Elisha Rex

by E. C. Ambrose

  Elisha considered whether these two were preparing to offer assistance, or simply gathering information for their prioress. “Her mother is dead, that much is true. Her father. . . he’s a powerful man. Those people brought her here to keep her secret, to keep a hold over her father, if they needed it.”

  “I sent to the family, I did, when I found her.” Biddy’s hands curled as if she sought something to hold. “But her uncle says the danger’s still too great, to keep an eye out,”—a snort of something like laughter—“and they’d send when it was safe. From her father, nothing.” Her mouth snapped shut.

  “And you’re a queer sort of messenger,” Sabetha said. “If he wants her now, why didn’t he come himself?”

  “Sister, nothing would give him more joy than to know she is alive and safe. He’s suffered great losses in recent months, and this could well be his reason to go on living.”

  “You care a good deal for him,” she observed.

  “He is my dearest friend.”

  “How come your friends aren’t here to support you?”

  “They were—they are—deceived. Just as Alfleda was when someone said her father did not want her. He never had the chance.”

  Sabetha straightened and tipped her head toward the far door. “It’s not us you need to convince any road. The prioress will never let you take her. If you’d’ve seen the little thing when they brought her here two years ago. It’s a wonder she did not die of the grief.”

  Quietly, Elisha said, “Her father is dying of the same sickness. They may cure each other.”

  Sabetha pursed her lips, then pushed back and rose, making quickly for the colonnade with long, workmanlike strides.

  “There’s a good girl,” Biddy crooned. “I thought she’d come round.” She reached out and pushed the tray to one side. “Give me your hand.” When he hesitated, she waved her knobby fingers. “Give it here.”

  Elisha obeyed, laying his hand gently in hers, forcing his fingers to relax.

  “Such cold! Why are you so cold?”

  “Lady, I walk with death,” he said through her skin.

  “Tut, tut, Barber. A man who walks a cow pasture need not be covered in shit.”

  Elisha flinched, but her hand closed over his, her blind eyes rolling this way and that as she bobbed her head. The hot touch of her hand tingled all the way down his arm. Her presence loomed distant and impossibly grand, like a cliff seen from the ocean. “You rang the bell that night, and you tried to take her back from them in the street, when they struck you down.”

  The truth of it echoed within his flesh, with a stab of grief, then she flung his hand away and leaned back as the door opened again behind her.

  Elisha massaged his hand, unsure if the interview had gone well. Sabetha entered, nudging before her a tall, thin girl whose golden hair blew around her face. She huddled in a plain shawl, her head down. Sabetha closed the door behind them, and the girl’s hair settled softly over her shoulders. “Come, child.” She took the girl’s arm to lead her forward.

  “Alfleda.” Elisha rose, the hairs he carried were warm like a bird nestled against his flesh.

  “We don’t know that name, sir,” the nun said, but the girl slowly raised her head.

  The only portrait of her Elisha had seen must have been painted five years ago, when she was around three years old, and the only detail clear was the bright gleam of her blue eyes, so like her father’s. Those eyes now met his, then slipped away again. She had round cheeks and full lips that brought to mind her mother, but the straight nose, the clear brow were all her father’s. Elisha took a deep breath and came around the table.

  Alfleda cringed, leaning against the nun who pressed an arm around her shoulders.

  Stopping, Elisha lowered himself to his knees, his head now below hers by several inches. “Alfleda, I have come from your father’s house to find you and bring you to him.”

  “He doesn’t want me,” she mumbled, turning her cheek against the nun’s coarse robes. “He has a new wife and new babies.”

  “He had a wife, and he may have again.” God forbid, Elisha added to himself. “But he has no other child, Alfleda, and he wants you more than anything.”

  She even frowned like Thomas, and Elisha’s heart lurched. “Then why did he leave me here?”

  “When your father came home, he thought you were dead.” Elisha wet his lips. “Along with your mother.”

  The girl’s eyes flared, and she clutched Sabetha’s hand around herself. “When the bad men came.”

