Elisha Daemon

by E. C. Ambrose

  “I wish I had faith I’d even reach my ship,” said Guy.

  “Tell them we’ll come out,” Elisha said, projecting calm. “Tell them a party of doctors from the school will come outside to see to the sick and the injured. Then Guy and a few others head for the harbor once we’ve got the crowd a bit more under control.”

  “But the plague,” protested one of the students. “I’ve done nothing wrong—I don’t deserve to get sick like that, vomiting my life out. No!” He backed away, but Danek seized his arm.

  “This is what we’re here for, isn’t it?” he barked into the student’s terrified face. “You cannot turn away from the sick, you’re a doctor! People need you, both the sick and the dying. The priests are already turning away. Are you just a coward like the rest of them?” He snatched back his hand as if the student disgusted him. “Fine then, Elisha and I are ready. Let’s get the Frenchman back where he belongs and see if he and the Pope can’t figure a way to save the sorry lot of you.”

  “I’ll go,” said another, and “Me, too,” came the familiar voice of Ariane.

  “And I.” Silvio, the mancer, the sinister void of his presence filtering through the crowd of the living. “I wish to see Master Guy safely aboard.”

  The gatekeeper swept them with his gaze, and gave a bow to Teodor, who nodded back, then faced the gate. He swung aside a little panel in the wood and spoke through it. “Attention! Everyone listen! I cannot let you in, but some of the doctors will come out to see you—to tend the sick and the wounded. Clear a path. Lay the patients over there.” He indicated the uphill side of the street.

  “Give us the Pope’s man—maybe he can say why my children are dying,” a woman shouted.

  “If you cannot be civil, then these gates stay closed.”

  “Come on then,” demanded a voice outside. “We’ve waited long enough for this.” With a last blow against the wood, the crowd outside shuffled and shifted.

  The gatekeeper let the panel slide shut, then he and a pair of servants raised the bar and opened the gate just wide enough to let one person through at a time. When the others hesitated, Elisha pushed forward and stalked into the street, and they followed, a dozen or so doctors, students and servants. The gate slammed again behind them. “Danek,” Elisha said, “will you see to the comfort of the plague victims? It seems you’ve got the greater knowledge.”

  They moved toward the cluster of patients, victims, and their families, but Elisha spotted someone lying in the street not far off, her body splayed as if she had been running from the church. “What about her? Can some of you bring her over?”

  The shuffling crowd edged even further away. “She’s a leper,” said one of them. The area around the girl cleared rapidly, and Elisha could feel the chill of her death already, but Danek’s ire was roused.

  “You can’t get sick just by checking to see if she’s still alive,” Danek snarled. He crossed the street toward her in a storm of tension that stung Elisha’s senses. Danek stooped and gathered up the dead girl, but even the plague victims cried out when he tried to place her near the wall. “You’re all dying,” Danek said, “and she’s the lucky one to be already done with this plague of living—especially among craven wretches like you.”

  As Danek carried her off to one side, Elisha felt Teodor and Guy’s party quietly drift away toward the harbor under the cover of Danek’s furious display. Yet the magus wasn’t play-acting his fury: the girl’s death had really affected him. Even as the other man bore her away and lay her gently down again, Elisha felt the swirl of his anger and the edge of a deeper grief, a reflection of Elisha’s own dismay when the girl had been expelled from the hospital, but much stronger. In Danek, he seemed to have found his kindred in both magic and compassion.

  Elisha dropped to one knee by a man who groaned in pain, cradling his arm. Quickly finding the break, Elisha busied himself setting the bones and wrapping it with scraps one of the servants carried in a satchel strung over his shoulder. As if he had indeed gone back to the Battle of Dunbury, Elisha worked once more among the injured. He moved on to the next, using his other powers a little here and there. He did not need to be a miracle worker here, but a little encouragement to healing could only aid both the victims and the mood of the town. Down the slope, the Valley rippled wide, but the black chill of death lingered low to the ground, and Elisha looked up. The mancer Silvio worked among the victims, mumbling platitudes, bandaging cuts, and apparently nudging the occasional sufferer beyond all suffering. His movements seemed exaggerated—his voice too boisterous, his gestures of comfort too strong, as if he could barely maintain the pretense of practicing his art with the rising tide of horror all around him.

