Elisha Magus

by E. C. Ambrose

  Wiping a hand over his face, Thomas nodded once.

  Elisha thought furiously, listening for the sound of approaching feet. “Can you get Cerberus to run? Through the orchard, maybe?”

  “Yes, of course, but—”

  “Good, we’ll make a diversion.” He slipped from the stall and found the rope from last night. With a quick spell, he weakened it, breaking off a piece which he tied to the big dog’s collar. “We draw them off, you get out of here, yes?”

  Prince Thomas swallowed and nodded again.

  “Go.”

  Running a swift hand over the dog’s back, Thomas murmured, “Cerberus, river,” and put out his hand.

  The dog sprang forward like an arrow from a bow.

  Elisha yelled, cursed, and ran after. “Get back here, you bugger!” He never looked back.

  Cerberus burst through the startled crowd, pulling away from Elisha with every enormous bound, bent on his master’s bidding.

  His hands balled into fists, Elisha ran after, brushing past the guards. “Curse you, Hell-hound!” he shouted, flinging himself into the tall grass of the orchard in the wake of Cerberus’s passing.

  “Elisha!” Brigit cried as she jumped out of the way.

  Elisha ran for all he was worth. Bounding ahead, Cerberus let out a bark that rattled the branches above them. A deer sprang up from the lee of the riverbank and fled, with Cerberus in pursuit.

  Grinning, panting, Elisha stumbled over a stone and slithered down the rest of the slope, rocks scraping his back and arms. For one blessed moment, his bare feet found the water. Into it he sent all of his triumph and all of his hopes, for he heard the pounding of booted feet coming after and shouts of dismay. Somewhere in the woods, his prince was slipping back into the shadows.

  Elisha had never given allegiance to any man. He was subject to the Master of the Barber’s Guild and the burghers of the city and, more distantly, to the king with his knights and barons. For the most part, he ignored them all and did as he must. Now, he risked his neck in the most literal sense for the traitor prince, a man who had tried to kill him. He felt as drawn to Thomas as he once had been to Brigit herself.

  Rough hands grabbed his arms and dragged him back. They hauled him up the slope, their help a little too harsh for men apparently assisting a fallen guest. They shoved him before Brigit, waiting on the verge.

  “How did you get here?” Brigit demanded. “What are you doing here?”

  Elisha stared up into her dazzling green eyes. She was beautiful in her fury: a dangerous beauty. “I’m taking Lady Rosalynn to Beaulieu Abbey. We got lost.”

  At the mention of Rosalynn, Brigit’s eyes narrowed. He wondered if she might be jealous. “You are taking her?”

  “There’s just the two of them, Highness,” Ian offered. “Showed up last night, and the dog tipped us off. We gave ’em supper and beds. We knew you’d want to see them.”

  “Sorry about the dog,” Elisha offered. “He broke the rope and bowled me over.”

  “Shut up about the damned dog,” Brigit snapped, her cheeks colored as she regarded the house and orchard around them.

  “Sorry,” he murmured again. A hundred little scrapes and bruises plagued him. Small price to pay for a man’s life. He had once paid twenty-seven lashes for Alaric’s own. The irony of it lifted his head, and he met Brigit’s fiery gaze.

  “I don’t believe it,” she said. “I don’t believe you. It’s no coincidence you being here.”

  “Perhaps I came for love of you,” he murmured.

  She stared at him, glancing at the scar upon his chest, her hands knotting into her cloak as if confused by what he meant. “Last we met you swore you would never trust me again.”

  “They do go best together, trust and love, but I’d rather have one than neither.”

  Brigit flushed and glanced away, leaving his heart thundering from more than his run. Flushing was another sign of pregnancy, though her body showed no change yet. She looked to be in good health. On behalf of the child, Elisha approved. Trying to steady his nerves, he looked back toward the barn, but it eased him not at all. In the shadows of the wood beyond, he saw a face, arrested in flight.

  Thomas stood turning back, his lips parted, his face pale, his expression shifting between fear and wonder. He stared at Brigit as if at a ghost. Damn it all, the fool would get himself hung.

  “Brigit,” Elisha blurted, and her eyes snapped back to his. “Why not tell your men to back off?”

  “Yes, of course.” She waved a hand at the soldiers, who grumbled but retreated.

