Elisha Daemon

by E. C. Ambrose

“Father Pierre came to ask for my protection for the Jews. His affliction left him barely able to speak of it, and yet you were able to heal him. The Lord wishes this petition to be heard, and so it shall be, for the sake of the souls of the Jews who have yet to come to the truth, and for the sake of the souls of those who assault them in defiance of the Lord’s own commandments.” His smile returned, the storm within his eyes retreating behind the brighter day. “Yes, we are sinners all, but we seek to repent and sin no more, not to compound those sins with sins ever greater. Perhaps he came also to ask me to return to Rome—”

  Elisha quickened at that, opening his mouth, but the Pope held up a warning finger.

  “Now, Doctor, I know that Rome is a danger still, although it is my hope that the Orsini and the Colonna together shall revive the city and make it habitable again. I know there are some of those talking voices Cardinal Renart would have me acknowledge who think it is because the Pope is at Avignon that God visits His creation with plagues. And now, there is you.” He gestured up and down, indicating Elisha, his ring winking in the sun. “What would you have me do? How am I to safeguard the souls of my flock from these evil men you say are coming in search of power? I cannot stop a man who grasps for power through the ruin of others, although I can pray for his soul. That is a thing of the air—” He stretched out his fingers drawing in the horizon and the wind. “It is not for me. Kings shall rise and kings shall fall. Some of them will be great men, and some will be vile. But the virtuous man will always turn to the Lord and seek there his direction.” He tapped Elisha’s chest. “I guide them as best I am able when my flock begins to stray. A few of them may be devoured by the wolves as they wander the wilderness, and I pray that the Lord will show them their way back to the fold.”

  For a long moment, they stood silent. Then the Pope asked, “And you, my son? Are you also a shepherd, or are you a wolf?”

  Chapter 31

  “You are yourself about to be victim to the wolves, Your Holiness.” Elisha took a deep breath. The Pope was no mancer, but a man of deepest faith, nor had he yet succumbed to their influence. He must be warned of the dangers that surrounded him, and if Elisha could win his trust, the Pope’s voice would be a powerful tool to calm the spreading madness. “Cardinal Renart is one of them, a sorcerer. The people who want you to go to Rome are either sorcerers as well, or are influenced by them—Count Vertuollo of Rome is one, and Lord Nicolas of Orleans.”

  “And the poet Petrarch? Is it magic that allows him the gift of words?” The Pope’s eyes sparkled like his ring.

  “You must hear me, Your Holiness! The sorcerers I speak of are necromancers—they kidnap, torture, and kill people, stripping their skins and making their bones into false relics for their own conjuring.”

  That drew a look of horror from the Pope. “That would be a devilish witchcraft indeed, but my priests have brought me no such tales. Even the Holy Office of the Inquisition hasn’t spoken of it. I do not know these others of whom you speak, but Cardinal Renart is a priest of long standing in the papal court; officious, perhaps, but none has ever besmirched his reputation.”

  “Because they go to great pains to keep their work secret, preying on those who can’t fight back.” Elisha continued, “These necromancers have already killed Emperor Ludwig in favor of Emperor Charles. They tried to take England, and I stopped them. They already rule in France.”

  “Ah!” Pope Clement jabbed a finger at him. “Is that what this is about? You think me a puppet of France because I am French and we are in France? These people you name, they are important, influential, yes. And you tell such extraordinary tales of them. Are you not just one more, trying to drag me into politics to suit your own purposes? You are English, and you wish me to shun the French. The Italians want me to return to Italy, not for the glory of God, but for the money they lose when the cardinals are not there.” His red cape flapped with his gestures, as if he would launch himself at Elisha or merely fly off into the sky. “You do not, any of you, understand. It is not you I listen to, it is the Lord. Sometimes words are spoken by men which echo the voice that I hear in my heart. Certes, I must balance the thousand earthly voices to appease the French, the Germans, the English, the Italians—but it is that one strong voice that I must hear beyond all of this.”

  Elisha’s heart fell, and he turned away, leaning on the parapet, staring down into the city. Irregular city blocks and plazas crammed the space between the river’s bend and the city wall, with a spill-over of cardinal’s palaces beyond, and fresh walls arrested in mid-construction as ever more people moved to be near the Pope and the wealth and power he represented. More of those earthly voices the Pope set aside to listen to God. Overlaying this uneven grid of golden stone settled the webbing of death, the shadowy traces of dying, thicker around the churches and hospitals, a dark miasma hanging along certain streets where small houses and hovels were carved into the yards, clustering in a dense blackness over a block of tall buildings, their inner court roofed over again by the remnants of death. Here and there, the Valley flared open, accepting new souls in transit. Did they move on to something better? The Pope clearly believed so. But did that mean their earthly lives should be discounted, their flesh reviled and readily discarded, along with all the joys and trials of the world? The sky above shone bright with summer’s promise while the land suffered in terrible darkness.

