Elisha Rex

by E. C. Ambrose

  Mortimer took the impact with a grunt, then a sob, muffled by the beast that covered him.

  Drawing back his power, Elisha jumped for the rope, seized it and scrambled up, to the encouragement of the guards. They cried out in dismay as he leapt off onto the top of the arch, level with the second rank of cages. Farus must have seen him, too, for the shadow of iron burst into movement, dashing by the last of the cages and coming to the narrow wall that separated the enclosure from the moat. “There!” Elisha shouted, pointing. “Catch him!” But no one else was close.

  Launching himself to the wall from his end, Elisha ran after, his men howling behind him. He slipped but caught himself, wincing, his palms were bruised and his foot splashed into the moat. Ahead, Farus froze, then started again, his trembling arms outstretched for balance. With a burst of speed, he could have escaped. What had spooked him? The sound of a splash? He was still too far ahead for Elisha to catch up.

  Elisha dropped down and swung his hand into the murky water, his flesh once more crackling with the chill of death. Before the forming ice trapped his hand, he yanked it free, rose, and threw.

  The slushy ball caught Farus in the center of his back. He stumbled, arms flailing, righted himself, and kept going.

  Elisha scooped himself a second handful of ice, flinging it ahead. Farus howled even before it reached him and slapped at his back. Then he struggled with his wet tunic, so the second ball struck bare skin over his left kidney. A red welt spread from the contact, and Farus screamed, twisting like a cat as Elisha ran and reached for him.

  Farus freed one arm, ripping his shirt. Rust pitted his back and side, spread over him like a flesh-eating disease. He pivoted, bringing his weapon-like hand to bear against Elisha, but his heel slipped and he teetered.

  With a lunge, his fingers still wet with ice, Elisha snagged his arm.

  Farus’s right arm slicked and crumpled under Elisha’s steadying grip as the water ate into him. He sliced at Elisha’s hand with his left hand, the fingers once more hard and sharp as knives.

  Conjuring his healing power to seal these fresh wounds, Elisha kept hold. “Tell me about the mancers, Parsley,” he said into the iron-mage’s withered flesh.

  “Tell you? You are one—or you should’ve been. Thinks he’ll be rewarded in heaven, but they’ll make of this place a hell on earth and them the masters. Serve them, and be free.” He rammed Elisha’s chest with his head, knocking the breath out of him.

  Elisha staggered back, losing his balance, dragging Farus with him. Struggling to free himself from Elisha’s grip, Farus twisted further. His eyes flared as both men plunged headlong into the moat below.

  When they splashed into the murky water, Farus shrieked as if demons clawed him down. Spirals of red swirled out like blood into the water. The iron-magus rusted.

  His fingers dug in like hooks, trying to haul himself up as Elisha fought for the surface, arms wild. Farus’s grip trembled as the rush of decay overwhelmed him. His other hand snared the back of Elisha’s neck, sinking fast, dragging him down. As a child, Elisha had nearly drowned, a memory so black he smothered it at the back of his heart. He remembered it now as the water mounted over him and the grip of iron pulled him under.

  Marshaling his strength, Elisha kicked away. Brittle iron, riddled with rust, cracked at the blow. Elisha’s head broke the surface, and he flailed to keep himself up, his fingers scraping against stone. He gasped as the water sucked him down again. From his hands, ice crackled outward. Already, the water thickened, his clothes dragging at him.

  Fighting the pull, kicking upward, Elisha released his power, shaking off the ice, his hand breaking through to the air. Water surged down his throat as he struggled. He gagged, then the water thinned, the sky rippling overhead. Then a hand seized his arm, hauling. His rescuer grappled with him, Elisha’s face breaking the surface again, then the hand clutched under his shoulder, holding him.

  Coughing and spitting water, Elisha stared up into Pernel’s face. The manservant lay atop the narrow wall, his legs dangling over the drop on the other side, one of the guards on top of him, weighting Pernel and keeping them both safe. Another soldier knelt more carefully, and, between the three of them, they brought Elisha back onto the wall, their hands lifting and pulling. Once safe, he seized Pernel’s hand before it could be withdrawn and sat, panting, dripping.

