Summa Elvetica: A Casuistry of the Elvish Controversy and Other Stories (11 page)

“I see you survived yesterday’s ride.” Marcus turned around and saw Zephanus, already astride his big white gelding.

“Good morning to you, brother. You look eager to get back on the road.”

“I am refreshed, Marcus Valerius. My soul is restored. Let everything that hath breath praise the Lord indeed, for do not our brothers the birds greet the new day with a song sweeter than any sung by man?”

Marcus forced a smile, but he feared it was a thin one. Dear Lord in Heaven, have mercy—the friendly young warrior-priest was a morning creature! Such beings were far more alien to him than elves.

“I know a few of the brothers were hoping we’d be permitted to wake after Matins ends, but then, we’d have missed the best part of the day!” He gestured east, toward the red glow of the imminent sunrise. “And look, it seems our silent brethren have located our long-eared friends at last.”

“I fear they don’t share your preference for an early rise, brother.”

“Nor, I think, do you, Marcus Valerius. Either you’re particularly fascinated with that chestnut tree over there or your stare is a bit fixed.”

Marcus blinked as Zephanus grinned.

“If you think he’s a night bird, you should see Sextus, his cousin,” said Marcipor, who was still yawning and rubbing at his own eyes. “Now that the elves are here, we should probably mount, don’t you think?”

Marcus agreed, but it seemed the abbot had other ideas. He, at least, was obviously not subject to his order’s vow of silence. First he made the bishop a pretty speech about the honor his holy presence had bestowed upon the humble order of Saint Quiricus. Then he turned toward Captain Hezekius and said a few words about the noble example of the Michaelines and what an inspiration they were to the lesser orders. Both men were presented with small silver reliquaries, which he assured them were pieces of marble from the very steps that had shattered the blessed skull of their child-saint.

Then, to Marcus’s and everyone else’s surprise, the abbot turned to the two elves and pronounced a blessing on them, before wishing the entire party a safe and peaceful journey.

Marcus noticed that the elves didn’t seem particularly inclined to speak with anyone. And while Lord Fáelán appeared to be pointedly ignoring the Michaelines, at least he greeted the bishop with appropriate civility. After a nod from the bishop, Captain Hezekius ordered the party to mount, and those who had not already done so were quick to obey.

Marcus couldn’t help groaning as he stepped into the stirrup and threw his leg over the saddle, but he reminded himself that it was only a matter of time before his body began to adjust. Until it did, he would simply have to bear the pain that nearly everyone but the Michaelines were feeling.

The grey-robed guards at the monastery gates bowed deeply, but silently, as the bishop rode past. How strange it would be to keep one’s thoughts to oneself for an entire month! Marcus doubted he could do it. Perhaps a week would be possible, but any more and he’d be desperate to say something, anything, to anyone who would listen. He grinned, thinking of Sextus, who couldn’t last an hour without opening his mouth if he wasn’t sleeping. Which, he thought enviously, was assuredly what his cousin was doing right now rather than riding out at dawn on a fool’s journey to Elebrion.

“I do say, it’s a bit brisk out,” Marcipor said. “But I imagine we’ll be sorry when this morning chill burns off.”

“Yes,” Marcus said, “I certainly hope there will be some clouds today. I felt rather like a pot baking in the kiln yesterday afternoon.”

“That tall elf lord doesn’t seem to still be upset today,” Marcipor said, albeit in a manner that made it sound as if he was trying to convince himself, not Marcus. “After all, it’s hardly Cladius Serranus’s fault that he happened to encounter the elf’s kin on the battlefield.”

“I suspect the elves might have a different way of looking at it than we might, Marce. From what I understand, they have a very different way of looking at many things. Stratius writes that whereas we view events as taking place within the framework of a vast and essential order, as a part of the fabric of the world, the elves see them as being of no consequence in themselves. Events only take on meaning insofar as they are given meaning by mind.”

“What does that have to do with Serranus killing the elf?”

“Very little, I should think. He killed much like an animal does, fighting to survive in the face of death, and he apparently ascribed no more meaning to his taking of the elf’s life than he did to any other death in battle. He was a soldier, and that’s what soldiers do in war. However, his decision to claim the elf’s sword as a trophy, to say nothing of his subsequent use of it as a marker of distinction—which you’ll note is most unusual in a priest, even a priest of a martial order like the Michaelines—indicates that the event must have been of some degree of significance to him.”