  What did he want of the Pope after all? What could the Pope do but pray? A party of citizens trudged in the direction of the river, carrying shrouded corpses between them. If he focused his senses, he could hear the bearers crying, coughing, cursing.

  After a moment, the Pope, too, looked over the wall, watching the river’s flow, and made the sign of blessing toward the distant funeral as the dead were consigned to the river.

  As Clement said, he must balance the voices of all of those lords and cities and churchmen—he had no army, no weapon to combat the mancers, nothing but his spiritual power, there at the center of the world, where a thousand, thousand people looked up to him and listened. When the Pope brought his hand down to the stone, Elisha reached out and touched him, sending what he heard from the funeral below, from those who suffered in the city, and those who tried in vain to ease their suffering: the sounds of grief and pain, the sounds of loss and dying. “What about those voices? Don’t you hear them?”

  The Pope stiffened at his touch, but his attention focused, his mouth drawn down.

  “If Petrarch, or Father Pierre can speak words that echo the voice of God, then how much greater must your own voice be, Your Holiness? The Jews are being attacked. The poor and the sick are being ignored. Your flock scatters in fear because their kings cannot defend them, and their faith seems unanswered. From the depths they call to you, why else are they here? They can’t hear the Lord as clearly as you do, Your Holiness—that’s why they listen to you.”

  Clement looked down at their hands, side by side on the stone, Elisha’s scarred, work-hardened, sun-darkened, and now bandaged in white, in sharp contrast with the long, elegant fingers of the Pope, pale and well-tended, the nails clean, the only calluses those of grasping a quill.

  One of the priests approached from the doorway. “Forgive me, Your Holiness,” he said, shoulders hunched and bowing. “Cardinal Renart is seeking you, Your Holiness. Shall I tell him . . . are you through here?”

  Dark eyes reflected Elisha’s thin, worried face, then the Pope said, “I am through,” and he turned away, brushing past Elisha, calling, “Follow!”

  The Pope’s broad wake encompassed Elisha, drawing him down the stairs, into the knot of soldiers and clerics, a knot that grew with each level they descended until the cardinal joined them in a broad and beautifully painted chamber with a ceiling covered in stars. “Your Holiness, I hope that your walk has done you good.” Renart smiled, flaring his eyes at Elisha as the Pope passed, clearly expecting him to fall into the crowd as well.

  T
he Pope had heard him, heard the voices of his frightened flock, but showed no sign that he would do or say anything to draw them back together. Elisha had failed, bumping along after the Pope like any other servant until the Holy Father saw fit to dismiss him. Then what? What remained to Elisha but to return to the course of the wolf, slaying the mancers as best he could? His bandaged hands hung empty. Pope Clement would not—could not—help him to defeat the mancers at the highest level. This task remained his and his alone.

  “Indeed, I have not lately seen you in such high spirits, Your Holiness,” Renart continued. “Shall we go over the afternoon’s—”

  “We are called to other duties, Cardinal. Send a runner to inform Father Pierre that his petition has been granted—tell him to draft a bull reiterating our defense of the Jews.” Clement summoned one of the other priests and ticked off items on his hand. “We need a censer and a deacon to carry it. The tall processional cross, a basin of holy water. We will need five wooden crosses, and a number of novices or servants.”

  Renart’s jaw clenched then loosened. “If I may be so bold as to ask, Your Holiness, what is it that we are doing?”

  “Consecrating a cemetery.”

  “Right now?” The cardinal reached out to try to stop the priest, but he hurried away, carrying the Pope’s urgent commands.

  “The Lord moves me, Cardinal, do try to keep up. I will pray in the chapel of Saint John, until the items I require are ready.” He kept moving.

  The cardinal grabbed two handfuls of his robe and hitched up his skirts to hurry along. “What would you have me do in this service, Your Holiness?” Renart asked, but his facade of righteous concern cracked against his confusion. Elisha had no idea what the Pope had in mind, or why, but if it discomfited Renart, it must be a good thing.

  “Do? Why, you must pray. Both of you will join me, doctor and cardinal. Perhaps I will see you reconciled of whatever enmity lies between you. ‘Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.’ This will be a holy day, and we shall share it with our people, beginning with you.” His gesture hooked Elisha into the small, square chamber, barely big enough for the three of them. Bright frescoes covered most of the walls and ceiling between the arches that formed the central vault. One wall, and part of another showed only sketched lines and the artist scrambled to his feet as they entered, wiping his hands on a paint-spattered smock.

  “Your Holiness!” The artist darted a glance at the cardinal and back as he bowed, kissing the Pope’s ring. “I had understood that His Eminence Cardinal Renart had passed along your permission to work.”

  “You understood correctly, but for now, I wish to pray.”