  “The people who came later told your father you were dead, too. He believes that they buried you.”

  “You should not speak of such things to a child,” Sabetha said, stroking Alfleda’s hair.

  Elisha bit back the anger in his words and shook his head. “Sister, she was there. She needs to understand what happened to her that night, to her family.”

  “But Alaric wouldn’t lie to Father, surely,” Alfleda blurted. “He told me Father didn’t want me, that I would remind him too much of Mother, and so I had to stay away.”

  Sister Sabetha startled, and Alfleda wriggled against her too-strong arm until the nun visibly relaxed. “Alaric?” she demanded. “Who’s Alaric?”

  “My father’s brother,” said Alfleda, annoyed.

  Sabetha’s eyelids fluttered, and the color vanished from her cheeks. “Your father’s brother, Alaric. Dear Lord.”

  Elisha held up his hand. “Please, Sister, please say nothing more.”

  “But she’s—but how?”

  “Let the barber speak,” Biddy said, pushing back her chair with a squeal across the stone floor. “I’d like to know the rest of this tale.”

  Rubbing his temples, Elisha considered how to make Alfleda understand that her uncle not only lied to his brother, but betrayed them to the bandits in the first place, and went on to accuse Thomas of trying to murder her grandfather. Which brought up the issue that it was Elisha himself who accomplished that task. Dear Lord, indeed.

  “Who are you?” Alfleda asked. “Are you his barber? Is that what she meant?”

  “It’s more complicated than that. God knows I wish it were not so.”

  Her frown deepened, but she edged a little away from the nun’s protective shadow. “Why do adults always say that it’s complicated, when what you mean is that you’re keeping secrets?”

  With a faint smile, Elisha nodded. “Very well, then, Alfleda. Your father is very dear to me, and I am loyal to him, but we have not known each other long. I would have said he was my very best friend. Now, he thinks I have betrayed him, and, if he sees me, he might well kill me.” He paused, his eyes stinging, but she blinked back at him.

  “Did you betray him?”

  “I did not.”

  Nodding, tucking her hair back behind her ear, she said, “Continue.”

  Elisha nearly laughed but caught himself, knowing laughter would only start the tears he could not afford. “When I learned you were alive, I thought, if I could bring you to him, he might believe me.”

  Gravely, she nodded once more. “You want him to be your friend again.”

  “Very much so.” Elisha’s chest constricted, and the air caught in his lungs.

  Alfleda brought her thumb up to her mouth, and nibbled on the nail, though it was already as short as the rest. “It’s a good story.”

  “Aye, it is, girl,” said Biddy. “But do you believe it?”

  “Do you?”

  Biddy swayed her head this way, then that way. “More or less. I think it’s true.”

  The bright blue eyes focused on Elisha, tracing over his face, down his figure, back up again to the face. She lowered the thumb from her teeth. “Right then. I’m going home.”

  “Halt!” someone shouted and a door banged open. Soldiers streamed through, swords drawn. “Halt in the na
me of the king!”

  Chapter 27

  Inadvertently, Elisha obeyed. How could Thomas’s men have found him so quickly? Unless they had searched through the darkness and knew which way to go. A dozen men pounded into the room, the prioress following on their heels, tall and foreboding as a stormcloud. His glance flew from face to face, and he recognized no one from the lodge: these were not the king’s men—not at all. “Sister, take the girl and run!”

  “What?” she barked back.

  “Is my father with you?” Alfleda ran a few steps nearer, but Elisha shot out his hand to stop her.

  “These are not your father’s men.”

  “How dare you, sir?” the captain shouted. “We come in the king’s name and in his service! Give up the child and we shall not harm you.”

  Shaking his head, Elisha said, “No. If you are the king’s men, you are disobeying the orders he gave this morning.” Elisha had no gift of prophecy, but also had no doubt that neither the duke’s men nor Thomas’s would give him so much as a breath before they cut him down.

