Elisha Barber: Book One Of The Dark Apostle

by E. C. Ambrose

  “Only me,” Brigit called out, her voice undisturbed. “Sorry about the noise, I stumbled in the darkness.”

  “I’ll fetch you a light,” the speaker said gruffly, but Brigit called out, “Oh, no. I’m searching for night-glowing mushrooms, any light would spoil it.” She chuckled. “Foolish of me, I suppose.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Fine,” she said. “Just took a fright, that’s all.” She stood up and faced the door, waving a hand to prove it was true. The warmth withdrew from Elisha, and he feared the return of that cold.

  “Very well. Be more careful.”

  “I will. Sorry to have bothered you.”

  The door thumped shut again behind the muttering guard.

  When he was able to take a deep breath, Elisha felt the last of the shivers subside, and he managed to sit up. Something sticky dampened his knee and he discovered the remains of his egg.

  Assured that the guard was gone, Brigit dropped down again beside him, her face a picture of concern. “Are you all right?”

  “God’s Wounds, of course not!”

  She flinched, and he almost regretted his harshness but instead gritted his teeth. She could at least have warned him, given him some idea of what he would feel.

  “My God, I’m lucky to be alive after all that.” He shot her a furious look. “You seem just fine. What happened to me?”

  A smile played about her lips. “That was the force of the talisman you thought might be too weak. What do you think now?”

  “Can’t you speak plainly for once?” Elisha rubbed his hands together, hoping to gain some warmth by the friction.

  Inclining her head, Brigit said, “I can’t tell you what you felt, for I did not feel it all. That talisman—whatever it is—is very powerful indeed. It’s death in a bottle, Elisha, it’s like having demons corked up ready to spring free upon the world. It’s what we call a Universal, a talisman with enough innate power to be used by any magus, rather than an object of solely personal significance. I felt it, that’s true, but not so strongly as you. For you, it is personal. If you can control that power”—she blew out a breath, the light dancing in her eyes—“there is little you could not do.”

  “If.”

  “Yes, Elisha, if. If you can overcome your terror and learn to use it.”

  “How can I use a thing I can’t even touch? I cannot master that.”

  Brigit regarded him with a gentle smile. She reached out and stroked one finger down the back of his arm, bringing it to rest upon his hand. “Oh, no? That talisman is death, Elisha. But every day, you hold the possibility of death in your very hands. This is what my mother was talking about, why she wanted me to find you. You defend the border of life and death, and your choice at any moment might tip the balance. If anyone could call upon that power, it would be you. But it is still death; of course you are afraid.”

  Keeping still so as not to disturb her touch, he said, “You weren’t. You said it called you here.”

  “For me, it is not personal. I fear death, I think everyone does. But I also accept that, for all of my skill, I have no power over it. Once in a while, I am reminded that I will die, and maybe soon, but it does not enter my life so very often. For you, it’s unrelenting. You fight death every minute of every day, with your bare hands, and your open heart.”

  At this, he found her expression transformed from worry to wonder, her body leaning toward him, her breath held to hear what he would say. Elisha turned his hand and caught her fingers, drawing her into his arms. He tipped back her head, feeling the sweep of her hair as he kissed her.

  Contact.

  A heat as brilliant as the ice had been swept through him, until his body burned with the want of her. The kiss turned frantic, a search for the source of the fire. His lips pressed against hers, his tongue stroking them open. Her breath scorched his throat, and he drank her in to quench his thirst.

  With a cry, she wrapped her arms around him, her hands strangely light and comforting upon his wounded shoulders. Their bodies arched together, desperate to share every inch of skin.

  His hand cupped the back of her head, then smoothed down her neck, his fingers slipping beneath the lace at her throat. She felt so pure and the roughness of his battered hand pricked upon the silk.

  Elisha rose to his knees, drawing her ever closer, the urgency of his desire threatening to overcome tenderness.

  She broke away from the kiss, her face pressing hot along his throat. “Sweet earth and sky,” she whispered, her breath a gasp of wonder on his skin.

  “Oh, my lady, Brigit,” he murmured, bringing his hand back up to her hair, nuzzling into its softness.

