Elisha Daemon

by E. C. Ambrose

  Danek struggled against him, that sickening wrongness flooding Elisha’s own senses, as he remembered how Gretchen’s mother tried to do the same to him, to force herself inside and tear out his knowledge, doing anything to strip from him what she needed. Danek thrashed, his features warped with an overwhelming horror.

  Stomach roiling, Elisha pulled back as the salted blade slid free to shatter on the ground in the pool of blood. Elisha shifted his awareness, out and away, focusing his left eye on all the pathways of the dead, the family that lay beneath their blanket, the surging presence of the Valley and the slick cold spark as victim after victim died in the city all around them. Here and there, the Valley thrilled with a wicked glee as the mancers reveled in their conquest, drunk on the power all around them. “There’s your gift. You didn’t give humility to the desolati, you gave power to their oppressors. To the mancers we are all lepers, worthless, weak, disgusting.”

  He reached again for power, this time to heal, but Danek jerked his arm away, dodging Elisha’s touch. Danek’s eyes rolled, and he coughed up blood in a racking wave that finished on an exhalation of cold.

  Did he understand what he had done before he died? Elisha felt the unfurling breath as his spirit passed, coiling toward the Valley, then gone, as if, indeed, he had sworn his soul to someone. The barely felt shift of Vertuollo’s presence rose from behind him and vanished again as quickly beneath deflection. The salted blade prevented even that most powerful of magicks, conjured by the death of a magus.

  Abandoning his attachment to the dead, Elisha searched for the living. Jude lay crumpled at the base of the column, his arms over his head, his breath coming in sharp gasps, as if he prepared to scream, but no sound passed his lips.

  The horror of all that had happened sank into Elisha, flesh and bone, his throat seared with bile, his heart sore with—what? Regret? Over what he had done and how? Or over the fact that he learned so little from his brutal invasion of another man’s secrets?

  “Jude, are you hurt?” He crept closer, holding out his hand, not touching, not yet.

  Jude twitched one elbow, peering up at Elisha, then he gave a sob, and flung himself into Elisha’s arms. Blood streaked his hair from where his head had struck stone. He curled into a tight ball, shaking, and Elisha gathered him close. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  “I killed him.”

  “To defend yourself and me—a witch’s greatest power is at the moment of his death, and you stopped even that.”

  “I’m bad, a demon. I didn’t listen to you. I never listen.” Jude’s miserable words stung Elisha’s skin.

  “You are what he made you, Jude, but you don’t have to be. From now on, it’s all up to you. You have a choice—you can choose to do the right thing.”

  “I’m nothing.”

  Friar Gilles wrestled with his purpose, wondering if he had finished all that God had in mind for him, but Jude lived beneath the sway of a vicious creator, one who forged him as an instrument of suffering. Elisha hugged him fiercely, flooding him with comfort. “That’s a lie. Don’t believe that, don’t ever believe it. Your father gave you much better gifts than that. You can learn to use them. I’ll teach you whatever I can.” He still had a lot to learn himself, and he prayed that Jude could teach him in turn, but now was not the time. He gently parted the boy’s hair, probing with his medical knowledge and his secret senses to judge the depth of his injury and found it painful and jarring, but not desperate. He urged the skin to knit and lifted the pain away, feeling it throb against his own skull, reminding him a little too much of his own near-death.

  Jude’s thin arm slipped around his neck, pulling him even closer.

  Unsteadily, Elisha rose, leaning briefly against the column to catch his breath. His legs trembled, too much magic, too quickly in bringing them here, then in pursuing Danek. He stumbled as he walked, but he did not try to set the child down, nor did Jude make any move to escape his arms.

  In spite of withdrawing his contact from the Valley, Elisha still sensed its rising hum as they approached San Giovanni. His weary limbs could move no faster, but a lump formed at his throat. The great door still stood open. Across the shattered city, a few church bells rang to acknowledge the hour, but their voices sounded hollow and discordant, as if too many notes were missing to make the joyous noise, as if the bell pulls hung limp without the hands to sound them. Inside, Father Pierre bent over Friar Gilles, anointing his head with oil. Gilles’s breath rasped in and out over swollen lips, but his eyes flickered open at Elisha’s approach.