  The captain started, one foot in the air. He cast a glance in the prioress’s direction, his lips parted, but the surety slammed down again as they advanced. “We know our orders, sir, but there are ladies present.”

  “Do not shed blood in the halls of the Lord,” the prioress intoned at his back. A few men split off, moving swiftly down the side aisle.

  Beneath Elisha’s hand, Alfleda’s heart beat wildly. Her small, soft fingers gripped his arm.

  He bent to her ear. “I have a horse in the stables. Tell Sabetha to take you. Go now. If I don’t come soon, ride home. Look for your father and Countess Allyson Dunbury. Stop for no one—and don’t go near your father’s betrothed.”

  “Yes.” She released him, backing away. In three steps, she darted for the door. The nun shrieked and sprang after her.

  The soldiers ran, swords flashing. “Halt, I say!”

  “Oh, my! Oh, Dear God!” wailed a disconsolate voice from behind. Biddy floundered out of her chair, arms waving, and blundered into the far table with such force that she knocked it askew, skidding the legs across the floor until its corner slammed the wall, blocking the exit. The lead soldier collided with it and slid beneath with a grunt.

  “Heavens!” screeched the old cook. “What have I done? What’s going on?”

  Two men vaulted onto the table, only to have the old lady grab it again, as if trying to steady herself, and tip the lot of them onto the floor.

  Elisha, too, ran for the door, but the fallen soldier tottered to his feet, one hand rubbing his bruises, the other still clenching his sword. Even winded, the man glared with a purpose and the sword gleamed steadily. Elisha drew his little knife and the man laughed.

  Two soldiers fought their way past the table and burst out the door while the others advanced upon him.

  “He’s of no consequence!” roared the captain. “Get that girl!”

  The others came up quick enough but only a few, and he realized the rest had gone back outside. They didn’t care about him, only about Alfleda. Damn it!

  “Please, sir, I’m blind,” Biddy moaned, flinging herself upon the captain.

  “Get off, Biddy, this is men’s business,” the prioress ordered, hiking up her habit in both hands as she hurried near. She caught hold of Biddy and dragged her away.

  Elisha ducked a wild swing and staggered back a few paces flinging the tendrils of his awareness all around him. One more step, and he stood in the path of the shade. The spirit flared to life by the fire and ran, falling through him with a rush of cold. Elisha snatched at the power. He blasted the air with the wind of death.

  The captain, nearly out the door now, stopped. On one heel, he pivoted and raised his head. His young face split into a grin, and he gave a slight nod of acknowledgement. “Have I the pleasure of meeting Elisha Barber? I heard what you did at the coal mine.”

  The other soldiers frowned from one to the other, and their captain held up his hand then pointed. “Let the others tend the child. And we shall handle him.”

  “We are to make sure she does not leave,” one of them began.

  “She won’t get far.” The captain gave a slight shake of his head. “I should have recognized him immediately. This is the man who killed the queen.”

  Elisha did not bother with denials as they came at him. By reflex, he gathered the howling wind of death and drew it near, letting it lie close to his skin like a coat of shadows.

  Three of the men hesitated, one of them even staggering back a few steps, his eyes flashing white. The fourth snorted at his companions and plunged ahead.

  Elisha raised his tiny knife and cried, “Halt, or die!” His voice echoed in the hall like the shattering of tree limbs in a storm.

  The rearmost soldier turned to flee, but his captain eviscerated him with a stroke of his ready sword, his eyes never leaving Elisha’s face.

  The fourth soldier aimed a low swipe at Elisha’s middle. Elisha twisted to one side and met steel with steel. He sent the blast of death from blade to blade through their slight contact. At the same time, he used that affinity to stretch his own blade into a sword worth the swinging.

  The man’s weapon shattered as the shock rang upon it and the hilt crumpled in his trembling hand. The hand still shook as the dark hair at his wrist turned gray. The soldier stumbled and whirled, his hand spotted with sudden age. He fled the room, stumbling over his dead companion, white hair falling from his scalp to drift upon the disturbed air.

