Elisha Barber: Book One Of The Dark Apostle

by E. C. Ambrose

  In her wake, Elisha whimpered.

  Ruari started rubbing his feet, then worked up his trembling legs. A cloak draped over him, joined by another.

  The shivering broke out suddenly twice as violently, and Mordecai shifted his grip to support Elisha’s head, smoothing away the hair. “Get him up—wrap that around.” A few men lifted him, quick hands bundling the cloaks and blankets all around him. Gently, they laid him down again.

  “Ah—he’s still our prisoner,” someone said.

  “Bugger off!” Ruari snapped.

  “We’ll investigate what’s happened here, Sir, but he is—”

  “My patient now,” the surgeon finished. He glanced up darkly. “In the infirmary, until you have orders from the king himself.”

  “Sir, I don’t think you should—”

  Mordecai turned over his shoulder. “Let’s get him up. Henry, go ahead of us and put some water on the fire. You, take his feet. Barber, here with me.”

  Elisha frowned within his fog. He couldn’t stop shaking, and he had no idea what the surgeon wanted.

  After a moment, Mordecai clarified, “Yes, I mean you.”

  Then Ruari’s strong arms bore up his shoulders. Elisha’s head rested still in the surgeon’s masterful hands, gently upheld. More hands worked beneath his body and legs, then they raised him and he was borne off. He let his eyes slide shut.

  After some grunting and shuffling, they got him down the steps of the infirmary, and the rain finally ceased to fall.

  “You,” Mordecai ordered. “You’re well, get out.”

  “I say! But I’ve not been called back to duty.”

  “You are well, my lord. Get out. Take her with you.”

  Cracking open his eyes again, Elisha saw the rear view of the lovely prostitute and her latest bedmate as they hurried out of the surgeon’s way. His bearers lowered Elisha onto a bed, the down of a mattress enveloping him, still warm from its recent occupants.

  Mordecai shoved back the curtain that separated the two sides of the hospital, revealing Elisha’s barrel. He drew out a bucket.

  “I should be doing that, sir,” Ruari began, but Mordecai gave a quick shake of his head.

  “Work on those hands.” He brought out a thick, fresh cloth and knelt at the bedside to soak it. Wringing it out again, he murmured, “Not hot yet, sorry,” as he washed Elisha’s face and neck.

  Frowning at him again, Elisha wondered where he had come from and why he was doing all this, he who rarely put down his books long enough to operate on even a lord.

  “I’ve done it, sir,” Henry said, returning from the kitchen. “Three pots, to heat up quicker.”

  Without looking, Mordecai almost smiled, the nearest Elisha had ever seen to an expression on his face. “Good work. Bring me some of that ointment, the one in the copper.”

  “Yes, sir.” Henry turned, then turned back as quickly. “What shall I do with this, sir?”

  Mordecai glanced up.

  Henry held out to him the long belt slung about with a dozen books and tablets. He held a broken end in each hand, careful to keep the books from touching the ground. Still, they dripped, and a few had clots of mud clinging to their bindings.

  The surgeon turned away, wringing out the bloody cloth. “Lay them by me,” Mordecai murmured. Then, “That’s fine,” when the young man complied and hurried off to fetch the ointment.

  In the aisle, Madoc and a small cluster of men hovered. They watched anxiously, but their faces began to relax. Outside, in the distance, a horn blew, and Madoc drew himself up.

  “Any further service?” he offered, but Mordecai shook his head.

  “You’ve done what was needed.” He mopped his cloth over Elisha’s hands and arms, methodically dampening it and then wringing it out in a separate bucket.

  Watching the followers turn, Elisha rasped, “Thanks.”

  Madoc caught his eye and nodded his head, giving the fearsome grin which was his shield. He herded his soldiers on before him, and they clumped away.

  Elisha shifted his eyes back to Mordecai, trying to penetrate that brusque efficiency.

  Glancing up, Mordecai met his gaze for a moment and looked back down.

  Henry reappeared, proffering a round, familiar copper container which Mordecai accepted, unscrewing the lid to release a scent of lavender. “You may go, Henry. Thank you. Lucius will be coming. Fend him off.”

  “Yes, sir.” Henry bobbed a little bow and hurried away again.

  “Best get to your rounds, Barber,” the surgeon said to Ruari, tucking Elisha’s hands back under the covers.