  Elisha moved forward until he stood inches from her, her head tipped slightly to meet his eyes. “I think you know what I came for.” She started to look away again, but he seized her hand. “Brigit, if you ever cared for me—”

  “I did. I do. But I don’t—”

  “You can’t bear to give up the power, even if you can’t use it.”

  “You don’t understand,” she said aloud. “Thomas is mounting an army against us, and—”

  Elisha felt his denial before he spoke and drew it back—for how could he know she was lying?—but already her touch grew colder.

  “You know something, Elisha. Tell me what you know.”

  “There’s division among the magi,” he began, hurrying to cover his slip. “Some of them would support you, some are afraid to. They’re afraid your actions will reveal them to those who hate us. My killing the king has made things worse. If you use the talisman, they’ll never trust you.”

  “It needn’t be so theatrical as what you did,” she replied.

  “Some of them are calling me a necromancer.”

  “No one could think that who’s ever met you.” Brigit smiled, but there had been something else, a fleeting suggestion of desire. “Necromancers thrive on fear and pain; death isn’t the enemy to them, it’s what they live for.”

  “So they are real.”

  “I only know what I’ve been told.” She curled both hands around Elisha’s, wrapping him in heat. “You could master the power. I know you could. You could use the strength of that talisman to serve our common cause.”

  “Not if I don’t know where it is,” he pointed out with a gentle squeeze.

  Brigit’s lips curled, and her eyes sparkled as if he had promised her the world, and he wondered how anyone ever resisted her. But there was a hint of calculation in that gaze. After a beat of silence, she replied, “I’ll bring you there.”

  Elisha took a moment to realize what she had said. She would bring him to his talisman, so easily? “Brigit, you’d give it to me?”

  Aloud, she said, “Come inside and break the fast. I must meet your lady-friend.”

  “She isn’t mine, and you know it.” He would have broken contact, but she tugged his arm, sliding her own hand about his elbow as if he escorted her.

  As they walked up to the house, Elisha managed a glance toward the barn and the forest. Prince Thomas had vanished as if he had never been, and Elisha wondered if he would ever see him again. He stumbled on the step and rested his hand upon the lock, ever so briefly, slipping Brigit’s hand as she preceded him. A thought, a bit of rust and contact. Elisha sent a spark of magic like a wicked key, and Thomas’s door could never again be locked against him.

  Chapter 13

  “I see you have made yourself at home,” Brigit purred, and Elisha moved up behind her to find Rosalynn in the solar against a wall painted with diamonds and roses, a bound volume in her hands. She slapped it shut and dropped it on the desk.

  “You have found her then, Elisha. I take it she is the mistress of the house, now?” In her muddy gown, missing her chemise, underskirts, and veil, Rosalynn could not help but look dowdy. Her shoulders hunched, and she clutched the torn side of her gown, seeming to shrink as Brigit approached.

  Brigit smiled graciously. “Oh, I do hope you enjoyed our hospitality. You are free to go, and I suggest you do so. Come, Elisha.” She flicked her fingers at him. “We started off ear
ly, and I am starved.”

  Elisha’s stomach rumbled agreement, but Rosalynn pressed her trembling lips together. Her chatter was her most terrible defense and apparently she feared to use it. Her damp eyes traced Elisha’s scarred chest and looked away. “Yes, well,” she said at last. “I’m sure I can find the way to Beaulieu on my own.”

  “You can’t go alone,” Elisha said, shaking off the hand that Brigit put out to him. “She can’t. I’ll bring her to the abbey and return. It’s not far, is it?”

  “I’ll send my men, and you can stay with me.” She reached out again and stroked his arm. The touch sent a tingling warmth through his flesh.

  “Yes. That’s fine.” Rosalynn brushed past them along the corridor and pushed her way outside.

  Elisha took back his arm but slowly, his body responding to Brigit’s touch while his duty urged him to go. “I swore an oath to her father.”

  Brigit’s eyes narrowed, and her hands clenched briefly, then she trotted past him and leaned out the door. “Lady Rosalynn, please wait!” Her voice dripped sweetness, and Elisha wondered if it were a spell. “Elisha shall attend you, of course. But he does need something to eat. And a new shirt, I think. You’ve been cleaning, haven’t you? Do you know where one might be found?” She drew Elisha back with her while Rosalynn stood in the yard, wavering, head bowed against the drizzle.

