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

To the young author and the pretty princesses.

Quaeritur de Aelvi per comparationem ad homines. Primo, utrum Aelvi habeant anima naturaliter sibi unita. Secundo, utrum assumant gloria. Tertio, utrum in gloribus assumptis occupant opera vita aeterna.

MARCUS VALERIUS LOOKED up from the faded Numidican manuscript in irritation. The light from the study window was growing dim. Already he’d been forced to light a candle in order to make out the obscure scratchings of the historian Quintus the Elder, whose colorful accounts of his encounters with the pagan desert tribes were as dubious as they were vivid. The imperative knocking at the door threatened a lengthy interruption, one that might cost Marcus what little daylight remained.

“Come in,” he called, resigned.

The latch creaked, and a familiar, sun-bronzed face peered around the corner of the door. It belonged to his cousin Sextus, whose brown eyes were dancing with mischief.

“This better be good,” Marcus warned him. “I was just getting to the part where the tribal chief is about to sacrifice the centurion to his devil-gods.”

Sextus nodded absently. “Oh, yes, you said you were going to read up on old Quintus, didn’t you? Well, if it’ll save you some time, I’ll tell you how it ends. The legions march in, the heathen see the error of their ways, and the great city-state of Amorr triumphs over all. Hallelujah and amen!”

Marcus stared at him and, with some difficulty, rejected the first three responses that leaped to mind. “Thank you, Sexto. Your help is … beyond words. Now, go away, please.”

His cousin grinned back at him. Maddeningly, he did not leave, but rather folded his arms and leaned against the edge of the entryway.

Sexto was half a hand shorter than Marcus, but with a slim build that made him appear taller than he was. Like Marcus and the rest of their family, his eyes were dark brown, but he was no scholar, and his skin was deeply bronzed by the sun. He wore a plain white tunic devoid of any equestrian stripes. He was barefoot, and his belt was an unadorned strip of worn leather. Besides the intrinsic arrogance that radiated from him like heat from a fire, only the finely carved silver buckle clasping the belt showed any sign that he was a senator’s son, let alone a Valerian.

“Don’t you want to know why I’m here?”

“To plague me?” Marcus guessed. “To keep me from my learning?”

Sextus steepled his hands and did his best to appear pious. The effect would have worked better if he had stopped smirking first. “I’m here in my priestly capacity, believe it or not. The Father Superior sent me with a message for you. You’re to go before the Sanctiff.”

“What?” Marcus was sure he hadn’t heard correctly. “I’m supposed to go where?”

“To the Sanctiff,” Sextus repeated. “Yes, you, and right away too. Father Aurelius is already on his way here—he’s to escort you to the palace.” He grinned and arched his eyebrows. “Now tell me what you did to get in that kind of trouble, Marco! Did I miss out on something?”

Marcus swallowed hard. This wasn’t just impossible, it was beyond imagining. The Holy Sanctiff was the highest ranking official in the land since Amorr had no king. Officially, the Lord God Himself ruled over the Republic. However, as the earthly head of the Amorran Church, the Sanctiff was God’s voice and viceroy from the banks of the Tiburon to the shores of the Rialthan Sea.

Marcus had no idea why the viceroy of God Almighty wanted to see him. No idea at all.

The Holy Palace was the greatest structure in Amorr, as was only fitting. It boasted twelve spires ringing one massive cupola, a representation in marble of mankind’s Savior and His twelve disciples. Marcus, with Father Aurelius by his side, was being escorted into it by the palace’s hard-faced soldiers with their red cloaks.

To Marcus’s relief they did not march him into the Hall of Judgment. That place was dreaded by every sane and sober Amorran. He had first feared they were taking him there to stand before some inquest. Instead, the guards conducted them to what appeared to be a small, private antechamber just off one of the palace’s central corridors.

The room was dark, lit only by seven guttering rushlights. It was cool, but not cold, and two of the stucco walls were obscured with wooden shelves that held fat scrolls of various lengths. Marcus couldn’t see the back wall behind the lights, but he stopped looking about the room when his eyes alighted upon an elderly man sitting alone in its center.