  Sinking down beside him, Elisha at last released his grip on Jude, both of them staring down at their companion.

  “I will miss seeing you in your glory,” Gilles breathed, and Elisha had not the heart to deny his fervor. “For it will come, and you will rise to vanquish the enemy.” The friar nearly smiled, a tremor of his lips and the slightest lifting of his cheeks. “And there shall be no curse, rather the throne of God, and of the Lamb upon it . . .” He coughed harshly, and whispered, “And there shall be no night, and they need no candle, for the light . . .” But he spoke no more of the light, nor of anything at all. His shade rose up in brightness, released from the corruption of the flesh, and Elisha felt the flash of joy and sorrow and let him go.

  Chapter 21

  Father Pierre spoke a soft prayer in Latin, then said, “So many have been quoting from Revelations lately. I have heard rumors that the woman clothed with the sun was seen in the mountains, and gave birth there to the child of the prophecies, the one who shall be hounded by the dragon.”

  “The end times,” Elisha said, watching as Father Pierre closed Gilles’s sightless eyes.

  “Just so.” The priest sat back on his heels. “The miraculous mother is on her way to see the Holy Father at Avignon. It is another reason I am going.”

  Brigit on the move to visit the Pope? The idea was too strange for words.

  Father Pierre gave a deep sigh, sounding too weary for a man so young. Elisha knew how he felt. The priest stoppered his vial of oil, holding it in his palm. “There is a shortage of gravediggers, I fear. I do not know when or how we can properly tend his earthly remains.” He glanced over his shoulder at the daylight stretching toward them across the floor.

  “And you have a voyage to make.” Over the salt sea toward the Pope, the most powerful man under Heaven. If the Pope himself were already under mancer control, the world was truly doomed. Elisha tried to shake off his despair; it reminded him of his last sojourn in Rome, making his confession to Father Uccello, confessing his despair before the priest’s own execution redoubled it.

  “I take it he has neither family nor brethren in the city. What about his visitor? Would he have the means to see to the burial?”

  “He had a visitor? Who?”

  “I did not see clearly—the man departed as I was returning with the things I needed to tend him and offer his last rites. Forgive me, I assumed you would know.” The priest spread his hands in a slight shrug. “There is always the catacombs, of course.”

  Then Elisha remembered what he had sensed, that Vertuollo himself had moved through the Valley. But why come to visit Gilles? What did the mancer want? He had done nothing to hasten the friar’s death, nor had he left any sign of his coming as a warning to Elisha himself or to siphon away the power of that death. The church floor felt too hard beneath his knees, and Elisha longed to sink down at the friar’s side and rest, but he could not do so, not in the city of his enemy, especially when he did not understand what his enemy was doing. He could, of course, always ask him. The mancers had been busy: Vertuollo coming to see Gilles, Brigit traveling to visit the Pope, and God only knew what the rest of them were up to while Elisha chased the plague. It was time for the two quests—stopping the mancers, and stopping the plague—to become one. What did Brigit want with the Pope? If the Pope stood already under mancer sway, then why had Danek bot
hered to send him a charm already infected with the plague? And if the Pope still gave allegiance to God alone, then could his earthly influence be harnessed against the mancers who sought to claim the world?

  “I think that Friar Gilles would be grateful to lie among the martyrs of the past. Father, may we join you on your voyage to Avignon? It might be best if we could manage a private cabin on board ship.”

  Father Pierre’s warm glance flicked to the silent child and back, and he gave a nod. “I cannot say when we will return here.” Or if, but he need not say that either. “The Jews are already at the port. I will take a boat down the river, and we sail with the evening tide.”

  “Then we’ll be there. Thank you for everything, Father.” As the priest moved away, Elisha draped the blanket over the friar’s body, then he turned to Jude, touching his knee. “I need your help, Jude, but it will mean showing me what happened, with your father. This voyage . . . You will need to try to trust, or, if not to trust, at least to hold back your fear. Can you do that?”