  “I can’t,” she sighed, tingling the welt that leapt with his pulse. “I can’t, Elisha, not now, not yet.”

  His eyes squeezed shut on this new torture. “You are spoken for.”

  “Can’t you feel how much I want this?” She let out something like a laugh, or a cry. “Wait for me, Elisha, I swear to you the day will come.”

  Chapter 20

  Pulling away from him, Brigit tightened her sash with a savage tug and stood up, her pale hands trembling in the moonlight. She turned back to him and smiled. “Do you have another talisman? One more innocent, perhaps more pleasant?”

  Wetting his lips, Elisha let out his breath, and nodded, thinking of the little cloth pennant, the one he had flown on the day of the angel. “I have something I can try.” He sank back upon his heels, brushing escaped hair away from his face.

  “Good,” she murmured. “That’s good. You’ll want more than one anyhow.” After a moment, she ventured, “Elisha? May I ask you something?”

  “Of course—anything.” He looked up at her, her silhouette blocking the stars, her face a shadow with glinting eyes.

  “That—” she searched for a word, but did not need to find one. “—that. It’s related to the letter you got, isn’t it?”

  He shoved the hair from his face again, cursing softly. She knew that much. If she knew the truth, she’d turn from him. He did not deserve to have her, and he could not bear the thought of losing her so soon. “Yes, but I’d rather not—”

  She cut him off, “I know. I won’t ask more.”

  For a long time they stayed that way, Brigit standing over him as he knelt there, the chill of the earth creeping up through Elisha’s clothes.

  “Well,” said Brigit at last, drawing Elisha’s gaze back to her shadowed face. “Well, I should go. Come to the river tomorrow? After supper.”

  “Aye,” he whispered, “I will.”

  Teeth flashed in a brief smile. “I should be able to make an excuse.” She tilted her head to study him. “Perhaps it’s time to wash clothes, or something.”

  Elisha frowned, running his fingers over the sturdy cloth of his britches. “Something,” he echoed.

  She took a few steps backward. “I’ll see you then. Or speak to you, at least. We need to show the others what we have in you.” Then she turned and left him, the church door shutting softly behind her.

  Her absence dimmed the stars and sapped the sense of magic in the air around him, as if the world itself diminished. Elisha longed to run after her, to catch her up again in his arms, kissing the pale neck her shimmering hair concealed and the long fingers which could summon wonder from water and sky. He willed himself to stillness long after she had gone.

  Left alone with the talisman, Elisha watched it from the corner of his eye. Silent and solid, it looked no more powerful than the egg he had crushed. He reached a finger toward it, jerking away when he saw the trembling of his hand. By God, he would not fear death, not in the form of that poor child’s head. Thrusting out his hand, he snatched it up, letting out a pent-up breath when he felt its smooth surface, neither warm nor cold. He held it before him, his triumph giving way to doubt. The memory of his terror sent shivers through him.

  Clutching it in both hands, Elisha felt himself once more close to tears, not in fear this time, but in failure. W
hat had he thought when he had chosen it? Dazzled by Brigit’s beauty, by her willingness to teach him, he had taken the most powerful thing he could imagine. He had taken his brother’s child, his last hope of redeeming himself for Nathaniel’s sake, and Helena’s. And for what? To make eggs. Eggs he could get from any farmer, or any field as Lisbet had done.

  Shutting his eyes, Elisha hugged the container close to him. His ambition twisted this child’s un-life for his own ends. He wanted to bring it back, to prove himself in Helena’s eyes, taking back the honor he had lost two years ago. But what of the child? Gone incomplete to its grave, unable ever to enter Heaven thanks to his selfish desire to win back a brother who could not ever forgive him. And if he did bring it back, its own mother would revile it for the unnatural thing it would be. He had never even thought of the child until now, so obsessed had he been with what he might accomplish, so fascinated by the fabled Bone of Luz and sure that, if anyone could raise the dead, it would be he.

  Shaken now by both his terror, and his passion, Elisha couldn’t move, the hardness of the child’s entrapment pressed against his chest where so recently he had held the woman he loved. Caught indeed between life and death.