  Elisha came near to another team and recognized Danek among them. “Danek.” Elisha set his hand on the other magus’s shoulder. “Silvio is a necromancer. He’s killing people.”

  “Here, apply this poultice.” Danek pressed a damp bundle into Elisha’s palm and rose up, stalking among the fallen toward where Silvio worked, but the mancer moved away, talking with someone from the crowd and disappeared around the corner. Danek looked back at Elisha, glanced at the suffering people around them, and got back to work.

  Beneath Elisha’s hands, the fevered patient sobbed.

  “Will she be all right? I hear some folk do recover,” an old man asked, staring down at the stricken woman. “The rest’ve already gone.”

  “How long has she been sick?”

  “Four, five days?”

  Across the way, Danek shook his head.

  “You’ve done well in getting her care.” Elisha guided the old man’s hand to hold the herbal poultice in place against her burning brow.

  “Don’t waste yourselves in anger at the church or at the doctors,” proclaimed a loud voice. A man parted from the darkness, waving his hands at the air. “We’re all doomed, right enough—God’s done with us, to be sure. We might as well enjoy our last days!” He reached to his belt and pulled out a bottle, dramatically popping the cork and pouring it down his throat, then wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

  In the crowd, a woman giggled then emerged, her hair tangled and face streaked with tears. “He’s right. It’s why the priests won’t see us, they know we’re done for. My husband—” She sniffled and wiped her face. “My baby, all done for.” She stumbled up, reaching out and the man with the wine bottle cast it aside to clasp her hand. He snatched her close for an embrace, his hand roving over body.

  “We’re all for the devil, for the devil,” he sighed into her hair before he kissed her again.

  The presence of the Valley swelled and simmered all around Elisha, like the chanting of a crowd of believers, waiting for a saint to manifest on his holy day, acolytes waving their hands, beseeching and delirious with expectation. Power crackled through his flesh. The wild couple stumbled and swayed together through the torchlight to a darker alley, the man already pressing against the woman in anticipation, when Elisha caught sight of the man’s face. Silvio, drunk on the wine, or simply drunk on the power all around him. Even an ordinary necromancer, through his association with the Valley, would sense a little of what Elisha could—that strength flowing, the energy of the fear, and the focus on death as it swelled into an intoxicating brew. Apparently, Silvio had utterly succumbed to its allure. Pity the school’s faculty hadn’t seen him—but then, any official censure would still leave him free to pursue his vile ways.

  Finding another victim of the riot, Elisha brought his charge into the light and painstakingly stitched up his wounded leg. As he arched his back, stretching out, he caught sight of Silvio’s leman staggering back down the street, crooning to herself. Letting his presence go cold, Elisha pushed up and strode into the alley where Silvio stood tugging his trews into place and fumbling with his ties, the normal chill of a mancer’s suppressed life replaced with a giddy warmth. “Hey, hello.” Silvio tipped back against the wall as Eli
sha approached. “Skilled at projection, aren’t you? Didn’t realize before what you are.”

  Elisha gave a nod. “It’s hard to know who can be trusted.”

  “God, this is the best we’ve ever had it, isn’t it?” The mancer grinned and chuckled. “Relax and enjoy.” He reached out to shake Elisha’s arm.

  “It’s impressive to be sure. I know it started in Salerno. Your doing?” Elisha braced the mancer against the wall, preventing him from falling, letting him feel the surging strength that flowed from every death. A miasma indeed: the miasma of pain, fear, and misery that mancers thrived on.

  “Wish I could claim it.” Silvio’s round eyes reflected the distant moon. “But the maestro—oh, some of them do earn the title, don’t they?” He clasped his hand over Elisha’s, and his eyes narrowed. “Wait, that Roman git dropped in. It’s you he—”

  Elisha slipped the salt-inlaid knife from his belt and slammed it into the other man’s throat. The thrust cut a void into Silvio’s glee, the salt parting him from his power. He gaped, and his knees buckled. With the last of his magical strength, Silvio pushed back, but his power dissipated into nothing. The mancer’s control had fled in his giddy enthusiasm for death. Taking back the knife, Elisha hooked his arm through the dead man’s and pulled him a few steps further, to where the land dropped away into the harbor. He wiped his soiled blade on Silvio’s clothes and tumbled him over. The body splashed into the sea to be carried on the outgoing tide along with the boat that carried the Pope’s doctor. Would to God that Guy’s studies and the Pope’s faith combined could stop this madness, but Elisha knew that they could not. Tonight had been only a glimpse of the revelry to come with the spreading pestilence.

