Elisha rose to find his way down. Below him, kneeling in the trampled earth, Thomas prayed, his hands clasped together, his lips stirring with quiet words. The last nobleman to view the body, Lord Mortimer, had prayed as well, apparently giving gratitude to God for Alaric’s death. Mortimer had other plans, but whether his plotting against Alaric would benefit Thomas remained to be seen. Mortimer seemed driven by his sense of godliness, and Thomas was nothing if not a God-fearing man.
Elisha lifted his gaze beyond, past the mounds and the road. The meadows beyond still bore the regular shape and furrowed texture of fields gone fallow these many years. A group of riders emerged from the trees that sheltered the ruined village, and he ducked down reflexively. They carried no light, as soldiers would, and something about the latter two struck him as strange. Cloaks flowed down in layers along their horses sides. Or rather, dresses. Two of the riders were women. Tentatively, he focused his awareness toward the road. The hoof beats grew instantly louder, and voices with them.
“Please, Father, I know he meant to come this way, if he wasn’t—if Prince Alaric didn’t—” Lady Rosalynn’s voice held fear and urgency.
“Elisha’s his own man, darling. And I daresay he can defend himself,” said the other woman, Duchess Allyson, Elisha realized. “You told us that Alaric—God rest his soul—failed in his attempt.”
“But Alaric is—” She took a breath. “He’s lying in the church, and he wasn’t even meant to be here!”
“We do not know what happened here—if mere theft is to blame, or if there is something else. Under the circumstances, Rosie, I do wonder if Elisha would even wish to be found,” the duke offered.
He rather didn’t, Elisha reflected, but he knew he must be, to see if the duke could be persuaded to support Thomas—else the king uncrowned would likely live as an outlaw until the verderers or whoever might be their new master struck him dead. Who would be next in line for the throne if the worst should happen? Would the heirs of King Edward’s French princes be summoned back at last? Elisha had no idea. At the very least, the kingdom would plunge into chaos all the deeper with the loss of its entire royal family. Someone would step into that void, and likely someone worse than those who went before. The French king, who slew his own magi, stood ready to seize what advantage he could. Lord Mortimer himself clearly worked for other ends. Even the mancers said they already had another candidate. Elisha must not let it happen.
Elisha shed his deflection, certain that the magus Duchess Allyson would feel his presence, and clambered back down, making noise, hoping Thomas had finished praying. “Company’s coming, Your Majesty,” Elisha said, then put up a hand to stay Thomas’s flight. “Duke Randall, his wife and daughter. They’re looking for me. They know about Alaric.”
“His men would have taken him to Beaulieu, to the church there.” Thomas pressed his lips together, glancing away over the downs. “You believe that Randall would support me.”
“And if he won’t, I’ll trip up his horse to give you a head start.”
Bare-chested, a thread of blood marking his abdomen, still, Thomas let out a breath of laughter, his eyebrow arching as he glanced back.
The expression, the hint of humor, released a bit of the tension that clutched Elisha’s ribs. He shrugged out of the silk shirt Rosalynn had borrowed on his behalf from the lodge and handed it to Thomas. “I’m afraid it’s not so grand anymore.”
Thomas’s glance flickered down, rested on the dried blood at Elisha’s chest. “How long—”
“Elisha!” Rosalynn cried out, already sliding down from her horse and running toward them, her skirts gathered up in both hands. “Thank God you’re all right!”
“Rosie,” her mother called after her. “Let him come away from there.”
“Are you ready?” Elisha murmured.
“I must be,” replied Thomas, and he slipped on the shirt, preparing himself as best he could.
They moved forward together, not quite side by side, to where Rosalynn stopped by the roadside, skirts swinging and breath caught. “You found your friend! Oh, I am so glad. I’m not sure I properly thanked you, sir, for saving my life. Surely if you had not … Father, are you quite well?”
Duke Randall slid down from his mount with a thump of unsteady feet, one hand reaching out, then drawn back to rest at his chin. “Oh, my,” he whispered, shaking his head. “Oh, my.”