  “Thank you,” he breathed at last. “By God I thought I’d drown.”

  Pernel gave a nod as he broke the grip, staring at his own shivering hand, then the lump of Elisha’s scar. At last, he drew his hand close to his chest. “Majesty, are you injured?”

  Elisha shook his head and, for a few minutes, they waited while he caught his breath, the gate guards hollering from their end of the wall, more men filling up the bridge.

  “The other man, Majesty? You fought with someone?” The guard glanced down toward the moat, frowning.

  “He sank.” Elisha gulped and wiped back the wet hair from his face. “Mortimer?”

  They blinked back at him. “Didn’t the lion take him, Your Majesty?” Pernel asked.

  Shaking his head made Elisha’s whole body shiver. “He was alive when I left him.”

  The standing guard swiveled expertly on the wall and cupped his hands to his mouth. “Lord Mortimer may live!”

  At the far end, the men turned from shouting after the king’s well-being, to solving the problem of the sealed gates. In a few moments, a terrible crash resounded down the wall, followed by a second crash as a party thundered down the steps to the cacophony of the animals below.

  By the time Elisha rose and walked unsteadily with his companions back to the drawbridge at the gate, they met a similar group emerging, Mortimer in their midst, cradling his arm. Blood, dirt, and fur stained the lord’s dark clothes and smeared his face, framed by unkempt hair and beard. He held himself with dignity, squaring his shoulders and drawing a deep breath before he folded himself into a bow. Holding the posture a long moment, Mortimer dripped blood that swirled into the water pooling around Elisha’s feet.

  Finally, he met Elisha’s gaze. “Perhaps we should speak again, Your Majesty.” He tipped his head. “Under more favorable circumstances.”

  Elisha searched his tired face. “Join me with some friends to break the fast.”

  Mortimer nodded.

  To the gate guards plus the dozen others that surrounded them, Elisha said, “No one from Mortimer’s household is to pass from the tower, understood?”

  Mortimer’s shoulders drooped, and he drew his wounded arm closer. “Am I under arrest?”

  “Not yet.” Elisha stepped closer and the lord caught his breath as Elisha took his elbow, examining the wound.

  “Lion swiped him good, eh?” one of the guard’s asked as Elisha moved aside the shreds of cloth.

  Indeed, it resembled claw marks, but Mortimer’s furtive glance caught Elisha’s eye. “It’s not deep,” Elisha murmured, “but stitches would be wise.”

  “But how’d you kill the lion, my lord?” his waiting servant asked Mortimer.

  Again, their eyes met, and Mortimer said, “It was the king who felled the beast.” He leaned on his man as a party of guards escorted him back to his chambers.

  The crowd accompanied Elisha with a buoyancy, as if they’d heard joyous news or witnessed a moment of greatness.

  Back at the royal chambers, a flurry of servants stoked the fire and fetched him dry clothes of warm wool. As Pernel and Walter assisted, removing his wet tunic and undershirt, a few of the others whispered about his scarred back—scourged! The murmurs of legend wove about him, and Elisha felt helpless to prevent it. After a time, the servants subsided, leaving him by the fire with a mug of warmed wine and a fur throw across his lap. Dozing, Elisha imagined the Christ of the royal chapel coming down off the cross, berating him for his arrogance, saying, “Verily, pride goeth before a fall,” an
d Elisha shivered awake to the creak of the door.

  “If I might disturb you, Majesty.” Pernel closed the door behind him.

  “Please.” Elisha waved him closer, and the young man nearly danced across the room, a roll of parchment in his hand.

  “The map, Your Majesty, of the coast.” He flourished the scroll, then spread it upon the table, placing a pitcher on one corner and spoons on the others. Elisha put off his weariness to join him, running his hand over the coastline with its lumps and its spidery black writing wriggling inland or sometimes out to sea at the mouths of rivers. “I’m sorry it took so long, and still it’s not complete. If you need to search south, below the Humber, or above Edinburgh, you’ll need another, Your Majesty.”

  “Tell me about it. Everything you know.”