  Silvio was not the Salernitan Vertuollo spoke of, and now Elisha had one less lead in finding that person. Perhaps the mancer behind the pestilence wasn’t even at the school, but in the church, or at some other post in town—or already moved on to another place else entirely. He stalked back through the night, finding a gleam of light upon the mountains, the sky in that direction showing a few shades more pale. In the piazza, the medical team clumped together, shifting toward the door, Danek at the lead. “Come on, then, we’ve done what we could.” He briefly squeezed Elisha’s shoulder when he caught up. “It’s rare to find a man of your skill willing to work in such a fashion.”

  “I couldn’t have done this without your support to get the students out as well.” Elisha followed as Danek hurried the students along into the gates and pressed in behind them, walking quickly. Danek knew so much of what they faced, yet he faced it with both power and passion. Impulsively, Elisha said, “Have a drink with me? My companion’s brought back a fine bottle of port from the market.”

  Danek’s shadowed face turned toward him, hesitating, then said, “Come with me—I’ve got something stronger.”

  Together, they crossed the yard to the door of Danek’s subterranean workshop. “I don’t have much time,” Danek said apologetically. “Rounds.”

  “Right. I’d appreciate any time you’re willing to give.”

  Danek led him down the aisle between the preparation tables and gestured toward a bench, then reached into a chest and pulled out a jug. He cast about for a moment, then plucked two jars from a shelf, holding one out to Elisha. “Don’t worry, they’re clean.”

  Danek poured into each jar and replaced the jug, then sat on a stool, his back to the hooded lantern, leaving him in silhouette. He raised his jar. “What do we drink to, such as we are? To health? To life?”

  “To hope?” Elisha suggested.

  “Hope for the hopeless.” Danek snorted, swirled the jar, and took a swallow. “Maybe when the mighty have fallen so far they’re looking up from the grave then they’ll finally understand compassion.”

  Elisha, too, drank, finding a strong, dark liquor that warmed his mouth and seared down his throat. “The girl’s death, the leper. It really bothered you.”

  Danek thumped down his jar. “It’s the same everywhere—doctors, priests, noblemen—everyone with any power, yet they disdain those who need it the most. Their fees come from the rich, so they fawn over a lordling’s rash while a leper can’t even keep a warm bed, then they blame God for their own heartlessness.” His head shook, then he hefted the jar and took a longer drink.

  Danek’s words resonated with everything Elisha had ever struggled for. “Oh, aye,” Elisha replied. “It’s why Lucius and I hated each other from the first, back in London. I worked in the streets, and he in the manors, afraid to get his hands dirty.”

  “I heard about your confrontation at dinner. You really saved the prince, when he would’ve left the man to die as a common soldier?”

  “We do what has to be done,” Elisha answered.

  “More than anyone knows,” Danek agreed. “Yet we’re powerless in the face of so much indifference. I’ve searched for years for a way to show them what it’s like, to open their eyes to true suffering. And now, well, here we are, aren’t we?” His presence brightened as if he, too, found reason to hope.

  “Is that why you became a teacher?”

  Danek rumbled with laughter. “In a manner of speaking. But this isn’t why you wanted to share a drink.”

  “It is in part,” Elisha told him. “It’s been a long time since I met anyone I might . . . think of as a friend.”

  With a noncommittal grunt, Danek poured himself another draught and held out the jug toward Elisha, who shook his head. He’d gone too far, encroaching on the other magus’s well-guarded privacy because of his own need. “The other masters, what can you tell me about them?”

  “Haven’t you met some of them?”

  “I’ve asked Ariane for introductions in the morning. I’ve already met Teodor, Antonio, Lucius, and Christina.”

  “Most of the council, then. There’s six others on staff who haven’t run, and Fidelis, who’s hiding out in his room.”

  “Any others like us, or like Silvio? Do you know of others in Salerno?”