  The captain let him go and ceased his own advance. “Stay back, men, but stand your ground! See you now what evil opposes us!”

  “Lord, have mercy!” beseeched the prioress. She fell to her knees, clutching her wooden crucifix in both hands. “Let this devil be shaken from the earth!”

  Freed from her superior’s grasp, Biddy gathered her skirts and swayed, mumbling, her milky eyes awash.

  Across the room, the captain slid home his bloody blade into its scabbard. His expression remained blank and focused. One hand reached over his shoulder and emerged with a compact crossbow, the other hand drew a bolt from the quiver at his waist. He breathed once upon the silver tip, which blackened and sizzled in the air.

  Elisha backed away, wrapping himself in cold, the other three soldiers approaching a step for each of his, though their swords wavered in their hands.

  The captain lifted his crossbow and pulled.

  Ducking the mantel, Elisha leapt into the heart of the fire, the light dazzling, the heat unable to reach him through the armor of Death. If the bolt struck the flames, he might turn it without harm.

  He spun in the fire, struggled to maintain his footing, sent up a plume of sparks into the darkness of the chimney. Flames roared around him. A figure rose up before the fire: Biddy, cutting between him and the poisoned bolt.

  With a thunk the bolt hit flesh. Elisha winced. The form before him slumped and tripped, laughing. The cold steel of death nearly left him as Biddy fell. He caught her with one arm, her wild gray hair already bursting to flames, her hands clawing at the shaft that stuck below her breast. Biddy’s laughter sprayed blood that stung with cold. A second bolt thudded into her back.

  A jolt of power flared between them. Soaring like the embers around them, Biddy and Elisha shot up the chimney. Elisha clung to her frail body, the stone channel scraping his shoulders and battering free his sword from numb fingers. Up they flew with the smoke and the outrage that crowded behind. The force of their flight, face-first through the blackness whipped tears from Elisha’s eyes. Her blood seared him with a frigid certainty.

  Elisha’s nostrils burned with the gritty fumes, and he squeezed shut his eyes, expecting at any moment his already wounded lungs would burst. Biddy’s presence, swelling with the desperate power of dying, enveloped him, overwhelming even death.

  They struck the ch
ill of open air and tumbled downward. Together, they slid down the roof and tumbled.

  Biddy’s presence sang in his ears and filled his aching throat. A brilliant light stunned his eyes, a radiance so strong, he forced them open to the wind rather than look upon it.

  She turned him as they hit the air once more, and she broke his fall. Her fragile bones snapped as she struck the earth.

  Elisha rolled and skidded, coming to a rest with his face in the dirt. He gulped for breath and heaved himself to his hands and knees, dragging himself up the slope to the woman who had saved him.

  Biddy laughed no more, but her milky eyes stared skyward, and her lips yet smiled. Elisha lay a shaky hand upon her chest. The pain tried to devour him, each broken bone causing a twinge in his own flesh, his skull and spine flaring with the awful truth of injuries too great to heal.

  Through the contact they shared, Biddy laughed again. The light reached up through him, blazing clear and banishing the shreds of darkness along with the pain. She felt it not.

  “I could’ve stopped it, Biddy,” he whispered.

  “’Twas the devil’s own dart—tipped with his poison,” she said through his skin.

  “I could—”

  “The first,” she sighed. “But the second? The third?”

  “I don’t know, Biddy, but why die for me?”

  “Not for you, for her. And for her mother,” she said. Her eyes blinked once and stared heavenward. That awesome spiral of power lifted away from her like a veil, leaving the old woman small, pale, and still. In the wake of that glow, something else settled in her limbs and in her touch. Not the cold and fear Elisha expected from Death, but something calm and endless as a sacred well, open to the sky, to the earth, to the souls parched and needy.

  The cold wind of Death moaned so softly that its voice became an air of mourning and a hymn to peace. The last petals of Biddy’s presence fell away, eddying around him with a tingling warmth that soothed his lungs like the first flowers of springtime. Elisha took a deep breath and drank in serenity.