  “Been as far as Carlisle, with his royal highness.” With his finger, he drew an invisible line most of the way up, going off the page. “Must be over hereabouts, Your Majesty. King Edward had to shut down some coal mines outside Newcastle during my da’s time, but we caught wind they were back to mining again, so we did a tramp over there. Royal castles are already marked, and I’ve added a thing or two so far. I’d have more, but . . .”

  Elisha waved away his regret. “It’s a good start; I don’t want to delay the search any longer—he’s already been gone too long.” The map’s pattern of lines writhed and stilled before his tired eyes, so many worms in a rich garden, but which might point him in the right direction? “Everything you know.”

  “The sea up there is gray and rough, mostly, with tall headlands, but the land smooths out a bit here.”

  A knock sounded on the door, then Walter’s voice followed, “Your Majesty, I’ve got some stew to warm you.”

  “Enter!” Then, to Pernel, Elisha said, “What’s this?” He pointed to a protrusion near the Scottish border, marked with an elaborate cross.

  “The Holy Isle.” He crossed himself. “I thought of that, Majesty.”

  Walter held the door while a pair of servers entered, carrying a tray with a steaming crock and more of the pure-white bread. The odor of beef stock wafted in with them, as did a slender figure, cloaked and silent, whose presence warmed Elisha’s skin and tingled in his chest. Brigit, employing her deflection. What did she want this time? And how could he get her out without revealing her for a witch?

  “It’s been rebuilt since the Northmen, of course,” Pernel continued. “Lots of monks but still a number of ruins where—”

  He stopped short as Elisha caught his arm, then released him. “Later.” He smiled and straightened. “We’ll need to clear the table, in any event.”

  Walter paused in the act of carrying a second trestle table while one of the servers fetched the legs, and the cloaked Brigit silently walked by, around Elisha’s back. He could feel the bright spike of her interest.

  “We’ve got another, Majesty.” Walter propped the tabletop on one foot. “Sorry to interrupt.”

  “This is fine.” Elisha lifted the spoons that weighted his map and it curled with a rustle. “We’ll come back to it later.”

  Brigit’s hand slid along the back of his neck, ruffling his hair as they set the table. Walter and Pernel were visibly confused, even hurt by his tone. “What’s that?” asked Brigit against his warming skin. “It did not look like France.”

  When the servers had finished, Walter gave a short bow and exited. Pernel frowned after him until Elisha said, “Go on. I’ll ring if I need you.”

  Pernel’s bow was longer than usual, then he shut the door behind him.

  “Buggers, aren’t they? Earth and sky, could they be more obvious? I don’t see how you can abide their presence, never mind letting them dress you.” Brigit shuddered as she slipped back her hood. She lifted the lid of the crock and inhaled deeply, her disgust turning to pleasure. “Mmm. May I join you?”

  “I don’t seem able to stop you,” he snapped.

  Her green eyes flashed back up to his, her lips pressed together. The lid of the crock clattered back from her pale fingers. “Do you want me to go? Truly, you seemed so lonely the last time. Then that nightmare. You need someone. Someone close, who can truly understand what you’re going through.”

  “I have a confessor.”

  “What, Father Michael? He’s hardly worthy of your new status.”

  “Do you know the best part of my new status, Brigit? I decide who is worthy. I choose.” He tapped a finger against his chest.

  “Is that why you took the lords a-hunting? Is that why you’ve issued a writ about petty theft? For goodness sake, Elisha, either one of us could burn at any moment, and you are off hunting and worrying over bread!” She snatched up the loaf and tossed it into the fire where it sent a puff of smoke and ash.

  “You have no idea what worries me.”

  “Scotland, apparently—but not even Scotland. Do you think the Northumbrians will rise up in arms?”

  “The royal clerks are already researching changes to the laws against torture, Brigit, I am trying—”

  “Clerks and knowledge will not be enough to defend the magi. Haven’t you seen enough by now to know the barons will never support you? Your laws will never get past the parliament.”

  “We are a nation of laws, Brigit, this is how it’s done.”

  “But you’re frustrated with how long it takes, even I can see that. You still bow to the barons when they should be bowing to you. Every desolati in the nation should be—”

  Someone banged on the door, and a man’s voice shouted, “Brigit! I know you’re in there! For the love of God, you brazen whore!”

