Summa Elvetica: A Casuistry of the Elvish Controversy and Other Stories (17 page)

“Do you think they’ll give them back to us?”

“I wouldn’t worry about it. As I understand it, it’s quite common for rulers who wish their rule to continue to take a dim view of unknown visitors being armed in their presence.”

“You’d better be right! Or I’ll—”

He was suddenly silenced when Marcus’s leather glove closed over his mouth. Marcus smiled and removed his hand as the elvic guard holding their blades gestured toward where the human party was forming two lines behind Bishop Claudo and Father Aestus. Marcus rather doubted that the High King of the elves was likely to be much concerned about improbable threats of retribution from an unarmed human slave, but regardless, it was surely unwise to utter them in front of the king’s own palace guards.

They entered the palace through an arched entrance populated with the figures of elves and other beings. Unlike Amorr, where the stone statuary was always left untouched, these carved figures were painted in great detail. Fair-haired warriors slew raging beasts with crimson tongues, bards plucked at golden lyres, and lovers embraced, pressing their pink lips together in sensual abandon. The diverse figures seemed to leap out of the white marble from which they had been released. So realistic were they in their various pursuits that more than once Marcus was forced to avert his eyes in the interests of chastity.

They were marched through a series of similarly decorated rooms and led into the throne room to be presented to the High King and his queen en masse.

High King Mael’s throne room was an imposing chamber of white marble that brought to mind a mausoleum. Unlike in the Sanctiff’s palace—the only other such structure Marcus had ever been inside—the lights here were cold and burned with a blue flame that gave off light without heat. Were they the witchlights of which Lodi had spoken before?

On two thrones sat an elegantly clad pair of elves. Marcus knew King Mael was more than five hundred years old, but he looked no more than forty. His hair was darker than most of his subjects, though still much lighter than that of most of the Amorrans. His eyes were a blue so dark they almost appeared to be black.

His queen sat at his side. Where he was dark, she was so fair as to be almost alabaster, with a long, narrow face, straight white hair, and deeply slanted grey eyes that were outlined in scarlet. In her white dress she looked rather like one of the marble figures on the entry arch, albeit one that the artisan had only just begun painting.

Marcus followed the rest of his group as they were escorted before the thrones and arrayed in three rows. Elvish palace guards wheeled in the draped cage that contained the Ulfin. This they placed behind the Amorran party.

The court herald, dressed in the livery of the High King, stepped forward from beside the thrones. “The emissary of the Sanctiff of the Holy Republic of Amorr and his retainers, accompanied by the Sky Lord Fáelán u Flann.”

Cassius Claudo gestured at the others to stay where they were and stepped forward to make a deep and appropriately respectful bow. Marcus was struck by the strange likeness between the elf king and the bishop, a likeness that had nothing to do with their dissimilar features and everything to do with the way in which their intense personalities seemed to have burned away everything that was weak and soft and prone to mercy inside them.

“High King,” Claudo said, “it is my humble honor to bring you—”

“I know what you bring to my realm,” the elf king interrupted. “You bring judgment. You bring conceit. You bring arrogance, and you bring the promise of war between your people and mine.”

Claudo blinked, but showed no other sign of being discomfited. He reached his right hand into his left sleeve and withdrew a scroll with gilded caps. “My instructions were to present a treaty to formalize the peace between our peoples, your Majesty, one that is long overdue in recognizing the real peace that has prevailed for more than forty years.”

The king sniffed. “The Sanctiff sends a declaration of peace? Are not matters of war and peace concerns for the Consul of the Legions and the Amorran Senate, rather than its High Priest?”

“In most circumstances that is indeed the case, your Majesty. In this particular instance, however, there are certain aspects that fall within the Church’s bailiwick. Therefore, under Amorran law, the sanction of the Sanctiff is required. Sanction, your majesty, which has now been duly, if belatedly, granted.”

“And how was this ‘sanction’ justified?” King Mael asked. “I am curious, my lord bishop. Perhaps you can inform me why the viceroy of your god was moved to grant us this favor. Did the god speak to him? Or was it merely inspired wisdom of the sort that has granted your race with an ever-increasing body of divine literature?”