  Brigit’s words hinted at the power he might hold, at the work which could be made from such a talisman as this, and yet what would he be if he used it? The worst of all that witches were supposed to be. Not magus, not wise-man, but necromancer, building an empire for himself on the loss of a child. Shame enflamed the lashes on his back—punishment for a crime none knew he had committed.

  At last, he raised his face to the sky, the final tears running toward his tangled hair. “I am sorry,” he said softly. To God, or to the child, or to Nathaniel gone untimely to his rest.

  When he could trust his legs to carry him, he got up and walked down the rise to kneel before the altar. Then he dug his fingers into the grass, pushing aside the roots and scooping out handfuls of dark earth. He settled the pot into its tiny grave and bowed his head.

  “I don’t know the words to say. Prayer has never been my strength,” he confided to his nephew. “God keep you safe and hold you close, and tell your father that his brother is a fool. It’s not likely we shall ever meet again.” He caught his lip between his teeth, the tears now stinging at his eyes. “I wish I’d had the chance to know you.” He pressed the back of a dirty hand to his forehead, trying to master himself.

  “Amen,” he whispered, piling the earth over the lid, replacing the grass roughly with unsteady hands. This time, he had not even a cross.

  Elisha rose and fled. Covered with the dirt of the grave and the blood of the soldiers, he ran to the river, plunging in fully clothed.

  The cold bit into him at once, but he barely felt it as he ducked beneath the water in the pool hard beside the bridge. He held his breath as long as he could, remembering the way it had been taken from him by icy power.

  Cold soothed the welts, dulling the pain as he burst to the surface again. He let his feet settle into the mud, keeping his knees bent so that his shoulders remained submerged, his arms drawn out by the current like a drowned man’s.

  As he kneeled there, the water swirling around him as if startled by this remarkable fish, he felt a sense of warmth within it, like the touch of a hand.

  “Who’s there?”

  The warmth held a chuckle. “Sage,” the other replied. “Oh, very good.”

  “What’s good?” Elisha muttered, more to himself than to Sage.

  “Bittersweet indeed. Good, I mean, that you knew I was here, when I have just this moment arrived. You shall be magus yet.”

  “No,” Elisha replied, the water carrying the force of his word, so that the touch of Sage’s presence faltered.

  Louder, into the air, Elisha said, “Leave me be. I will be no witch. I came here to be cleansed not cursed yet again.”

  “Cursed,” Sage mused. “In truth, it is a curse, a burden to be borne, but not by all. The curse lies not in magic of itself, but in the way it comes. Some it takes as gently as a mother, some it shakes like a rabid dog.”

  At first, the man’s continued presence irritated Elisha. Had he not said he wanted to be left alone? If Sage wanted to remain, let him at least be silent. Instead, he prattled on with more of his morose philosophy. And yet—and yet—the angel’s touch still warmed his face. He thought to turn his back on witches and their ways, to abandon his pretense, yet his impulse was to refute this man. “Marigold does not speak so.”

  “Marigold. Magic has taken hold of her not as mother or as dog but as a princely lover, promising to make her wishes true. She dances ever in that embrace and never knows that others might be clenched too tightly ’til they break. She would use you to rally the magi, even if it means war. She is the most insensitive magus that I have ever felt.”

  This rankled, and Elisha stood, as if his height might serve him now.

  Again the river brought him laughter. “Teach yourself patience, Bittersweet. Teach yourself control, or you will find that others know your heart before you know it yourself.”

  Startled, Elisha said, “You feel my anger.”

  “I am a sensitive,” Sage replied. “Like you. We spend our strength to avoid being too attached to others, else their feelings cloud our own. When I first awoke to magic, I thought I had gone mad. At every touch I was assailed by fear, by love, by joy, by fury. Unlike you, I had to learn to ignore them.”

  “First you say that you are like me, then you say that you are not.”

  “You send out your emotions as a hurricane around you, but you feel little in return. Tell me, have you yet cast a spell?”

  This touched a nerve, and Elisha hesitated to answer, knowing at the same time that this was answer enough.

  “How long have you screamed your own emotions hoping not to listen to those of others?”