“My lady Rosalynn Dunbury,” Elisha said into the silence, “my … friend. Thomas, son of Hugh deSpenser. You’ve probably met before.”
“DeSpenser? Gracious!” her hands flew to her lips, and she took a step back. “I should have seen,” she whispered, “when you came for me.”
Thomas swept into a bow both deep and graceful. “At your service, my lady.”
“Of the House Plantagenet,” the duke murmured. “Mustn’t forget that.”
“Elisha Barber,” the Duchess said, still atop her horse, “my husband has always found you a surprising fellow, but I doubt even he expected such a surprise as this.”
Elisha gave her a bow. “Your Grace,” he told her, “Neither did I.”
Chapter 27
By the time they reached the lodge so recently occupied by Brigit and her men, Elisha felt bone-weary. He stumbled down from the duke’s pommel, envious of Thomas’s ease in alighting from the horse Rosalynn had given up for him. The two ladies, sharing a horse, had turned back to fetch their retainers while the three men rode on ahead, searching for a refuge where Thomas could tell his story at some remove from his brother’s corpse and the distraught soldiers who guarded it. By morning, a full sweep of the forest’s outlaws would be on, with most of the duke’s men involved along with any others who could be gathered. In spite of Mortimer’s concerns over sorcery, speculation centered on the same band that had attacked Lady Rosalynn’s party earlier. Randall informed Elisha that, before having left the abbey at dawn, Rosalynn had gone so far as to suggest to the prince’s men that there might have been several more bandits who had escaped.
Duke Randall moved toward the lodge steps, but Elisha put out his hand, staying him with a speculative frown. Elisha tipped his head toward Thomas who stood a little apart, staring up at the plastered façade of his former home. He wavered and walked on at last, reaching the latch, hesitating, then opening the door. For a long moment, he just stood there, head bowed to rest upon the frame. Then his face turned aside, the gleam of his eye seeking Elisha’s. He straightened and pushed inside, but not before Elisha caught a glimpse of his smile. He would have reached back through the blood to touch again the king’s gratitude, but he refrained. It was not his place. It never had been.
A speculative “woof” emerged from the barn, then Cerberus barreled past them and clattered up the steps. Thomas’s laughter echoed from the house.
Randall scratched his chin, listening, but he could not hide a smile of his own, and Elisha felt ever more certain he was right about the duke’s loyalty, in spite of the accusations against Thomas. “Go on, Your Grace. I’ll see to the horses.”
“You’re not a groom, Elisha,” the duke protested, but only half-heartedly, then he followed the king inside. After a moment, a lamp lit the front window, and Elisha led the horses to the barn. It took far too long to unsaddle the beasts and work out the buckles of their bridles with his fumbling fingers. He wished he could just curl up in the hay at their hooves and sleep, but he doubted the duke would stand for that—and it would last only as long as it took Rosalynn to arrive and insist upon taking care of him. He hoped she would leave the suspicious Mary behind, now that her mother was with her. He brought water up from the river for the horses, then went back for another bucket, washing away the worst of his own filth. He wanted to leave behind the talisman, finding some supposedly safe place, but he dare not, and so it stayed in a new wrapping, dangling at his waist.
At last, he went inside, wiping his feet by the door, carrying the remainder of the water. “Hallo!”
“In the kitchen,” Du
ke Randall called back. “The soldiers cleared out in a rush and left some provisions.”
He stepped over the watchful shape of Cerberus in the passage. Thomas must be ravenous, Elisha reflected, but he found the two men at opposite ends of the table, neither one eating the dry sausage, cheese, and onions piled between them. The king looked up at his entry, firelight blending the smears of blood into the shadows on his face. Elisha held up the bucket. “Wash water, Your Majesty.”
“Thank you.” Thomas pushed over and came to the basin, noisily filled from Elisha’s bucket. They shared a brief look, then Thomas splashed his face, scrubbing away the mark of Elisha’s blood.