  “I’d like to assist, sir, if I might,” Ruari said, sounding protective.

  Elisha brought Ruari into focus. His friend flashed a worried grin, looking to the surgeon, no doubt recalling Elisha’s distrust the day he had left, rejecting the surgeon’s offer to watch over his tools. Twitching one corner of his mouth, Elisha gave a tiny nod toward the hospital.

  “Tell me when the water’s hot,” Mordecai said, bending to something on the floor. He came up with a pair of slender silver pincers, then shifted to sit on a stool by Elisha’s head. With his left hand on the patient’s jaw, he tilted Elisha’s head. “Hold still.” Deftly he plucked a strand of hemp from the wound, discarded it, and reached for another.

  Grumbling, Ruari left them.

  With a few more plucks, and a gentle turn of Elisha’s head, Mordecai finished. Then he took Elisha’s left hand from beneath the covers and performed the same careful operation, removing bits of grass and leaf that were ground into the wounds.

  Elisha studied Mordecai’s downturned head, the cap off to one side, revealing a patch nearly as bald as a monk’s. “It was you,” he whispered. His voice had no sound, but it didn’t matter, not as long as Mordecai was touching him.

  The gray head bowed a little further, then looked up, dark eyes upon him, thin mouth set.

  “The rope,” Elisha persisted on a breath. “Your belt is broken. You used it to split the rope.”

  Mordecai let out a little puff of breath and turned back to his task, the heat still radiating from his hands.

  Elisha spoke again: “How did she know you were…?”

  With a soundless, bitter laugh, Mordecai replaced Elisha’s hand beneath the blanket, but let his fingers linger on the back. “Let it go, Barber. You will not like the truth.”

  Silent, he rose and rounded to the other side, carrying his little stool with him.

  A brief and awful suspicion sparked in Elisha’s breast, but died again as quickly—this man was not her lover, that much seemed clear. “I don’t understand,” Elisha sighed.

  Aloud, Mordecai answered, “I know.”

  Reaching beneath the cover, he drew out Elisha’s right hand, turning it palm up.

  Although his expression remained bland, he sat that way a long time, with Elisha’s pale, cold hand resting on his own hot fingers and staring into it as if he could read the fates scarred forever by his assistant’s brand. Mordecai’s shoulders hunched, his head dragged downward by some terrible weight. A single hot tear dropped into Elisha’s palm. “I should have acted sooner. I should have spared you all of this.”

  “I don’t—”

  “You don’t understand, I know. Don’t I know.” A familiar, bitter laugh sent recognition and warmth to Elisha’s cold flesh.

  “Sage,” he whispered.

  “I told you not to depend on me.” A slender edge of pain crept through the contact and was quickly withdrawn, the tear being the only one. In profile, his expression did not change, his control was complete.

  “And yet here you are, when I most had need of someone. How, if Brigit did not bring you?”

  In answer, Mordecai shut his other hand over Elisha’s, gently cupping his palm so as not to touch the burn at its center.

  His vision darkened and blurred, then Elisha saw a small grouping of items, a tiny lantern guttering in the light rain, a little cup full of something, a book laid open, with stra
nge letters spelling out words of prayer and devotion. Through Mordecai’s eyes, he could read them, and he felt the smile that answered his delight. The surgeon could read six languages, he suddenly knew, while Elisha could not read even his own. Mordecai’s hand turned a page from left to right, then hesitated. Rain fell upon him, seeping against the back of his neck beneath a prayer shawl draped over his shoulders. Rain, and yet not rain. The touch was light at first, then grabbed hold and shook him with terror.

  In the vision, Mordecai leapt to his feet, whirling, the book clutched in his hands, the others at his waist spinning and slapping against him. His devotion to knowledge endowed the books with power to ward off the swirling emotions of his work. His concentration should have defended him from any but the most direct contact, for the books guarded his sensitivity. Even as his anger rose that someone dared touch him so, when he did all he could to avoid it, the anger washed away in that tide of fear and pain and betrayal.

  Through the surgeon’s eyes, Elisha saw the distant scene, and knew Mordecai held his Sabbath on the dormitory roof, safe from prejudiced witnesses. Down below, in the far bend of the river, a crowd backed away. A man hung from the largest tree, struggling for his life. Himself.