  Jude’s chin quivered, but he resolutely clamped his jaw and gave a nod. “May I have another knife?”

  Elisha took the salted blade from his boot and handed it over. Jude clutched the hilt a long moment before he tucked it through the belt made of his bonds. “On the boat, I can begin to teach you. We will be surrounded by strangers, and you will need to be very brave.”

  Another nod. “What’s the secret? The thing you didn’t say to the priest.”

  Just how sensitive was Jude? Without any training at all, it was hard to know what the boy was capable of. “Before I go to the boat, I need to pay a call on my enemy.” His hands felt clammy and his chest tight.

  “Another demon.”

  “A lord among demons. It would be better if you did not come with me. I don’t want him to hurt you.”

  “I will hurt him back. I still have my friends and my father’s gift.” These words tangled with pain and fear in the boy’s touch. “And yours.” He touched the hilt of the knife.

  He had recovered from the plague his father made, and Elisha had no idea what to make of the reference to his friends. No matter what happened, Jude had already been hurt: his life, his heart, his presence twisted to his father’s will. He might not be possessed by a demon, but he would never be an ordinary child. They had little time to pay their visit and escape again to the sea. Elisha gathered Friar Gilles’s body to his chest and staggered as he lifted him. How he longed for rest, but when would he ever find it? Travel by sea served as a barrier in both directions—it would give him the peace to recover, but it would also prevent him from reaching his enemies without extraordinary effort. And he remained acutely aware of Jude’s presence at his side. He had taken on responsibility for the child’s safety and for his training as a magus, a responsibility that could all too easily turn against him.

  They walked out into the sunlight and made their way between the dead toward the Porto San Sebastiano and the catacombs beyond. Last time he was in Rome, the shuttered houses displayed the tension of their owners, uncertain which baron to trust and whether the Tribune Cola di Rienzi would maintain his grip on power. Now more dead than living occupied the streets, and some shutters bore the black marks of plague houses. Elisha’s left eye caught glimmers of the Valley all around. They passed along a quiet street and suddenly entered a riotous piazza where a makeshift stand of minstrels played a wild dance tune barely keeping time with one another, a shawm bleating over a lute, a drum beating for attention. Couples flung themselves about, linking arms and changing partners, men and women dressed in rich gowns and gold while tears streamed down their faces. A pile of barrels stood to one side, each of them tapped and flowing into mugs and goblets.

  A man clambered up on a standing barrel, swaying until he found his balance. He wore no clothes but a gold-woven shawl stitched with gems in the shape of crosses and likely stolen from one of the churches. “Here we stand in God’s own city, celebrating our lives amidst the shadow of death!” He thrust up his hand toward the heavens, greeted by cheers from those who bothered to stop their carousing and listen. “We have pledged ourselves to the Lord, to no avail! Now, I ask you, pledge yourselves to me—the Lord of liquor and of living!” He raised up the glass in his other hand, and a roar of approval met his demand.

  The irony of this declaration struck Elisha with the void of the man’s presence: he was a mancer, the natural warmth of humanity concealed by his intimate association with killing. Jude pushed against Elisha’s side, clamping a hand over his mouth though the howl of his fear echoed through their contact. Most definitely Jude knew a mancer when he saw one.

  “You’ve met him before? Stay close, keep your head down.” Elisha cast a deflection of his own, woven from the death of Gilles and from his sadness. If they were noticed at all, let them be merely another family mourning their loss. Jude was more than an experiment; his father had wanted him back and hesitated to kill him. If he could bring Jude together with Isaac, how many mancers could they sketch then? But the mancers avoided knowing too many of the others. They worked in their little rings, barely linking with one another, like chainmail as Katherine had once described it. Just like the magi, they sought to maintain their secrets, even from each other. The Salernitan, Danek, linked many of them, at least through the flesh-bound book of directions, which had probably not been the only copy. Now he was dead without ever giving up his own secrets. Vertuollo said Danek had been too hasty in releasing his gift upon the world. The other mancers did not seem to agree. Was the count still at odds with his comrades, and could that work to Elisha’s advantage? Vertuollo called him “brother,” and they shared a curious kind of respect. They two might have reached a truce, if not for the fact of Elisha’s having killed his son.

