Elisha Rex

by E. C. Ambrose

  “Pardon me, Master,” Elisha said, giving a short bow as the two stared back.

  “If it’s work you’re after, we’re nearly done,” said the taller man, crossing his arms.

  “No, I can see that. I’ve not been to the city for a couple of months, nor have I heard of any projects. Can you tell me what you’re building?”

  The two shared a look, and Elisha felt a slender shaft of cold too deep to be natural. He masked himself in confusion and country ways, borrowing from the owner of his second-hand cloak.

  “It’s a church.”

  Elisha glanced around the square room, surmounted by a peaked roof. Something the height of a dining table, but larger, hid beneath a cloth at its center. Elisha’s uneasiness grew, the brand pricking upon his chest. With a smile, he faced the men—the master builder, and the mancer. “It’s like no church I’ve ever seen. A central altar, is it?” He gestured toward the covered object.

  “’Sright,” said the builder. “A new design. She’s right proud of it and won’t have it changed.”

  “Ah, the queen’s church.” Elisha grinned even as the mancer, a hawk-nosed, gray-haired man, frowned back at him. “Come to think of it, I have heard tell. She chose this spot because her mother died here, am I right? It’s a sort of memorial.” Elisha rubbed his neck as he feigned admiration, his fingers returning to the scar where Morag would have had his hide. He scratched at his short beard, then lowered his hand, hoping it looked nonchalant.

  “That’s right,” said the builder, smiling himself now. “See here, sir”—he pointed to the diagram—“there’ll be four basins for holy water, at the corners of the altar, see?”

  Elisha came nearer, keeping toward the builder’s end of the table, and tucked his hands behind him as he studied the plan. Four basins. An altar just the size of a man, spread-eagled, built over a place of power for the queen herself. Bile crept up Elisha’s throat.

  “We’ve got no time for visitors,” snapped the gray-haired man.

  “Bosh,” said the builder. “Should’ve given us more than two weeks before the dedication. Still, quick as we’ve worked, it’ll be a right pretty church in honor of the queen’s dam, ’f I do say so myself.”

  “No doubt,” the mancer sniffed, his shaggy eyebrows furrowing as the cold finger of his attention prodded Elisha’s defenses. Elisha stepped out the door just as a mounted party galloped by and turned down the well-trodden path toward Saint Bartholomew’s. The wind of their passage cut through his cloak, and Elisha turned up his hood again, catching his breath. Mancers, at least half the ones he had counted, and a single servant in their midst borne upon the saddle of the lead rider. Most he recognized from the fair earlier. The others, no doubt, would recognize him. Dear God—and Sister Sabetha waited there for him.

  Elisha set out after them, his knees feeling weak as he walked. He unfurled his senses before him, reaching toward the church and priory, skimming over the hospital where the fears of the dying crowded his attention. He strode forward, not running, not daring to waste his strength. They would find her quickly, or not, no matter how fast he ran. Besides, they wanted him: the nun was only a means to that end.

  He came cautiously through the graveyard. Two men lounged against the low surrounding wall, their cloaks remarkably clean given the rake and hoe that leaned against the wall with them. His brother’s grave lay a few rows up from the pair, but he kept walking, forcing his shoulders to relax. At least he felt sure he did not imagine their attention—soldiers of the duke or the king, set to guard any place where Elisha might appear. Rounding the corner, out of sight of the guards, he flattened himself against the wall. Two men stood with the horses, and they looked up. Elisha projected his absence, applying the Law of Polarity to create a deflection and hoping he’d done it soon enough that they had not already noticed him. If they did, they made no move. But would they? No, they would act as if nothing happened while alerting those inside to his presence, assuming the others did not know.

  Elisha sent his awareness out through the earth, sorry now that it had stopped raining. Seeking attunement as he sought his hunters, Elisha reached up through stone and wood and into the sanctuary of Saint Bartholomew’s. Eight more mancers waited inside, not grouped together but scattered singly and in pairs. He caught his breath. Brigit’s presence glowed among them, bright as her hair. Only a handful of desolati occupied the church, and he had not known Sister Sabetha long enough to recognize her at such a distance. He squared his shoulders and walked to the door.