  “I’ll go with you a ways,” Brigit murmured. “We can get the talisman as we go.” Her touch on his arm was soft, almost tentative. “But we won’t tell her that I’m coming along until after we breakfast. I think she doesn’t like me. I can’t say I blame her, of course.” Was it a hint of sadness in her voice?

  Elisha nodded, ever more convinced that Brigit was trying something; perhaps a glamour she cast upon herself, to appear the more tempting. “I thought you would fight me for it”

  “I’ve had it for weeks, Elisha, and I cannot do what you have done.” Her nails brushed his skin.

  With an effort, Elisha turned from Brigit to the yard. “Please, my lady,” Elisha said. “Let’s be as comfortable as we may.”

  Rosalynn squared her shoulders, glancing back at him, and finally nodded. “I shall find you a shirt. There are a few chests of clothes upstairs, hunting things, mainly, but I think there is something that will do.”

  He put out his hand to help her mount the steps, the sort of unnecessary gesture the servants of nobility performed all the time, and she laid her hand over his with a tremulous smile.

  “Very good,” Brigit said. “I shall make things ready.” But instead of heading for the kitchen, she slipped out the door behind them and hurried to meet with her men.

  “I suppose she has soldiers for servants, but she really ought to have a proper retinue.” Rosalynn pushed back her damp hair, her hand hesitating, then she turned from him. “The shirt. Yes.” Hauling her bedraggled skirts, Rosalynn mounted the narrow stairs, her footsteps creaking the floor overhead.

  Elisha stood in the hall, frowning. In spite of the desire she still kindled in him, Brigit’s change of heart did not sit well, nor did her easy offer to get him the talisman. She must hope to seduce him to her cause, if not to her bed, and she probably thought her sudden kindness toward a woman she clearly despised would soften Elisha’s determination. She was wrong.

  Elisha stalked into the solar to wait for the two women. He took in the chairs—sturdy, but elegantly carved—a desk with quills and inkpots that must be long dry, a broad fireplace that would back up to the one in the kitchen beyond. Over the mantle hung a painting of the Madonna and child, a lovely blond version. The Madonna wore a cloak of ermine, the child stood beside her. Elisha drew closer. With long, blond locks and bright blue eyes, the child was clearly a girl. Not a Madonna, then, but a portrait. Thomas’s two princesses. Elisha wished that he had shown the man more kindness. Surely there was something else he could have done.

  “Here we are, then.” Rosalynn settled a creamy silk tunic over his arm. “It’s a bit long; I gather the owner here is taller than you, but I think it will do. I found some travelling cloaks as well—I do hope they won’t mind our borrowing them. Perhaps I should write a note to explain the matter? But your Lady Brigit must know them.” As she spoke, she hung the cloaks on pegs in the wall.

  “I don’t think she does, my lady.” The eyes of the little princess in the painting gazed back at him, so like her father’s. He gathered up the cloth of the shirt, though it caught on the little nicks and calluses of his hands. It slithered down over his chest, stroking the cut its owner had made above Elisha’s heart, and he winced. The sleeves hung over his hands and he bound them back with silken ties. As fine as his garments had been for the ball, this shirt was worth the lot of them. If he found Thomas again, he’d hand it over.

  “A note then. Oh, good, there’s still ink!” Rosalynn settled herself at the desk and found a bit of parchment. Her quill scraped lightly over it, but for a jump when the door popped open, and Brigit returned. Her brows pinched briefly, then she bustled past, carrying a few bundles. Of course: more provisions.

  Elisha followed her to the small dining room, where he sliced wedges of cheese to lay out with the bread Brigit unwrapped. They worked side by side, the hanging bundles of herbs brushed his hair from time to time, letting out the scent of lavender. Rosalynn and a few soldiers soon joined them, warming the place and steaming the windows as their rain-drenched clothing dried. Ian and Patric must have taken their turn at guarding the perimeter. Elisha hoped they hadn’t gone after either the dog or its owner.

  Talk was of the weather, the hunting, the great stag these men had brought down yesterday, and how pleased they were to be able to hunt here, in the king’s own forest, thanks to their master Alaric’s change of status. It was not until they all rose again after eating that Brigit announced, “I shall accompany you a little way, my lady, if you don’t mind. There’s something of Elisha’s I need to fetch for him.”