  Elisha’s throat constricted all over again, and a sudden renewed warmth rushed through his hand.

  Somehow, the scene blurred even though Mordecai still looked on. The warmth of his compassion withheld what he saw.

  Mordecai ran. He searched for salvation and seized upon the simplest way. Taking his belt in his hands, stumbling down the stairs, Mordecai tore at the strands of his belt, urging them to part. All of his will was bent on this, and he kept his eyes turned to the hanged man, imagining the rope, feeling its awful grip through the rain.

  Splashing down, he fell into the mud, and scrambled up again.

  He reached out into the rain, grasped the fading cry that still quaked inside him. He felt for the rope, to know it, to understand the horror that swamped Elisha’s mind.

  His belt broke, tumbling the precious books into the mud and himself along with them, shaking. Still, he pressed on, snatching up his treasures as he ran.

  Winded, Mordecai shoved through the crowd, throwing himself down as he flung his belt into his assistant’s hands. He worked at the knot, his fingers slipping, and finally gained purchase, tugging it loose a few precious inches.

  Still, Elisha could not see himself clearly, though he felt the echoes of his anguish through the rain on Mordecai’s skin. This, too, the surgeon somehow blurred, leaving only the suggestion of the fevered work, of Elisha’s breathing and Mordecai’s returning almost together, then a sense of utter astonishment: Mordecai had not expected his casting to be recognized for what it was, but that Elisha should give Brigit the credit left him in dismay.

  As they worked over Elisha’s shaky form, Brigit’s fingers brushed against Mordecai’s strong, warm hands. He tried to blur this, but the contact broke too late.

  Mordecai withdrew his shared vision, but not before Elisha felt Brigit’s own surprise. The truth slapped his breath away once more.

  Chapter 30

  Straightening, Mordecai took up his tweezers again and pinched away a bit of grass, a strand of rope. His touch faded to the gentle contact of any human hand, his awareness withdrawn even as Elisha recoiled from him.

  Brigit had told no one of her intentions. Brigit had watched him hang—again the distant image of himself jerked in the air, the echo of Death—and had not raised a finger to save him. Instead, Mordecai, who had no reason but compassion to be his deliverance, had risked exposure to cast the spell which saved him. Mordecai had run from his worship, broken the codes of his God, and sat there now, holding in his pain, tearing himself apart because he had not acted sooner. He who bore Elisha no special love, while Brigit—

  Elisha stifled a cry, burying his head in the soft pillow. Brigit was insensitive, Sage had told him long ago, she did not feel what he felt, neither the sensations nor the emotions. He remembered the feel of her hand, gripping his, showing him the power of the talisman he thought to use, and letting him suffer its full impact. In showing him the power of his own call through the rain, Mordecai had known to soften the fear, whereas Brigit said only that she thought she could control it. What did she want from him? Why had she come to him last night, and done all that she did? Did she even care for him, or had he let his own emotions overwhelm him—had he seen only what he wanted to see?

  Tears seeped from his eyes, and crept into his hair.

  “Sir?”

  Mordecai twitched at the sound of Ruari’s voice, and Elisha clenched his eyes, pushing back the tears.

  “Yes? Ah, the water. Good.” Mordecai lay Elisha’s still-numb hand upon the bed and rose.

  “Is he all right?” Ruari whispered, apparently thinking Elisha slept. Just as well he should.

  “What do you think?” Mordecai asked. Then, as if regretting his harshness, said, “This ordeal has been harder on him than you can imagine. Ruari, is it? He’ll need healing beyond the flesh. It remains to be seen whether the king will believe this was a miracle. We may not have much time.”

  “Aye, sir, I hear ye. What can I do?”

  “Let’s get him warmed up, and cleaned up, and see how he fares.” He rounded the bed once more and started stripping away the layers of wool that wrapped Elisha.

  The chill air brought out gooseflesh on his damp skin, and he started to shiver again, his teeth chattering.

  Mordecai made a harsh sound in the back of his throat. “We’ll take him near the fire, I think.” He lay a hand on Elisha’s brow as if summoning his return.

  Elisha blinked his eyes open.

  “Can you rise? You’ll get help, of course.”

  Swallowing, Elisha tested his voice. “I think so.”