  Chapter 17

  Brigit’s cheeks flared pink, her mouth open, but no sound emerged.

  “Sir! You can’t just—” someone protested outside.

  Elisha pushed back and crossed to the door, letting her father in with a bow, waving back the startled servants on the landing. He worried over what she might do if he didn’t have an eye on her—but the risks of her eying him back had grown too much. What if she found out about his search for Thomas, that her hope of influencing the throne would be dashed if Elisha succeeded?

  “Sir,” he told the man who swept by him, “I think you should take her.”

  The man turned, even more red than his daughter as he gave a hasty bow. “Forgive me, Your Majesty—really, that was—I’m sorry. Unforgivably rude.” With his graying ginger hair and round belly, he bore only a slight resemblance to Brigit. Once the apology was done, he swung back to his child, puffing up his chest. In their reddened faces and curt gestures, the resemblance manifested.

  “Come then, child. It’s clear you’re not wanted here.”

  Brigit’s voice fell low, her gaze swinging from one to the other. “You don’t understand what’s at stake, neither of you.”

  “Aside from what little reputation remains to you?” Spreading his hands, the fellow inclined his head. “Your Majesty has not yet been. . . blessed with children. There was a time I should have wished for more of them.”

  Elisha nodded vaguely, but his gaze stayed with Brigit; golden and glowing, the fury rippling from her like the lion’s mane as the creature moved to pounce—and he wondered if opening the door to her father might not have been a terrible mistake.

  “If you haven’t a care for me or for our people, Father, the very least you might do is stay out of it!”

  “I do care,” he protested, “Of course I do, but it does not give license for this kind of behavior. Sneaking to a man’s bedchamber? Whisking off to visit your husband on the battlefield, yes, but this? And he not two months in the grave!”

  The gathering inferno of Brigit’s presence took on a tremor as her eyes widened, shifting toward Elisha and away. “You do not know of what you speak, Father,” she said, with a gesture pushing down her anger. “If you wish to berate me like a child, you might’ve chosen a better time
and place.”

  “You chose the place!” He pounded forward, bracing his hands upon the table. “You chose it. Don’t forget why your mother died. Forgive me, Majesty, if forgiveness there might be for such unseemliness.”

  Outside, a couple of page boys gaped. Elisha clicked the door shut between his chamber and the audience, and walked forward in her father’s wake, a single word capturing his attention. “Husband?” he echoed. “Brigit?”

  She took a step away to keep them both in view. “My mother died because she tried to show Prince Thomas how much better his land could be, if witches could work openly. We have a chance now, Elisha, you and I together. There is a way we can put the barons in their place and protect our people—”

  “Brigit,” Elisha said sharply. “You never mentioned you were married.”

  “Married to Prince Alaric she was, Your Majesty. And she’s bearing his child, though that’s still not widely known.” When he shook his head, his hair fluffed out, a nimbus of fatherly confusion. “After so long being outside of court, we came here to take her rightful place, to be acknowledged—then he died—God rest him.” Looking heavenward, he crossed himself with the precision of a marksman.

  “It was Alaric who betrayed your mother, Brigit,” Elisha said, anger, hurt, and confusion interwoven. “Because he envied her attention to Thomas. When were you married?”

  “Where did you hear that?” she asked, her attention keen, but her father cut his hand through the air between them, glowering.

  “They married the end of April, Your Majesty.” At this, he ducked his head and toyed with the fat buckle of his belt. “It was a small ceremony, you understand. It was hard to know how the prince’s father would take it, you see?”

  Frowning, Elisha counted back in his head. “The night of the church fire.” His party moved toward the battle that night, stopping to help at the fire where he smothered the flames from Brigit’s hair and helped the prince escape, not knowing who he was. The first night he had met either of them and had unwittingly become entangled in the affairs of the crown. Alaric’s boyish face grinned in Elisha’s memory. Trysting in the church the prince had said. Even when Elisha did not know who he was, and they had no expectation of meeting again, Alaric kept this secret. When Brigit had seduced Elisha to get pregnant, she was already married. And here she stood, trying to do it again.