  “Look, Elisha, I keep to myself. I do what I can, but I don’t reach out. It’s too risky—you must know that.” Danek’s presence exuded this fear, as if even talking with Elisha were dangerous.

  “We can’t simply hide and hope for the best, even if we, ourselves survive. You’ve said it yourself: they need us. There must be something we can do, not just as doctors, but as magi.”

  Danek’s crooked grin glinted faintly in the low light. “Optimist. You sound like a child. Tell me: You’ve seen the library, you’ve spoken with Leon, yes? Have you found any cause at all for optimism?” He leaned forward, his presence keen as if the answer truly mattered to him. As well it might—it mattered to any man who cared for others.

  So it hurt when Elisha told him about the search, and had to admit he’d found nothing.

  “Don’t take it ill, Elisha. I’m sure you’ve done your best—you’ve hardly rested in your efforts, have you? And do I take it we won’t have Silvio’s aid with the bleedings anymore?”

  Elisha tipped his head.

  “Just as well.” He pointed at Elisha. “Watch yourself. You already have enemies.” Danek drained his jar. “And I have work to do.” He stood up, groaning.

  “Thanks for this,” Elisha said. “It’s rare to share something so ordinary as a drink with a colleague.”

  “Rare indeed.” Danek laughed again, but there was little humor in it. “I know precisely what you mean.”

  Chapter 15

  When Elisha reached his room, he found Gilles sitting up. “Were you at the riot, Elisha?”

  “It’s aftermath, in any case, I’ll be glad to get some rest tonight.”

  “Not yet, I’m afraid. The nun came by and reported that your patient had one of his fits.” Gilles sighed. “I shall pray for the lad, of course.”

  Elisha sagged a bit but it was true, he hadn’t visited his patient since the
middle of last night. If this was how the boy carried on, no wonder everyone had turned against him. “Thanks for waiting up.” He started to leave, then paused at the door as Gilles pulled up his covers. “Gilles? Saint Stephen. Patron saint of stone masons. Martyred by a dozen arrows in the streets of Rome. What else do you know about him?”

  “There’s more than one. One was born king of Hungary, but he’s not a martyr. And of course the founder of the Cistercian order.” He chuckled in the darkness. “Most times, people mean the Roman, the first martyr, after all. Why do you ask?”

  “I found a book dedicated to him. Nothing about the book made sense, least of all that.” He shrugged it off and said, “Pleasant dreams,” then shut the door and went in search of his patient. The yard by the hospital stood empty and silent. Curious. Perhaps the boy managed to calm himself this time. More likely, the nun had gagged him again. Elisha extended his senses. On the third floor, he felt a muted well of horror. He lengthened his stride, bounding up the steps, only to find the nun sleeping on a pallet outside the door of Ward Three. She started awake. “Oh.”

  “Move aside, Sister. I’m here for my patient.”

  “No need to be brusque, Doctor.” She stood up, dusting down her habit. “Not sure it’s wise to disturb him. I went to find you at his outburst, as you asked, but by the time I came back, he was much improved—he’s been completely silent the rest of the night.”

  “You didn’t gag him?”

  She scowled. “I am a sworn sister—I am nothing if not obedient, to the Lord, and then to my mission here.” She crossed herself.

  He set his hand upon the door, hesitating. “You say he’s much improved?”

  “When I returned to check on him, he didn’t scream at all. He didn’t even move.”

  “Shit.” Elisha burst through the door and ran down the aisle, fearing the worst. Silent and unmoving? Surely, he would have sensed if the boy were dead, surely. What if the boy’s unknown malady had caught up with him at last, while Elisha wasted time with books and a pestilence he couldn’t cure. That thought pierced him. He’d come here not to tend the sick as individuals, but to learn how the plague came to be and how it afflicted so many, so quickly. He meant to rise above the care of a single soul to the stewardship of all desolati against the mounting terror of the plague and its mancer masters. Earlier, in the library and when he took the lead in treating the riot victims, he felt himself drawing closer to that objective goal: he had access to the stored medical knowledge of centuries, and was gaining the respect of those with more experience than he. Then the idea of losing his patient overcame all intention. So much for becoming the general he must be, overseeing the movement of armies—all it took was a single patient depending upon him, and he found himself right back on the battlefield.