“I brought you a shirt,” Thomas said, nodding to the cloth draping one end of the bench.
“Thanks,” Elisha echoed as he pulled it on. “You should drink more. For the blood you’ve lost. Not wine—all the ancients agree on that.”
Thomas reached for the hooks over his head, taking down two mugs and offering one to Elisha with a pointed stare.
“Thomas has told me how he came to the New Forest, but we’ve just come to recent events.” Randall steepled his hands and asked evenly, “Which of you killed Alaric?”
“I did, Your Grace. Before he could kill Thomas.” Elisha took the mug from the king, steadying it to be filled from a jug.
“After, really,” Thomas observed. “My brother had already struck the fatal blow.” Cleaner now, wiping his face with a cloth, the king stalked back to his place at the table with his draught of light ale. “I find I am hungry, in spite of everything. Do you mind?”
“Please,” said Randall, pushing the provisions closer.
Seated at the side of the table, between the two, Elisha drank deeply, then tried a bit of sausage and found his stomach approved. The distance of the ride and the comfort of the small kitchen worked some magic of their own, allowing him to leave behind the most repulsive memories of the night. What he had instead was the fact he kept returning to, like a child picking at a scab: Morag was stronger, faster, more able to call upon his magic—simply better. Even with Chanterelle’s intervention, Elisha lost the battle, and nearly lost their lives.
Morag’s choice of Benedict’s skin gave Elisha an advantage through the compassion he had shown the victim. Then, once he opened that dreadful passage, the mancer apparently couldn’t help himself prolonging the sick pleasure of mingling with the misery of death. His distraction offered Elisha his chance to escape. A moment or two longer, and the soldiers would have imagined that the brothers had dueled to their deaths—while Morag’s next battle would be won by calling on Elisha’s own hide.
Elisha swallowed hard. So much for the peace of distance.
Horses trotted up outside, accompanied by the jingle of harness and the soft sound of voices.
“Well,” said the duke. “The two of you should get some sleep. In the morning, we’ll see what can be done. I’ll have my men on guard at all times.” He pushed back and bowed as he rose. “Well-met, Your Majesty. Welcome home.” With his words, his scruffy king seemed to grow a few inches taller.
Elisha trailed Thomas upstairs to a low room that stretched the full length and width of the house. It contained four rope beds and a number of pallets on the floors where Brigit’s soldiers had slept. It seemed too small and home-like for royalty. Thomas hung his lantern from a hook at the center of the room and gazed around. “We have much grander lodges,” he said at last, “but my princesses liked this one.” He wrapped himself in a cloak and lay down on the bed farthest from the stairs, facing into the room. For a moment, his blue eyes glinted sharply, then they slid shut, and he sighed.
Elisha, too, lay down, taking one of the pallets by the stairs. Soon, the ladies clattered in on the first floor, then came quietly up. “Duchess,” Elisha whispered.
Allyson approached, settling on a nearby bed, while Rosalynn gave a little wave and took one at the far end with a number of blankets.
He sat up to face the Duchess, glanced at the others, then held out his hand, palm down. “Will you—?” But he did not know how to ask for the privilege of contact. They had never been so intimate before.
“You need to speak to me.” She placed her hand over his, so that her next words sank in through his flesh. “I’m listening.”
“I fought a necromancer tonight, Your Grace. They are real—they’re here.”
She sent her understanding, radiating patience and concern.
“He beat me badly. It’s to luck alone that I survived, and he has a master even more powerful.”
At that, the lady’s face, so like her daughter’s, furrowed with doubt. “May I touch you more deeply?”
Elisha nodded, then felt her awareness carefully extending over him, like a surgeon checking for unseen injury.
“You seem well enough to me.”
“I drew upon the strength of crows, Your Grace, and more.” Elisha sent her a few images from the night, the first encounter with Morag, his meeting with the indivisi and their testing of him, his collapse beneath the siege of terror, betrayal, and failure; he told her of reliving Benedict’s death, of the moment he triggered Benedict’s skin and fled the mancer’s grip, letting her see how badly off he had been. Then he showed her the healing of Thomas. “I did not mean to kill them, but each crow’s death made me stronger.”