  They helped him to the edge of the bed, then each took a side, draping his limp arms over their shoulders. As he rose shakily to his full height, he found that Ruari was taller than he by a few inches. He hadn’t noticed before. On the other hand, Mordecai, despite his formidable presence, stood a full head shorter. Letting his head droop to his chest, Elisha shuffled between them into the kitchen. The fire’s warmth greeted him immediately as they sat him on one of the chairs.

  “Sorry,” the surgeon muttered, a preface to his tearing Elisha’s ruined shirt down the middle and drawing it off by each sleeve.

  While Ruari gently washed him with soft rags and warm water, Mordecai sprinkled herbs in one of the remaining pots. He disappeared for a moment and returned with his pot of ointment, folding back his sleeves.

  “Should I…?” Ruari asked, indicating the pot.

  With a shake of his head, Mordecai studied Elisha’s face. “I should do this.” He drew up a chair. “Find him a dry blanket, will you?”

  Ruari nodded and left.

  Holding out his hand, Mordecai offered a sad smile. “I did warn you about the truth.”

  “Aye,” said Elisha faintly. He lay his right hand, palm up atop the offered hand.

  Taking a bit of the ointment, Mordecai smoothed it gently over the round burn. One by one, he dabbed the cooling stuff over each of Matthew’s burn marks. It seemed to penetrate with a lingering sense of Mordecai’s healing warmth. “You have good hands,” Mordecai murmured.

  Elisha managed an inquisitive sound. His throat still ached too much to speak at any length, though whether from the noose or from his knowledge of Brigit’s betrayal, he couldn’t be sure.

  “I wondered why your patients didn’t die. Forgive me, Barber, for I have met too many of your peers to be impressed by any.” Again, he smiled, a fleeting movement of the lips before he moved on to the larger brand over Elisha’s heart. His lightest touch still brought a whimper of pain, and he flinched then hesitantly tried again.

  Ruari ducked through the door clutching in his hands a thick blanket of several layers stitched together. He draped it over Elisha’s shoulders, smoothing it down with a clucking sound as if he ten
ded an ill child, but his hand lingered with a gentle squeeze.

  Looking over Elisha’s shoulder at Ruari, Mordecai’s eyes narrowed, and he nodded. “As I say,” he continued, “I wondered why your patients lived. When you took on Ruari and that girl, I felt sure the charm would be gone, that it was your skill.” Glancing back to Elisha, he took another smear of ointment. “Your skill extended even to choosing your assistants.” He paused a moment, then continued. “There are three things that make a good doctor.” His touch on Elisha’s skin said Four, but he did not elaborate, and Elisha knew he referred to the sensitivity they shared. “Skill—what you two share, even with Matthew.” His lips turned down at that thought, but he went on. “Empathy, which that other one has not. And knowledge, which can come with time. Should you pursue this labor, Ruari, I would encourage it.”

  “Oh, aye,” Ruari said with a laugh. He released Elisha’s shoulder and found a mug, drawing a draught of the brewed herbs. As he held the mug for his friend to drink, he spoke to Mordecai: “And ye be all high and mighty wi’ the rest of us, sir, as if yer encouragement should make me eager t’ be like ye.”

  Elisha bit his lip and let it go. He tried to speak, to defend the surgeon, but his voice had gone again.

  Slowly, Mordecai shook his head. “You shame me, Barber. You both have. So long have I kept myself apart. I work among the lords because they know my skill, and more because I know theirs. What good can one man do, a common man? He has no power, nothing to contribute but his life for the cause.” His voice turned self-mocking, and he drew his hand away, bringing the blanket around to cover Elisha’s chest. “So I believed, so we all believe who are born above that station, for how else could we go on as we do? I serve the lords, they make the wars, they make the peace, they move this brutal little country that much closer to civilization.”

  Standing abruptly, he jammed the lid on his pot, screwing it down tight. “Why risk your back for a peasant, what difference can he make? Then the peasant somehow becomes the messenger, becomes the king’s own son, and instead of embracing you, he hangs you from a tree.” Mordecai bit off the words, his hands shaking with his anger. “And, yes, I am ashamed that I chose such service.” He took Ruari’s arm in a quick motion and slapped the pot of salve into his hand. “Reapply in a few hours.” The surgeon strode from the room, casting eddies of frustration and guilt in his wake.