“I see,” Marcipor said in a way that made Marcus doubt very much that he did. “So what is the meaning, then?”

“The meaning of the event of his taking the elf sword and subsequent bearing of it?”

“Yes.”

“I haven’t any idea at all. I may not even be correct. Perhaps Lord Fáelán simply wishes to see his nephew revenged. Although I doubt that. Familial relationships aren’t quite as close among the elves, I understand. One can see how living several hundreds of years might encourage a certain amount of distance between the various members of a family. It’s bad enough having to listen to Sexto tell the same five jokes over and over again. After one hundred years of them, I think I’d have to take vows with the Quiricusians before I murdered him.”

“Don’t you think he would have made for a better travel companion than the one we’ve got?” Marcipor asked softly.

Marcus glanced back at Lodi. The dwarf still sat his mule heavily, but when they’d changed his bandage upon arrival at the monastery, there hadn’t been any ill-hued stains indicating infection. And if the dwarf didn’t take much away from the tedium of the road, he also didn’t add to it. Sextus, like a sword, could easily cut either way. While Marcus knew he’d eventually miss his cousin, at this early hour the dour silence of the dwarf was much to be preferred over what would have been a long and energetic listing of grievances.

Neither Zephanus nor Claudius Serranus rode near them this morning. In fact, as the morning wore on, it became apparent that the Michaelines had been commanded to stay away from the two elves—and anyone else who didn’t belong to their order. Marcus couldn’t blame Captain Hezekius for the change, in light of yesterday’s disastrous near-altercation. But he regretted it all the same. Riding a horse could be a great pleasure when one was galloping through open fields, but this slow, monotonous walk over mile after mile of unchanging road was about as tedious as anything Marcus had ever encountered in his life.

The scenery was little changed from the day before. The mountains in the distance seemed no closer, and the scrub brush harbored little in the way of interesting fauna. Fortunately, the promised clouds made their appearance and shielded their necks and faces from the worst of the mid-morning sun. Marcus hoped they would not burn away before the oppressive heat of the afternoon.

He found it hard to imagine what it must be like for the legionaries, marching along these roads for days at a stretch, scorched by the sun while carrying all of their supplies, armor, and possessions on their backs. No wonder they were so fearless in battle! Facing an army of howling orcs and shrieking goblins would almost seem like paradise after weeks on the unforgiving road, especially if one could wait in the comfort of the shade for their attack.

He found himself wondering why the legions didn’t march at night and sleep during the day. Why didn’t they ride at night themselves, come to think of it? Surely that would make more sense than to subject themselves to this brutal regimen. His saddle creaked as he shifted in it trying to find a spot on his thighs that had not been rubbed nearly raw the day before. But why bother? It wasn’t midday yet and they had at least six more hours to ride today, so by the time they were permitted to dismount for the evening, whatever spot he’d managed to miss yesterday would be thoroughly chafed.

Marcipor rode along beside him, his head cast down and his eyes half-closed. He’d made a game attempt to keep up the conversation at first, but now he too rode in a shell of silent contemplation of his own misery. Ahead of them, a few of the Michaelines began to sing, but their voices faltered when an older warrior glared at them, and soon the column was silent again except for the interminable clop-clop-clop of the horses’ hooves on the flattened stone-and-mortar crusta.

A gravelly voice interrupted his morose moss-gatherings.

“Forget what the priest told you.”

“About what?” He was too surprised to hear the dwarf address him to say anything else.

“The elves. Yesterday.”

“You don’t think Cladius Serranus killed the elf lord? If not, then where did he get that sword? That Lord Fáelán doesn’t seem inclined to doubt him.”

“I meant his idea that the elves are dying because they want to die. Nonsense.”

“Quite possibly. But Serranus does seem to have some experience of them. And you must consider that they’ve lost half their kingdoms too, more than half, actually, and five of their seven royal lines have failed. There aren’t anywhere near so many elves as there used to be. Perhaps they exhausted themselves in their war against the Witchkings. They never really recovered from that.”

