Summa Elvetica: A Casuistry of the Elvish Controversy and Other Stories (15 page)

• • •

They were passing through the elven kingdom of Merithaim. Their destination was beyond this land, in the neighboring elven kingdom of Elebrion, where the High King dwelt. Still, it afforded Marcus the opportunity to study elves closely.

The royal court of Merithaim was not, like the High King of Elebrion’s court, resident in a fixed location. Its lords and ladies lived a traveling existence, moving about the Shadowald for most of the spring, summer, and autumn, before retiring south to the king’s mountain palace in the winter.

King Caerwyn Everbright was its liege, a relatively young elf and the son of the elf king who had so outraged Lodi and the dwarves of IronMountain. Thanks to Falmithal, they were greeted at court with exquisite courtesy, and the king gifted Marcus, Marcipor, and Lodi with silver-hilted daggers.

He also attempted to similarly reward the six Michaelines, but they politely refused to accept the elven blades. Marcus had the impression that after the debacle with Lord Fáelán, the Order would be adding to what was likely a long list of monastic rules—including, perhaps, the prohibition against owning or carrying elvish blades.

The two days they spent with the Merithaimi court was a magical time for Marcus. It was a much-needed break from the rigors of the road—both for him and for Barat. During the day, Marcus was free to roam as he pleased, accompanied only by Falmithal, whose impeccable manners steered Marcus clear of most social blunders and smoothly extricated him from those that could not be avoided.

The elven maids were beautiful beyond anything he’d ever seen: tall, slender, and preternaturally fair. They were also too shy to speak with the young humans, for the most part, but they were tremendously curious about Marcipor’s golden beard. Marcipor claimed that he’d stolen a kiss from one of them, but Marcus was skeptical. He wouldn’t have dared himself, even if he weren’t bound by his intended vocation. They probably weren’t all sorceresses, but a man had no way of knowing which was and which wasn’t.

He was frustrated, and not only because of the way the elven beauty filled him with serious doubts about the purity of his soul, to say nothing of his vocation. Whereas he’d previously imagined exposure to the elves would help him reach a sound conclusion about their nature, the more information he acquired, the more any sense of certainty receded from his grasp. When he looked into that alien gaze with its strange, inhuman pupils, could he see a soul lurking behind it? One could see life there, certainly. One could see intelligence, animation. But was there anima?

Elven beauty ascended toward physical perfection, but that counted for little in matters of the spirit. The Dalarn too were beautiful. Were not those tall, fair barbarians so thick of feature and large of frame, one might even confuse one for an elf if one were far enough away. Importantly, there was not a single unimpeachable reference to elves throughout the Holy Writ. One might make a better case for defending the spiritual immortality of sparrows and leviathans on the scriptural basis.

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 huts 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.”