  As Elisha walked, Gilles’s body weighing down his arms, he allowed the dying to reach him, breathing in that black power, letting it sustain him and lift him from both despair and weariness. For this, he must be strong, as formidable as the count himself. At every step, Elisha steadied, the jittery power welling up in him, leaving him eager for confrontation.

  Slipping around the edge of the revelry, they reached the gate at last, and the open air of the lands beyond the city. Even there, ruins marked the fields, old columns thrusting up from grasses just barely greening for the spring. Broken halls from ancient palaces formed the walls of farmers’ hovels and richly carved sarcophagi emerged from rubble and earth, their honored dead long vanished. Ahead he saw the first of a few small chapels that gave access to the catacombs below, Vertuollo’s special domain. The first time he came here, he avoided entering those low portals marked by the count to monitor who came. This time, Elisha stepped through into the gloom, feeling the tingle of interest against his awareness. He let his eyes adjust along with his extended senses. A few old candles rested in an empty basin near the entrance. “Will you light us a candle?”

  Jude separated from him barely long enough to comply, clutching the candle in one hand and Elisha’s elbow in the other. The candle’s flame danced as its shaft tremored in his grip.

  The shadows of death lay thickly here, guiding him down a set of stairs between shelves of old bones, some draped with shrouds of spider web or scraps of ancient cloth. Jude whimpered as he followed slightly behind. The passageway opened out into a chamber decorated with crosses and carvings of wings. Here, one of the shelves lay empty, and Elisha lay down his burden, resting Friar Gilles among the other Christians, his arms as heavy as if he still bore the weight. He slipped his hand down to grip Jude’s.

  His left eye showed the continuous shiver of shadows along the floor, like dust disturbed by the slightest current of a breeze, and they walked on into the tunnels, taking with them their small circle of light. Carved grave markers loomed out of the darkness, skulls made in stone and those of bone leering back from their places. Here and there brass bowls, jugs of wine, rusted swords and other offerings marked
the dead. These old bones had a serenity that might one day reach the dead lying above them, when all those who still mourned and fought for life had passed away.

  “I thought it could not possibly be, that my dear brother should come here, in search of me.” Vertuollo’s voice echoed around them, the drift of shadows changing direction, swirling and eddying as if they could no longer find their master.

  Elisha called out, “Your city is sunk in misery and ruin, Brother. Is it all that you hoped for? Were you not already master here without punishing Rome yet more?”

  Something rumbled, and a force of air knocked into Elisha, but he stood his ground, rooted in death like a tree into the earth. Jude gave a low moan, and Elisha divided his focus, sending courage to his companion, shielding him from the worst of the dread.

  “Do not taunt me with ruins, Barber, I am not the only one who has not found what he sought in this.”

  The candle blew out with the next shock of wind, a twirling storm that lifted the bones all around them, battering Elisha not only with the hard matter of the corpse, but with the painful stabs of knowledge as the dead revealed their paths: a woman who died in labor, a man who died on the battlefield in agony, an old woman with hands so crippled she could not feed herself, a man torn apart by lions for other men’s sport. Armoring himself with death, save for his left hand, where Jude hung on, Elisha pushed back, forcing away the contact, loose bones clattering. Vertuollo’s own sensitivity allowed him to spark these reminders of the dead when they were living, a distraction Elisha could not afford. If he could reach the count, touch him and break his hold upon the power here, then Elisha might force contact beyond Vertuollo’s defenses and learn the truth.

  A child’s corpse rose up before him, head dangling, flesh oozing from the skull, but still marked with the black swellings and streaked with the blood of the plague. Elisha turned, pivoting between Jude and the dead child, but another bone struck him hard at the knee and he staggered, Jude’s hand slipping from his grasp.