Marcus was frightened by the cruel amusement that flickered sporadically across the face of the High King. Mael was toying with Cassius Claudo. He obviously knew the true purpose of the embassy and was throwing it in their faces, daring them to admit it. Was he looking for an excuse to take offense and send them away—or worse? Perhaps, but how would that serve him in any way? Marcus’s thoughts raced as he tried to understand the icily polite battle with verbal stilettos that was taking place before him.

“I couldn’t possibly say, your Majesty. The Sanctiff answers to none but the Immaculate and acts as he sees fit. It is for me to obey, not to question.”

“Then well done, faithful and obedient servant. Lord Hwysfeith, please take the treaty from the Amorran ambassador and see that it is placed before my council for review. As the last clash between our two peoples took place one hundred and ninety-eight years ago, I expect there will be few surprises in the document.”

As an elderly elf approached Claudo and took the treaty scroll, Marcus mentally translated the king’s words: “Your Senate can forget about getting back that pair of eagles we took off their legions two hundred years ago.” He shrugged. No doubt military men like his father would be outraged by this, and one or two legions might even riot, but having met the Sanctiff twice now, he found it impossible to believe that the man possessed even the slightest concern for two centuries-old pieces of legionary insignia.

“Your Majesty,” Claudo said, “as an example of the esteem with which you are held by the Amorran Senate and people, and furthermore as what, God willing, may be an omen of the friendly relations and cooperation between our two kingdoms in the future, I beg your leave to present you a most particular gift that this embassy happened to acquire in the course of our journey to your realm.”

The High King nodded, his face impassive. Marcus assumed Mael had to know what was in the large cage that had been dragged in by the guards and placed at the rear of the hall already, even though it was completely covered with a thick cloth of bright blue silk.

But his dark eyes narrowed with curiosity as ten Michaelines, under direction from Hezekius, kneeled down, lifted the cage, and carried it forward before the throne. After placing it carefully on the marble floor, they arranged themselves in two lines standing at attention, five facing the cage and five facing the throne. Muffled snarls and whines could be heard from under the cloth, but the cage barely moved.

“Your Majesty!” an elven guard called from the rear of the hall, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword.

King Mael raised his hand, unconcerned, and the guard fell silent. “I hardly dare to hope that you have brought me what I have sought for twenty years,” he told Cassius Claudo. “If you have, then rest assured, you shall know the royal favor of Elebrion.”

“May it be so, your Majesty.” Somehow, Cassius Claudo managed to prevent any hint of smile from touching his lips. He pointed to the cage, and two Michaelines stepped forward and whisked the cunningly constructed cloth off it with an effortless flick of their wrists.

Inside the cage was the horrid beast very like the one that had nearly killed Marcus, chained to iron clasps with its arms and legs fully extended. The Ulfin was thin and bare patches of skin were exposed where the fur had been worn away by its chains, but its rage-filled spirit remained unbroken. It bared its large canines in defiance of the royal figures seated before it.

“A princely gift, lord bishop!” The High King’s eyes lit up with excitement as he took in the beast. “Wherever did you take it?”

“I am informed there were six, your Majesty. We encountered them unexpectedly in the Shadowald where they were engaged in battle with some of your kindred from Merithaim. I should have preferred to have brought you more, but I am afraid that my men were careless and killed the other five.”

“A pity. You have my thanks even so, however, as one is all that I require. Perhaps you will accept these small tokens of my appreciation.” Mael gestured with a finger.

Marcus couldn’t stifle a gasp as two weathered brass eagles suddenly appeared in the air in front of Cassius Claudo. Then two small red pillows appeared on the floor beneath them and they fell down upon the pillows with a soft thump.

A small token? They were the sacred standards of the Tenth and Twelfth legions lost with Lucius Varus almost two hundred years ago at Ardus Wald! For their return, the Senate would have gladly traded ten thousand Ulfin, even if they’d had to march across the White Sea to collect them. The elf king’s use of magic to deliver them was somewhat of a sardonic poke in the eye, of course, but not even the most fervent witchhunter in the Church would have objected to it at that moment.

