Elisha, too, traced the weapons they had made, her longing stroking over him, too powerful to be contained by the salt around them. “Do you think your work has roused the mancers against the Jews?”
“God forbid!” She crossed herself. “Since the pestilence began to spread—even since we first heard rumors of its approach, of how many were dying—there have been rumors against the Jews. People are saying it’s not enough for them to take our money, now they want everything, they want us to die. According to the rumors, they’ve been poisoning the wells and stealing communion wafers to use them for black magic. People think if they kill the Jews, then the pestilence won’t reach us.” Her eyes met his across the table and all the blades between them. “Sometimes, where the riots are, the mancers are as well, feeding off the anger and the death. When I heard about the assault outside Heidelberg, I went a-hunting. I found no one; at least, no one who was not merely furious and brutal—no one magic. The mancers may have begun this, Elisha, but it does not need their aid to crush us all.”
From the top of the stairs, a soft knock sounded. “Margravine?” called a woman’s voice. “It’s Agnes. And the rabbi.”
“How much does he know?” Katherine asked.
“About me? Almost everything.” Almost. Elisha did things in Rome that he had spoken of to no one, but it was the things he had not done that haunted him at night, the face of the priest he allowed to die, the weeping of children overcome by the plague.
Mounting the stairs, holding up her skirts just enough, Katherine unlocked the door to let them in, but Agnes demurred, hurrying back to aid the doctor. The rabbi descended slowly, some of the solemnity of his position returned to him since their desperate flight, hands folded at his back. “I should thank you both for our deliverance, and for the refuge of your home, Margravine, if only for the night.”
“I am sorry I cannot offer more. We hoped the queen might do so, but with her entourage still snowed in here, I don’t know—”
The rabbi spread his hands and acknowledged her. “There are only so many unexpected guests that even such a fine manor may support I am sure. No, we can move on.”
“Back to Heidelberg?” Elisha asked. “Will you be safe there?”
The old man regarded him gently. “For now. This madness spreads before the pestilence. It is hard to know which will be the more deadly.”
“Are they holding services at the Church of the Holy Ghost?”
With a little shrug, the rabbi said, “It has ceased construction for the winter, but I don’t believe it is ready for services.”
“I can bring you there.” Inside the chamber of salt, the jittery sense of the dying had faded, leaving him hollow and relieved.
Katherine stepped before him. “It is still the marketplace, Elisha, bound to be full of people after dawn. Is that wise?”
“Better at night, then,” the rabbi observed. “Your Doctor Emerick has seen to the injured. We could be ready for travel.”
“Can you?” Katherine said through Elisha’s flesh, settling her fingers on his arm.
“How are your people taking it?” Elisha asked the rabbi.
“We are resolute. The violence scared them, of course it would, but you coming, taking us to safety . . . I have always said such things are superstition, and now it seems an article of faith that such a man exists, that he might be called upon in time of need, and he might come. Their bodies quake with fear, and yet, their hearts are strong.” The rabbi gazed at him as if from a great distance. “Their faith is affirmed. With you here, they feel worthy.”
Elisha suppressed his incredulous laughter. These last few days, more than ever before, helplessness bound him. Neither his medical knowledge, nor his magical skill gave him any advantage against the plague, this greatest weapon of his enemies. And yet his presence made these people feel worthy. What could he do but strive to be worthy of them in turn? “I can be ready in a moment.”
The rabbi gave a nod and ascended the stairs to prepare his followers.
Katherine turned on Elisha, raising her hand to his face, gazing at him. “Can you do this? I feel so weary already that I may faint on the spot.”
He caught her hand in his and lowered it, but did not let go, not yet. “This room contains a single death, Katherine”—she flinched, fear, anger, guilt flashing through beneath her skin as she recalled her husband’s death, but he went on—“but here, it is the only one. Out there, I can feel them. I can feel the tide approaching, roaring like the ocean, a tide of death that those people can only imagine. It sustains me.”