“Five of the seven?” Marcipor asked. “I thought there were still three kingdoms?”

“There are, but the House of Silverspume isn’t royal. King Ithamar’s father succeeded the last Deeptide king after he was killed in a battle with the Tritonian Mer.”

“The Witchkings wasn’t just their war,” Lodi growled. “The dwarves fought too. So did the orcs and men. But elves aren’t dying out because of the Witchkings, or the fish-lovers, or because they read too much poetry. It’s that cursed elven pride that’ll do for them in the end.”

“It is written ‘pride goeth before a fall,’” Marcus admitted. “But I find it difficult to imagine that you spent much time immersed in Holy Writ during your employment by the stables of the Reds. Or anywhere you happened to find yourself before your inadvertent visit to our great city.”

“I wasn’t visiting, I was a slave!”

“As you say,” Marcus nodded, too interested to hear what the dwarf was saying to bother correcting him. “Do continue.”

“They’re arrogant beyond all reason, probably arrogant beyond your capacity to believe or understand. They won’t change, they can’t change, because doing so would mean admitting that they’re not a race of demigods superior to dwarf and man alike.”

“What about orcs and goblins?”

“That goes without saying.”

“Of course. Why do they have to change, though? What is the problem?”

“I don’t think your old priest noticed. He was probably too busy just trying to stay alive.That, or he can’t tell one pretty, beardless face from another. But do you know how men say that dwarves are all alike, that there’s no difference between dwarf and dwarva?”

“Dwarva?”

“A female dwarf, a dwarf-mother.”

“Ah, I’ve heard it said that they have beards too, and they fight like the men. Or rather, dwarves.”

Lodi smiled thinly beneath the orange stubble of his growing beard. He made a sound that was somewhere between a snort and a cough. “That’s not true. Few men have ever seen a dwarva, for they seldom leave the safety of the mines and mountains. But it is true of the elves.”

“I can only assume you are referring to the fighting, and not the beards?”

“I am that.”

“The elf maidens fight? Really? I’ve never read a single scholar who made note of that. And Magnus never mentioned it in any of his old stories either. How do you know?”

Lodi gestured to his bandaged side. “The training master told you I got this during the Iron Mountain spectacle.”

“Yes, I recall.”

“I was there.”

Marcus stared at the dwarf, amazed. He glanced over at Marcipor and saw that he too was surprised by Lodi’s casual statement.

“You were there, during the great siege?” Marcipor asked. “But that was so long ago!”

“We may not live as long as elves, slave boy, but we aren’t as short-lived as men either. I was there from the start to the end, seven years all told. I saw the Troll King die, I saw the great duel between Grokthorn and Gorbag, and I couldn’t tell you how many orcs and goblins and spiders and wolves fell before my axe. Could tell you how many trolls, though, that I could tell you.”

“How many?” Marcus asked.

“Not a one. Never managed to kill a single rockhead in all that time, if you can believe it.Leastways not by my axe.”

“What does this have to do with the elves?” Marcipor wanted to know.

“Not much. But do you want to know about elves, or do you want to know about Iron Mountain?”

“Both,” Marcus answered. “I want to know about both.”

So, as they rode beneath the grey shield of the clouds, Lodi told them.

Respondeo: De hac quaestione, variae opiniones erat. Imprimis, si anima sua natura absoluta res esset, quae creata fuisset sola, probaretur quod anima neque homo neque aelvus esset. Sed, cum anima natura particeps in forma corporis necesse sit suae creata sit, non separatim, sed in corpore.Siquidem anima res absoluta esset, simillima angelorum. Attamen quod anima particeps in forma corporis, considerandum est, secundum iusta principia, particeps in genere animalium. Ergo non potest illa base statui, sed necesse est considerare praecipuam naturam generis aelvi.

MARCUS RODE ALONG the dusty road at the back end of what he hoped would turn out to be an important historical expedition. But at the moment the momentous journey was secondary to the every clop and shift of Barat beneath him. He was endlessly grateful that Lodi was suddenly willing to speak more than two sentences at a time. And as the dwarf spoke, the miles passed by and it was as if his words fell away and Marcus could see the events happening in his mind’s eye.