  A slight chill caught Elisha’s attention, and he glanced down to find a smear of blood on the threshold. He slid his booted foot over it, frowning. The blood belonged to no one he knew—a great relief—but it resonated inside the church on most of those cold forms lurking within. He smiled grimly and stepped over, carrying a bit of the blood with him in the stitching of his sole.

  His footfalls echoed in the dark church, his shadow growing strong, then fading as he neared and passed each candelabra. As he walked, he let the projections fall away. Death gathered to him, seeping up from the graves outside and from the tombs of the rich patrons lining the walls. Heads turned. The mancers smiled, but let him pass. This one nodded a formal greeting, that one curtsied. Elisha ignored them all and moved steadily toward the bench at the side, where two women sat, their faces revealed in the glow of candlelight.

  “But can it be that you didn’t know?” Brigit asked. “It must be hard for a man to conceal such evils, and you being a woman of God. No doubt you are more sensitive to such things.”

  “I came with him for the safety of the child, my lady. Seemed to me he wanted what’s best for her, at any rate.”

  “Then you saw no reason to distrust him.”

  Sister Sabetha did not answer but looked away into the dim recesses beyond the altar. “You say he killed the last queen.”

  “Yes, and the prince, and our own archbishop—to attack a man of the cloth! Well, even those inclined to trust him before could hardly doubt after that.” Her back to Elisha and the aisle, Brigit radiated concern as she leaned toward the nun. “Good Sister, I know, more than anyone, that he seems so worthy of trust. And more than any, I know how he betrays it. I don’t blame you for believing.”

  Elisha cleared his throat, and Sabetha jumped, her hand flying to her cheek, but Brigit merely lifted her head. “Come and sit by me, Elisha Barber. We have so much to talk about.”

  Sister Sabetha lowered her hands and tried to master her expression. “Is it true, what she said?” She opened her clasped hands to reveal a medallion of Saint Elisha, and he sighed.

  “I killed the archbishop, after a fashion, but he’s the one who killed the queen. And the prince—Prince Alaric that was, this lady’s betrothed—killed Alfleda’s mother, had Alfleda brought to the convent, and would have killed King Thomas, given the chance. I took the chance away from him.” Elisha softened nothing: if he offended the nun, she might up and go, taking herself out of harm’s way.

  Instead, Sabetha simmered with wrath of her own. “Have you lied to bring us here? And what’ve you done with the girl?”

  “Exactly what I said I would—I brought her to her father.”

  “And ruined the royal wedding, one might add, though I did receive both crown and ring,” Brigit remarked, slipping a strand of hair behind her ear, the gold ring flashing on her finger. She wore simple traveling clothes, warm and serviceable.

  “Which makes me wonder why you’re not there enjoying the feast.”

  Brigit leaned back. “The wedding was hours ago, Elisha. What crimes have you committed since then?”

  “Let her go,” Elisha said, softly.

  “Nobody is holding her, Elisha, love.” She bit off the word, her pretty face flushed with pink. “She has been waiting for you, for a long time. I simply came by to pray for my baby, and I offered to keep her company.”

  “Yo
u’ve been sitting here pouring acid into her ear, trying to find out what she knows about me.”

  “Now just you wait,” Sabetha snapped, heaving herself to her feet. “Plain enough there’s some history between you, no reason to make me a party to it.”

  “Between us? Oh, no, Sister.” Brigit reached out and caught the nun’s arm. “I once thought there was, you understand.” She managed a teardrop that gleamed upon her cheek. “Only to find out later the truth about him.” She shot Elisha a look that pierced his awareness, and he suddenly realized the mounting pressure of her presence, a force pushing against him. “But you’re not a bugger, not really, are you, Elisha Barber?” She thrust a finger toward him. “You still want me, just like your precious Thomas wants me, like he’s longing to come back up to our bed.”