“I wish it could be me, sustaining you,” she whispered aloud.
Elisha squeezed her hand and let her go. “It’s not enough.” He moved beyond her dismay toward the stairs.
“What isn’t, Elisha?” she called after him. “I’m not enough? Is it love that can’t sustain you, or is it life itself? Have you redeemed me, only to succumb to death yourself?”
Elisha could not answer. As he ascended, leaving the dulling effect of the salt behind, the rush returned, suffusing him flesh and bone. Death rose upon the wind in an icy stroke that left him alert, and terribly alive.
Chapter 4
In the hall where the refugees gathered and readied themselves for another journey through wonder, Elisha found Agnes and Doctor Emerick—Klaus—cleaning up at a basin, leaning together. At his approach, they parted, looking guilty, Agnes glancing behind him, but Katherine was slow to follow. Either she needed some time to recover from her weariness, or Elisha had finally said too much.
“Where did you take your medical training, Emerick?”
The young physician dried his hands briskly on a towel. “At Bologna. Why do you ask?”
Elisha sighed. No help there. “Our enemies have linked the sickness that approaches to Salerno.”
Emerick gave a snort. “As well they might. Salerno used to be the finest school, a hundred years ago. Nowadays, it has fallen off in both attendance and quality. The University at Heidelberg has its own program of study, but it has not yet attracted the best faculty—they’re all at Paris or Bologna. Where did you study?”
“The streets of London. And the brothels.” Then he took in the refugees around them, bravely preparing for another transition. “For a time, I had a Jewish master-surgeon.” A Jew who had decided to burn himself rather than be used by the mancers.
“I paid a visit to the medical library at Salerno once, to copy the manuscript of Matteo Silvaticum’s Opus Pandectarum Medicinae, a long and tedious task but the gardens there are lovely, even now the medical school has fallen a bit behind. The entire city is built up the sides of mountains, with only a little flat ground in between. No river barges to reach Salerno, it’s either a boat or a donkey.”
Elisha let his fingers rest on Emerick’s arm as the man spoke, gathering snatches of his memories of the place, in case he needed that knowledge later. “Do they have a patron saint?”
Emerick’s brow furrowed. “The cathedral is dedicated to San Matteo—it is a beautiful church. But he is not as San Gennaro is to Naples, for example.” The doctor took a breath as if to proceed, but Elisha broke in.
“Thanks for your help.”
“It is the least I could do, I am sure.” He plucked a heavy robe from a nearby bench and slipped it back on. “Do you really think this pestilence is as dreadful as they say? Ships of the dead and so forth? The tales we’ve heard make it seem, well, positively Biblical.”
“It is as bad and worse. I’ve seen it. It starts with a fever and chills, nausea and vomiting. The victims have dark swellings on the thighs, neck and underarms.” He indicated his armpits. “They get disoriented and clumsy. But after a couple of days, they can’t walk in any case. Sometimes their fingers and lips turn black. Necrotic.”
Emerick’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, his long face unnaturally still. “What is the treatment?
”
“If I find one, I’ll be sure to let you know.”
Emerick gave a slight nod of his head, as if they two shared a secret knowledge. “Well, the climate of Italy is hot and moist, quite the opposite of ours, and likely the miasma that carries the disease cannot assail us to the same extent. God willing, the winter’s snow shall keep it on the far side of the mountains and give it a chance to die out.”
The vibration of the plague’s approach thrummed in Elisha’s bones like an on-coming cavalry. “God willing, at least it may slow the spread of the disease.” God seemed willing enough for them all to die, starting, apparently, with the Jews.
“We are prepared,” the rabbi announced, his congregation gathered close, holding hands or arm in arm, all of their shining eyes focused on Elisha. “And there is someone in Heidelberg who shall be pleased to meet you again.”