  Instantly, Rosalynn’s face reddened, and Elisha set his hand near hers, not quite touching. “It would be a service to me, my lady. It’s what I came here for.”

  Her dark eyes darkened a bit more, but she managed a smile. “Yes, of course. And I thank you for your generosity to us both.”

  “I’m pleased that my men were gracious on my behalf.” The two ladies, one pale and bright, the other damp and dark, stared at each other across the table, matching one another’s regal guise.

  “Yes, thanks,” Elisha said, rising. “But we must be going. I’m sure Lady Rosalynn’s escorts are already wondering where we are.”

  He draped a cloak over the lady’s stiff shoulders and scooped up the other for himself, flinging it about him and securing the clasp as he left the house. As lovely as it was, the place felt haunted, each room and everything in them remembering the rightful occupants. Elisha’s little magic with the lock would not be enough to make this place a refuge.

  Two of Brigit’s men trailed after the trio as they departed, ready to escort their lady home again, but Brigit took the lead, bringing them up the road a bit, then onto a trail through the woods. Although the first part of the forest had been tangled with vines and undergrowth, the trees here stood tall above them, thick oaks buttressing the rainclouds, with the occasional hazel down below. They spooked another deer which bounded off and started the guards whispering behind them. The drizzle set in properly now, not strong enough to sting but so thoroughly coating them that Elisha’s green woolen cloak clung too tightly and weighed him down, the rim of the hood dripping onto his nose.

  The rain worsened when they emerged from the trees onto the heath, a broad and tumbled plain thick with gorse and heather. Round mounds rose up nearby, fanning out into the distance, and gooseflesh rose on Elisha’s arms: the burial mounds of the ancient heathens. If Chanterelle were right about necromancers meeting in the places of the dead, then this forest would welcome them like a grave.

  Brigit led them onward, weaving between these mounds, and Rosalynn drew closer to El
isha, hunching into her cloak. They came at last to a hillock that rose above their heads, pink with tiny blooms bowing under the ceaseless rain. On the far side, stones framed a dark hole, and Rosalynn stopped short, murmuring a prayer.

  “It’s just here,” Brigit said. “You needn’t go inside.”

  The chill seeped in beneath Elisha’s hood and through his hands, a creeping cold stirred by the darkness of the open tomb. It was only a resting place, nothing more. Hadn’t the souls moved on long ago? The bones that remained were only the structure of a form once dear, now departed. Flesh and bones formed his livelihood—to fear such things was foolish. Yet Elisha hung back with Rosalynn, as if to protect her. From the moment they crossed the water, the earth of the forest grew dense with the dead.

  Brigit ducked into the darkness, vanishing inside with a swish of her cloak upon the ground. Outside, rain dripped from the lichened lintel. Chances were the large stone that defended Chanterelle and Elisha from fire in the bog had been the capstone of another grave, its corpse prevented from rising by that great weight, but Elisha had not thought of it until now. Brigit no doubt enjoyed bringing them there to discomfit her one-time rival in Alaric’s affections—no, the thought was uncharitable. Rather, in a place like this, the talisman’s own menace would be muffled, shielded from any effort he made to find it—which implied that such a magical search was possible. The idea quickened Elisha, taking his mind from the damp, as he considered how it might be done. An extension of the attunement he used to dispel the mystery of his surroundings during spell-casting? But how far could his awareness reach before it grew so thin that even his sensitivity failed?

  A rustle at the opening brought him back to find Brigit emerging on hands and knees. One hand, really, for the other carried a wrapped bundle close to her chest.

  She shook herself off, cradling the bundle, then walked to where they waited. “I’m sorry about this. I should not have taken it.”

  The bundle seemed too small for so much ceremony and concern. Elisha took it with both hands, its weight both slight and inconceivable. It contained the weight of tragic death, his love for his brother, his guilt and grief: it contained the head of his brother’s still-born baby. His brother, too, died that day, cutting his own throat in anguish, believing his wife and child both dead. At one time, Elisha believed he might find the legendary Bone of Luz, said to shelter in the skull, and use it to bring the child back to life, restoring to its mother some of what she had lost. The surgeon Mordecai assured him there was no such bone. Elisha wondered if the necromancers might know otherwise.