  The revulsion overwhelmed any attraction he had for her, and Elisha shook his head. “You ground him down until he had no choice but to trust you. He’ll never love you.”

  “He’ll never love you, either, Elisha Barber.” She flung her hands in the air as if it all meant nothing to her. “He cringes at the sound of your name.” Taking up her skirt in two fists, Brigit came closer, lifting her face to look into his, so close that her breath burned across his lips as she hissed, “I come to him at night and whisper your name, just to hear him whimper.”

  Elisha backed away until his calves scraped against the next bench. Brigit came on, her chin forward, her eyes glittering by the light of dancing flames. “Oh, yes, Elisha, I lie there beside him, night after night,” her voice sank away completely, yet still her words insinuated themselves in his mind. “Sometimes I cry out, ‘Stop, Elisha, please, no! Elisha, stop!’ Every night he wakes up crying and crawls into my arms.”

  Elisha surged forward, and Brigit fell to the side, snatching for Sabetha’s support and wailing. “Stop him, please! My baby!”

  Looming over her, Elisha froze. “You vicious bitch.”

  Two mancers leapt to defend her as she huddled in the nun’s arms, and Sabetha glared back at him. “Holy Mother Mary, you are mad.”

  “Did you not hear what she’s doing to him?” Elisha shouted, the fury howling through his skull.

  But of course Sabetha had heard none of it, for Brigit struck through the air and the stone and whispered in places only Elisha knew. “You dare attack a pregnant woman, and in the house of the Lord? Because you envy her the bed of the king?” She wrapped her strong arms around Brigit. “Come away, Majesty. Let your men take care of this.”

  “Things will change, after today.”

  “Oh, yes, they will,” said Brigit, resisting Sabetha’s attempt to draw her away. “For we are married.” She waved her hand before him, displaying the ring. “He’s mine, Elisha, by all the laws of God and man. Your perversions can’t touch him.”

  Reining in his anger, Elisha said, “He’s got his daughter at his side right now, not you. It’s she who’ll tell him all she feels and all she knows.”

  Brigit’s eyes narrowed and the mancers edged nearer but still did not touch him. “I wish he had killed you. I thought I might still have a place for you in the glory to come, but truly, I wish the duke had spilled your guts all over the floor. At the very least, I wish they’d had your head off that very night for all the trouble you’ve caused.” She tipped her head, almost as if she sniffed the air. “You should never have gotten that close, not the first time. Certainly not today. How did you do it?”

  “I know a few tricks.”

  “Did you see him arrive at the convent, Sister?”

  “Yes, Majesty,” said Sabetha, standing straighter under the queen’s regard. “On a horse—a dun-colored cob, he was.”

  “But how did they get there? Did the sky open?”

  Hesitantly, Sabetha answered, “No, Majesty, they came up the road, just as usual.”

  “He did not cross England on a bloody horse!” Brigit snarled. “He didn’t travel three hundred miles beneath my notice on a bloody ordinary horse.”

  “Well, Your Majesty, how he got that far, I’ve no idea!” Sabetha’s cheeks turned pink, then she started and shook herself. “Beneath your notice, Majesty? But how—?”

  “She doesn’t know anything, Brigit,” Elisha said. “Nothing she tells you can help.”

  “What are you, Elisha Barber? What have you become?”

  “And how can you become one, too, isn’t that what you mean?”

  She reached out swiftly and poked him. “How did you change your own presence? How did you sever the contact of your own child?”

  “Your child?” Sabetha gasped, but Elisha put up a hand to stave off her words.

  Brigit ignored her completely. “Earlier today, you felt almost like yourself again. I was able to find you, but now, it’s like you’re not even there. Like a necromancer. What’s your talisman? Is it another baby’s head? Who have you killed to get this power?”

  “Who would you have to kill to get your own? God only knows.” But his eyes rested briefly on her stomach, and his heart hesitated in his breast.

  “Who to kill? There are so many choices, I hardly know where to begin.”