“Your generosity is without limits, your Majesty,” Cassius Claudo said in a voice gone strangely hoarse. He made a surreptitious sign, and the entire Amorran delegation bowed with him. Marcus could feel tears welling up inside his eyes as the bishop then knelt, made the sign of the Immaculate One on his chest, and rose to his feet with the long-lost standards in his arms.

The elf king smiled in satisfaction, though without warmth. It seemed to give him gratification to see the effect his gift had had on the Amorrans. “My lord bishop, it is our pleasure to invite you and your entourage to dinner in honor of the Amorran Senate and people tonight,” he said. “Will you be so good as join us?”

“With gratitude, your Majesty.” Cassius Claudo cleared his throat and bowed one last time.“With the utmost gratitude, High King.”

• • •

There was barely time to stow their packs and change from their well-stained travelling clothes into attire that was worthy of the High King’s table.

Nevertheless, Lodi somehow managed to acquire a bowl of hot water. With this and his dagger the dwarf adroitly shaved Marcus, insisting that there wasn’t sufficient time to enjoy the usual spectacle of watching Marcus butcher himself. Despite fingers that were thick and stubby, the dwarf had a surprisingly delicate touch. The shave Lodi gave him compared quite favorably to the best shave Marcus had ever received from an Amorran barber. Rubbing his smooth and unlacerated face afterward made him think for the first time just why dwarf-worked weaponry was valued so highly.

The feast was held in a different building within the palace grounds. This was a wide, rectangular edifice that appeared to be used for some sort of theatrical events, perhaps musical performances. A broad set of stairs led to large auditorium with stages on either side, although the tiled floor made Marcus think that music was probably unlikely. One stage held a large, ornately carved wooden table. The other was hidden behind a green curtain.

The floor tiles were ornate, laid out in intricate patterns that appeared to be runic. They were painted in a light, attractive color scheme that reminded Marcus of peaches and apricots. Colorful banners embroidered with scenes of elves at the hunt and at war—usually, but not always, with orcs—hung from the ceilings to obscure the unadorned stone walls. The entire chamber was well-lit with the bluish flameless torches that Marcus had come to think of as elf-lights.

Marcus was seated at the third table, the one to the left of the royal table at which the bishop, Father Aestus, Captain Hezekius, and one of the older Michaelines were dining. Cladius Serranus was one of the five Michaelines at the second table, while Lodi, Marce, and Cassius Claudo’s two priests were seated with Marcus, in addition to two elf lords and three noble elvith.

The latter were exceedingly beautiful, excrutiatingly so, comparing favorably with their woodland cousins in much the same way that the great ladies of Amorr outshined the female villagers dwelling in the country. Their hair was impossibly long, first sweeping up in a variety of strange, sculptured figures, then falling down nearly to their waists. Marcus estimated that without whatever magic it was that held their hair into place, they would be unable to walk without stepping on it and falling.

The elvish ladies’ clothes were equally impractical, making use of an incredible amount of fabric to do such a poor job of concealing the alabaster skin beneath it. Fortunately, they were not voluptuous—an Amorran woman wearing such daring clothes would look more like a sausage exploding in the fire. Although their high cheekbones and elegantly sculpted features were inarguably beautiful, all in all, Marcus found the elvith too alien to be attractive, let alone irresistable.

Lodi sat grudgingly at the table, silently refusing to so much as respond either to the elf lord across from him or to the elvit at his side. Whatever disinterest Lodi and Marcus were showing to the elvish beauties around him, Marcipor was more than making up for. Marce’s eyes were devouring the slender beauty sitting next to him. Meanwhile, the younger of the two bishops revealed an unexpectedly dashing aspect to his personality as he engaged in what could only be described as a flirtation with the very elvit Lodi was studiously ignoring.

Marcus found his eye drawn to a pretty elvit at the table below him and to his left. She was dressed more simply than the other elvith, and her white hair was tied into two simple braids joined together at the ends by a clip in the form of a golden hawk. She wore a dress that would not have drawn notice anywhere in Amorr, being little more than a black sleeveless tunic. Sitting amongst the colorfully, strangely attired elves and rich blues and golds of the warrior-priests at her table, she stood out as starkly as a Quiricusian grey-robe surrounded by Michaelines.