  Elisha considered this. He hummed during surgery for this very reason. He was never unaware, but unaffected, unwilling to accept that Nathaniel and Helena might be in love, not counterfeiting to escape—her position, his loneliness. Trampling the hopes of Martin Draper, pushing aside the warmth of Lucretia’s affection, even taking the child’s head on this mission of his own when he suddenly realized all the damage he had done. How long?

  “Since that day.” That day when he had watched them kill an angel.

  Sage’s presence warmed again. “Thought as much. Cursed we are, Bittersweet, but it is not a choice. Not a thing you say I will, or I will not. You are, or you are not. Cast off the trappings. Refuse the knowledge. Ignore the voices. You’ll not be the first.”

  “Then I’ll say farewell,” Elisha concluded.

  “Cut off your arm,” Sage continued, as if he had not heard. “Carve out one eye. Cripple your leg. Does it change what you are? Makes it harder, that’s all. Each of us is as God has made us, cursed and blessed in equal measure.”

  Elisha let himself drift, his hair drawn out by the current, his feet anchoring him in the river’s bed. Cursed and blessed in equal measure. Even these last few hours, he had found it so—at last to love, at last to face what he carried with him. “Take from me this cup,” he murmured.

  Sage answered with a laugh so deep and rich that Elisha swore he heard it through his entire body, and so responded with a smile. Cursed and blessed, blessed and cursed. There was a talent in his hands which not all possessed, a talent which brought pain as well as comfort. Why should this magic be so different? He hunted it for the basest of reasons—to assuage his own guilt—but why should he not accept it for the purest?

  “I thank you, Sage. Again, you are here when I most doubt.”

  Abruptly, the laughter died. “Do not thank me yet, not until you understand this cup we all must drink from. As to my presence, in truth, I am as fickle as the rest. I am no friend of yours, nor any man’s, nor woman’s either. Do not depend on me, Bittersweet—I cannot afford to let you near.” The touch washed away with the current, taking away the last vestige of warmth in the night. />
  Something echoed in those last few words, a sense of the other man’s own worry, a sort of hollow, hurtful place as if the heart had gone from within, or kept itself so secret that even its keeper had forgotten it.

  Elisha rose up from the river. Water rushed down one leg, and he realized that his emergency pouch, always at his side, had filled with the water which escaped it now. “Holy Mary!”

  Then he laughed, grateful that Sage had left before he started cursing. On a post of the stone bridge, he emptied the contents of his pouch—a card of needles, small rolls of suture, the vial of opium, a little bottle of rose oil, a few tightly rolled bandages, the long strip of cloth Martin Draper had forced upon him, and the packet of flaxseeds taken from the vestry earlier that day. Thankfully, most of these things would recover once dried. Only the seeds might suffer from the wet. He thought of the egg, crushed and unknowable, and like Sage, a cipher begging for answer, yet fleeing the question. The details of the world chimed with sudden resonance, as if he recognized a pattern he had never considered before.

  He freed a single seed from the soggy parchment and saw it not as a familiar thing, but as a mystery, a wonder unto itself, a thing inviolate. He could list all that he knew about it and yet never understand how sun and earth could make it grow. Seen by that light, the seed concealed its truth from him. Earlier, he had been humbled by all there was to know about it. Now he realized that he knew nothing, for its essential nature escaped him utterly, its private magic held within, awaiting some secret signal to arise and unfurl itself into the sky. Like a bird, hidden in the potential of its egg.

  The seed felt suddenly warm and expectant, ready to transform itself. As a boy, Elisha had sometimes checked the eggs of their few hens, noting the heat of the hen’s body, captured by the egg, and the changing weight and balance as some small miracle took place inside. He remembered asking how the thick liquid of white and yolk became the soft, wobbly chick, exhausted from pecking its way to freedom. Nobody knew. Laying, hatching, care and feeding, the thousand uses of the egg, the hundred ways to cook a chicken—every farmer and his family believed they knew all that could be known about an egg. As with the seed, they knew nothing. Ignorant, the physician called him, and arrogant. On both counts, correct. But ignorance was not always a bad thing, if it led a man to learning.