Our most powerful mage, Bessarius, was so impressed with them that he actually adopted the worship of your Tree God.”

  “The Immaculate is not a tree!” Corvus hastened to correct the ambassador.

  “No, of course not. I misspoke. Naturally your Lord Immaculatus is not a plant of any kind. In any event, the party that favored peaceful engagement with your young and active race had the favor of King Mael and won out. Because even if our increased contact with Amorr goes terribly awry, we can still hope to gain the prospective benefit from your hostility and inevitable invasion at a later date.”