His Holiness was reclining on an unimposing, leather-wrapped chair that looked as comfortable as it was worn with age. He wore none of the trappings of his awesome office, only the simple blue robe of a Jamite brother. The robe was darker than his cerulean eyes, which were encased by thin folds of sagging flesh and surmounted by a pair of bushy white eyebrows. But he smiled warmly at his visitors, and Marcus could easily have thought of him as someone’s good-humored
pater familias
were it not for the gem-encrusted ring of office adorning his left hand.

“Thank you for coming, Father Aurelius.” The Sanctiff’s voice was deep, but to hear it up close in this small room instead of echoing off the marble of the palace steps made it seem more friendly than intimidating. “I have received excellent reports of your work with the junior scholastics. And welcome, Marcus Valerius. I wished to see with my own eyes the latest prodigy of the Valerian House. Perhaps you shall do for the Church what your illustrious forebears have done for Amorr’s legions, hmmm?”

Marcus blushed before the Sanctiff’s praise. It was as if the old man had seen into his mind and read his deepest, most hidden desires. “Thank you, your Holiness. I seek only to serve God and Amorr, to the best of my small abilities.”

The Sanctiff’s aged lips wrinkled in a wry smile, and he glanced toward the shadowy corner of the room. “Admirably courteous, is he not? I should think any concerns regarding his comportment are groundless. Don’t you agree, Caecilus Cassius?”

Marcus drew in a sharp breath as a thin-faced man in a black robe emerged from the darkness, accompanied by a cheerful-looking Jamite priest in the blue robe of his order.

Marcus knew the man whom His Holiness addressed so familiarly. Or rather, he knew of him. Caecilus Cassius Claudo was the Bishop of Avienne and one of the Church’s leading intellectuals. His famous treatise, the
Summa Spiritus
, written on all the diverse races of Selenoth and their distinct places in the Will of God, had sparked a raging flame of debate that still roared through every scholastic circle in the Republic. Marcus himself had written a short commentary on the
Summa
less than a year ago.

“That remains to be seen, your Holiness.” Claudo’s arid voice was acerbic and high-pitched. “Certainly, a number of his expressed opinions are impudent in the extreme.”

“Oh, come now, Claudo,” the Jamite broke in, laughing. His round face was ruddy, and Marcus liked him immediately. “A refusal to abase himself before your lofty eminence does not indicate an inclination toward boorish behavior. Why, it’s nothing more than a sign of sheer good sense!”

He smiled broadly, making it clear that he was only teasing his proud colleague, thengraciously inclined his head toward Marcus and Father Aurelius. “Since His Holiness does not see fit to introduce us, I shall take the matter in hand myself. I am Quintus Servilius Aestus, a humble priest in service to the Lord Immanuel and, of course, His Holiness. My distinguished colleague is none other than His Excellency, the Bishop of Avienne, whose work I believe you know quite well.”

Father Aestus shook their hands warmly, first Father Aurelius’s, then Marcus’s own. Marcus was in awe, for he was truly in the presence of greatness—not once, not twice, but three times over. Father Aestus was one of the few intellectuals who dared to publicly cross wits with the famed bishop, and he was rumored to be working on his own magnum opus in opposition to Cassius Claudo’s masterpiece.

The Sanctiff cleared his throat, and Father Aestus smoothly effaced himself, but not before directing a disconcerting wink at Marcus.

“Father Aurelius, you know why I have summoned you,” the Sanctiff stated, “and your presence here answers the question I posed to you earlier. However, Bishop Claudo and Father Aestus have their own questions for your young scholar, and with your permission, I would allow them to inquire of him.”

“Of course, your Holiness,” Father Aurelius replied obediently. He was an astute man and did not need to be told when his presence was not required. “May I have your permission to withdraw, your Holiness?”

“Go with God, Father,” the Sanctiff said, extending his left hand. “And the grace of our living Lord be upon you.”

Father Aurelius bent over and kissed the sacerdotal ring of office, then gave Marcus a reassuring pat on the shoulder as he left the room. Marcus suddenly felt alone and intimidated, surrounded as he was by three of the republic’s most formidable minds.