Elisha stepped into the circle of their warmth and faith, and Katherine’s steps pattered behind him. She touched the hand of the man beside him and broke their grasp to stand between them, holding a relic that linked them with the Church of the Holy Ghost. She knotted her fingers into Elisha’s, saying nothing at all, her touch as cold as a mancer’s, her presence concealed with the aid of the bone talisman now pressed between their palms. The second journey, the destination both closer and more familiar, passed quickly, especially without worrying about the chapel bursting into flames around them.
The vast space of the empty church echoed around them, winter’s blast pushing through the cloth-draped window frames. The Jews separated into their families, murmuring their thanks to Katherine and Elisha. Turning to Elisha, the rabbi said, “I will guide them from here. Some have family in the city, but we will find a place for everyone. As for you . . .” he gave a sigh. “I do not expect we can look for your help at every danger. I think there are more dangers mounting at every moment. When all is done, and I am once more in my study by the fire, I will be reading and writing of this, you can be sure. You have become mishra, a part of our story.” Not giving Elisha time to respond to this, or perhaps expecting he would not, the rabbi continued, “My home will be filled with these people tonight, but there is a small abbey on the hillside, with a very fine guest lodge where you will find a welcome.” With that, he turned and brought his people out into the night.
Elisha felt tired from spell-casting, and restless at the same time. He hoped for sleep, but doubted it would come with ease. Not speaking, not letting go, Katherine accompanied him into the dark and silent streets. Snow sifted lightly down over them, the delicate flakes resting on Elisha’s hands. They walked up the hill between orderly houses of stone and brick to where a lantern burned at the abbey gate. The gatekeeper smothered a yawn and escorted them to a moderate but well-appointed hall with thick tapestries and cushioned couches. A man sat slumped into one of these, close to the blazing fire, a book clutched in one hand, a quill in the other, though he neither wrote nor drew. At the sound of their approach, he stirred and looked up, his dark, haunted eyes meeting Elisha’s. Pleasure flared and died in his presence, and he said, “Then it is true. The end times are upon us.”
Chapter 5
After this dire pronouncement, Isaac the goldsmith put down his things and held out his hands to Elisha, meeting him with a clasped hand and shoulder, almost an embrace. His customary velvet and brocade clothing looked mussed and spotted, his curly hair gone limp, as if he had lost concern for his appearance, but he still wore the granulated cross that showed his skill, and his adopted faith.
“I’m glad to see you well,” Elisha said.
Isaac’s hand trembled, though some of his pleasure returned. “Friar Gilles is here, but he’s sleeping. He is either sleeping or eating—or drinking, when he can get the ale.” A hint of the acid tone Elisha remembered so well crept into his voice then, a welcome echo of the ordinary, as if the world were not coming to an end. “Queen Margaret asked us to continue our work, to make a fine reliquary in her husband’s name. It worries her that he died apostate.”
“As well it might. Isaac Burghussen, goldsmith, this is Katherine, the Margravine of Tirol.”
“You look familiar from Margaret’s court.” Katherine covered a yawn, her shoulders drooping, and Elisha slid an arm around her.
Isaac gave a short bow, his curly hair bobbing. “An honor, Margravine.”
“Katherine has been working against my enemies.” He could feel the exhaustion that flowed beneath her skin, her defenses fading away with the long night. “You should take your rest.”
“And you,” she echoed. Her gaze flicking over him.
“I’ll try.”
“The novices can prepare a light supper, my lady,” said the monk who had accompanied them. “We also have a private chamber to offer you, my lady. We have only two other guests, and not like to have more this time of year.”
“To bed, then,” she told him. “And my thanks.”
The monk spread his hand toward an archway in invitation. With a gentle squeeze of Elisha’s fingers, she followed the monk away to her rest. Between the two of them, she and Elisha had slain the mancers of Heidelberg, and he prayed she would be safe through the night. Isaac beckoned Elisha to sit by him at the fire, moving his open book, a page full of sketches—arms, faces, heads, beautifully drawn. “The Margravine is attached to you,” Isaac observed.
“She wants me to stay here, to help her fight the mancers.”