“You think the indivisi are right about you, that you are with Death, although the mancer denied it.”
“Twice at least I surprised him—when I gathered strength from the ancient dead and again when I used his talisman against him. Then the healing—I did not mean to kill them. I simply reached, and there it was, that power. The power I used to kill the king. Rosalynn told me that mancers draw only from murder, from the fear and pain. That might account for the crows but not for the rest.” His hand beneath hers balled into a fist, and his jaw ached beneath the fresh bruise. “I needed no crows to heal myself.”
She studied him with her eyes, with her touch. “What do you want of me?” she asked at last. “Do you want me to say that it’s not true? That any magus could do those things? That would be a lie. In the place of a recent killing, I might feel the faintest chill. Could I gather the strength of the departed? Certainly not, and I am a magus these forty years and more.”
She drew a breath then, as if she spoke aloud. “Are you then a necromancer? I have never heard that one of them could heal.” Her expression grew more serious. “And if you are with Death? The rule of polarity suggests a man who knows death knows life as well.”
“It fits.”
“But what does it mean to be with Death?”
They stared at each other in the gloom, then Allyson said, “Let us consider it and consult your learned surgeon. It may be in his own search for knowledge that he has found something to help us.”
He nodded, but something more must have passed between them, without his even willing it so, for she drew back from him a little, allowing the lantern’s light to fall upon his face.
“You’re worried for him,” she said.
“I have killed two kings already, Your Grace, though I never meant to kill at all. I could feel Alaric’s death approaching. If I had been ready for it, I could have caught his death and held it in my heart, just like the crows. I think now, if I had taken it, what could I not have done?” Elisha’s skin shivered. “When the power is on me, I’m not always in control.”
Allyson bowed her head, but he felt the wave of her concern wash over him. “It’s one of the marks of the indivisi, that they become so devoted to their source that they can no longer distinguish its proper use. The source itself is enough for them. It … consumes them.”
In the dark, cool room, he heard the light breathing of Lady Rosalynn, the creak of the bed ropes as Thomas shifted his weight, still not at rest. “Thank you, Your Grace. You’ve given me much to think on.” He slipped his hand away and pushed himself up, bowing.
“Elisha,” she called softly after him, and he paused upon the stairs. �
�You still need rest.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” he told her, glancing back. “But not here.”
He descended the narrow steps and startled the duke who stood by the entrance door muttering orders to a knight. “Not comfortable?” Duke Randall asked.
“Not really.”
He frowned but said, “The kitchen’s still warm, and there’s a bench available. I thought I might … but you may as well.”
“There’s room for you upstairs, another bed.”
The duke waved away his man and shut the door. “Tomorrow, you’ll tell me everything. I need to know what’s happened here. To you, as well as to him.”
“Tomorrow, Your Grace.” If he knew what to say. They nodded to each other, and Elisha found the bench while the duke creaked up the stairs. Cerberus occupied most of the tiled floor, sprawled in front of the dying flames, loyal and patient. If Elisha moved against Thomas, would the dog leap against him? Or would it stand in anxious confusion and let its master die? Beyond the sleeping dog, the kitchen door was shut against the darkness of the forest. If Elisha left now, he might slip past Alaric’s men and the others who must be coming to find his killer. Instead, he settled on the bench, grateful for the heat. He might, himself, be a terrible threat, a formidable foe—but he knew now that there were others coming, others much stronger and more terrible than he. And nobody could know them better.
Chapter 28
Elisha awoke to a furtive clatter in the kitchen and found Lady Rosalynn prying the lids from storage butts, and the fire already revived. “Good morning, my lady,” he offered, and she turned to him.
“I was so hoping that it would be, but we haven’t any eggs.”
Elisha sat up, rubbing his aching jaw. “Sorry, I’m not quite awake yet. You need eggs?”
Elisha Magus Page 23