  Himself? His baby? But it was her child, too, a child she conceived on purpose after marrying a prince. “They gave you the throne when I wouldn’t. What are you giving them in return, Brigit?”

  “What are you?” Sabetha’s wide eyes encompassed both of them, the medallion swinging from her limp hands.

  “She’s a witch,” Elisha replied, “like her mother before her.”

  With a sharp smile, Brigit answered, “He’s a monster, like nothing ever seen upon this earth. He used to be a healer, but the day’s long passed for that. I even offered him the chance to help me, to save our people, but he refused. Now he trades in insults, threats, and death.”

  A few candles blew out, then a few more, as if dark wings soared through the flames and plunged them into darkness.

  “Is the king one, too?” Sabetha breathed. “A monster?”

  “No,” said Elisha, his eyes still fixed on Brigit’s in the growing darkness. “He’s a decent man who deserves better than a monster for his bride.”

  “You can’t hurt me.” Brigit’s voice echoed through the chill, quiet space even as someone else cried out against the darkness. “I’ve already won.”

  “If that were true, you would not be here, talking to me. Your allies aren’t telling you everything. They didn’t even tell you about Alfleda until I’d nearly found her. Why would you ally with people like that?”

  “I am giving them the past, Elisha, and they will give me the future.”

  Cold crackled in the air around them. Elisha said, “Sister, take my hand.”

  “Don’t,” cried Brigit’s voice. “You know what he can do.”

  Darkness fell with a gust of wind that ruffled Elisha’s hair and slapped his cloak against his legs. A stentorian voice called out, “Be still, my children, the lord will bring us light.”

  “Sabetha! Quickly!” he called out, sensing her as he felt the shapes that loomed out of the black to either side.

  “Majesty, your hand, please!”

  “Damn it all, Sister, don’t do that!” Elisha cried.

  “Too late—” Brigit’s crow of triumph twisted into protest and a hand grabbed Elisha’s.

  “Work your spell, monster—the queen’s angry,” Sabetha’s voice muttered.

  With a snap of cold, Elisha sought the blood that stained his shoes. Together, he and the nun flashed from darkness into eternity accompanied by a howling wind of death and Brigit’s cry of rage. Elisha snatched at Biddy’s memory, the final gift of light she left him, and the horrors vanished as radiance filled his mind.

  “Sweet Jesus, it’s so beautiful,” Sabetha sighed, her fingers entwined with his.

  He heard her voice at a distance, a song from beyond a hill. Too soon,
as he hit the threshold, Elisha stumbled and the pair of them tumbled out of the church and down the steps. His head thumped the ground. Sabetha sat up beside him, blinking into the last rays of crimson light, with the rising moon glowing silver on her hair.

  “What was that?”

  “The valley of the shadow of death.” Elisha rolled and heaved himself to his feet, shaky but standing. They couldn’t stay in a place marked by the mancers. If he could reach his brother’s grave, they had a passage of their own, one no other could know so well.

  “Come on.” He put down his hand, and she took it without hesitation. Pulling her into motion, Elisha dashed past the pair of guards and the horses they tended just as a blast of wind struck them from behind as someone else opened the passage Elisha had followed. The horses whinnied and reared, stampeding in all directions to escape the fell voices howling on that wind. Elisha staggered and got his feet under him, gathering the dazed nun.

  “How did they find you, Sister?” Elisha hissed as they ran.

  “Sorry?”

  “Do they have you marked, do they have anything from you?”

  “No. ’T’was the earl’s manservant. They bought him for a few coins. Cor, but I can’t get over that valley.”

  “Get over it, Sister, we’ve got to run.” He skidded to a halt by the wall, looking both ways in the strange light. It seemed as if the fires of Hell lit up the western sky while the silvery light of heaven drifted down on the opposite side.

  “Can’t we go back there? The valley, I mean, and get away?”

  “Not so easy,” he muttered. But the remark, delivered with such wistful appeal, gave him an idea, and he set off into the graveyard. His feet slammed down and stuck, dropping him to his knees with a force that nearly snapped bones. Elisha screamed.