“Will you?” The goldsmith cocked his head, watching Elisha sidelong.
“She and her assistants need me. I’ve seen dozens more mancers since last we met. I can identify them and track them down. Some of them will be here, following the pestilence or—” He studied Isaac’s face. “Hounding the Jews.”
Isaac’s eyes turned glossy. “I need to go home,” he breathed, tracing the images of a pair of children drawn in ink on the pages of his book. “I am Christian now. My wife is Christian-born, and my children.” He shook his head. “But if anyone discovers their heritage.” He let the book slide, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. “I am meant to be working in gold, to be crafting a vessel for the body of a saint, for the glory of God and the emperor’s soul, and I can’t sleep for fear of what may happen. I can’t think in gold and metal now—I can barely manage my tools.” His voice fell to a whisper, nearly a moan. “I keep seeing my parents die, my brothers—hearing my sister’s screams. It’s happening all over again. Will it never end?”
Between one heartbeat and the next, the competent goldsmith had collapsed into the child he had been, spattered with his brother’s blood, pleading for mercy in the name of someone else’s god. Elisha clasped his hand on Isaac’s shoulder, sending comfort. “I can take you home,” Elisha whispered. “I can bring you there in an instant.”
“Folding the way.” Isaac’s hands fell, his eyes gleaming, caught between terror and hope. “Will we be safe there—or are they safer without me?”
“We’ll bring them back here; the gatekeeper said they’ve got plenty of room.”
“Where can a Jew be safer than in an abbey?” Isaac’s lip curled.
“That’s settled, then.” Elisha drew back, smothering a yawn. The weariness of so much magic finally caught him, dispelling that jittery sense of ever-present death. His arrival had saved the lives of those Jews, and here was a way he could aid the man who had risked himself for Elisha in the past. Knowing the good that came from his magic helped to reconcile his own fears with his power. Katherine offered him a chance to use his power in the service of the right, stalking the mancers with weapons she had developed. If enough of them could be killed, the pestilence must die, without the black magic that sustained it.
“Not tonight—even I can see that you’re in no condition for that, and you’ve not even told me what you’ve been doing.” Isaac closed his sketchbook and stood up. “Come, I can show you to a room. I’ve taken one over as my workshop,
for a fee, of course. No need to wonder how they pay for all of this.” He waved his hand to indicate their rich surroundings, then lowered it for Elisha. “Come.”
At the end of a short corridor, next to the workshop Isaac had claimed, Elisha tumbled into a soft bed, tugging his fur cloak around him. Katherine lay in the chamber above, already sleeping, and he needed no magic to sense the snoring of Friar Gilles, keeping company with his crate full of relics, a slithery tangle of sensations of death and pain and reverence. To sense their familiar presences gave him comfort against the dread that crept up from beyond the walls. When Isaac, too, had gone to bed, his agitated presence calming at last, then Elisha let himself rest.
• • •
He woke to an argument, another familiar event when Isaac was involved, but this argument flowed in clipped whispers, meant to let him sleep. No matter how softly they spoke, he knew the combatants all too well for their rising emotions to escape his awareness. Dim sunlight glowed at the shuttered window, and Elisha pushed aside his cape and rose stiffly. For a moment, he worked at attunement, drawing together everything he saw and knew and sensed about this place. A dozen monks occupied another wing, deep in prayer at this hour, while his three fractious comrades sat in the hall at the end of the corridor. Down the hillside, the city woke, carters hauling their wares, market stalls opening and fishmongers pushing barrels up from the riverside. Yet, if Elisha stretched a little further, the shadow of death stretched back toward him, seeping up from the south and the east as if the darkness would steal the sun. He started down the corridor, the voices growing louder with his approach.
In the hall, Katherine rapped her knife down across her plate. “You saw how distant and distracted he was—he must conserve his power and use it to the greatest good. He cannot simply hare off at any task his friends would ask of him.”
Elisha Daemon Page 3