  The artist slipped away as the soldiers circled the entrance to the little chapel. Inside, the Pope sank to his knees, crossing himself, and Elisha had no choice but to follow. A little way off, at the Pope’s other side, Renart settled into a pool of crimson fabric, palms pressed together with a rosary cross between them. He gazed heavenward as if his eyes could bore holes through the stone ceiling.

  Elisha schooled himself to stillness, attuning himself to the place and the two people who shared it, the silent majesty of the Pope and the utter void of the cardinal, edged by the shadows of those he had slain. Could Elisha show that to the Pope as well? Would the Holy Father believe it, or would he imagine it was Elisha who was the sorcerer, conjuring ghosts to bend the Pope to his will? He wished he had a relic cold enough to defend the Pope against the plague without also making him vulnerable to the mancers’ direct attack. For now, Elisha would be cautious and show no more than he must, no more than the Pope was willing to understand. His mind wandered, and he thought of praying. If he prayed, if God would hear him, what would he say? He would ask for mercy for the victims of the plague and for courage in the battle to come. He would ask God to defend Jude and help him to heal, and to watch out for Katherine, Harald, and the rest of his assassins; if God saw all, surely He saw the righteousness in what they did. He imagined that, across the Channel, Thomas might be praying, too, praying for Elisha’s life and safety, a thought that pierced him: Thomas praying for Elisha, when he should be praying for himself and all the nation as the plague stalked ever closer.

  • • •

  Outside the palace, the forest of steeples pealed the hours twice before the Pope finally raised his head, crossed himself, and spoke his amen. Elisha’s knees ached and only the humming strength of the Valley kept him awake and alert through the long afternoon. On the wall before him, the artist’s bright paints depicted John the Baptist, likewise kneeling, and a man with a sword at the saint’s neck about to lop off his head. The image lingered in Elisha’s eye as he stiffly rose and crossed himself.

  The time in contemplation seemed to have both darkened Renart’s mood and given him direction. He spared no glance at all for Elisha as they accompanied the Pope out of the chapel, joining his entourage of priests and servants, burdened with all the items the Pope had ordered. Even to Elisha’s eye, the procession looked small and ragged, as if people were missing and others uncertain where to stand as a result, shifting their weight uneasily, standing aside or reacting as if those absent might suddenly come to take their places. All these little actions revealed the dead as surely as any glimpse of their shades might do. Nonetheless, the Pope’s presence united his followers, and they walked together, the deacon swinging his globe to spread a cloud of incense around them.

  In the streets beyond the palace, the silent citizens watched, some of them forgetting to bow or curtsey, their faces haunted, and they joined the procession, stepping carefully around the dead who lay here and there upon the stones. The growing crowd filed through a gate toward the river and the Pope murmured with his servants, sending them out with their crosses as he led the procession onto the broad stone span. Two of the servants hurried ahead, holding the wooden crosses, encountering a group of royal guards near the far side. After some discussion, a guard sprinted for the castle beyond. The Pope took no notice, crossing until they reached the center of the span. Here, he held open his arms and began to speak, opening with a prayer, then calling those around him to draw near.

  “My children, I know that you fear. Some among you believe the end times are near, that the heavens shall open to release those fierce angels and their terrible horns. Will the seals be broken and this creation brought to ruin? There are moments it seems it must be so.” As the Pope spoke in Latin, other voices translated softly all around them, French, Italian, German, a dozen others Elisha did not know. At the back of the crowd, near the city stood a group of Jews, drawn by the spectacle, curious or fearful. “I say to you that the Lord has given me no sign to cause me to tremble. Rather, all around me, I see the signs of hope. I see that you struggle to be faithful, and yet you succeed. I see that many are stricken and many will fall, and yet others will rise and go on. Are these the end times? Will the seas boil and the sky rain fire? It may be so—but remember, my children, that this fearsome event is also a glorious one, for it will mark the return of Our Savior and the fulfillment of the Lord’s promise to us.”

  He drew a deep breath and continued, “And so I say to you, do not fear but be at peace with the will of the Lord. Pray and make offerings. Give to the poor and minister to the sick. Repent of your sins and be cleansed that you may greet the savior with an open heart, even should years pass before these great events of prophecy arrive.

  “You have been asked to bear your dead to the cemeteries for their burial, but I know this is another burden for your already burdened hearts. And so, the Lord moves me to create this river as holy ground. From this day forth, your dead will lie peacefully here and await the day of judgement. From this day forth, let there be no bloodshed nor no devilry here to despoil this holy place.” Did his glance stray to Renart? If so, it did not find him. A cluster of cardinals had joined the procession, but Elisha could not find Renart among them. He pivoted, searching the crowd,
and spotted a tall familiar figure at the far edge, silver hair dancing in the wind.

  Elisha slipped between the guards and clerics, working his way free of the crowd as the Pope continued with his blessing. He moved fast, his heart thundering—surely he was mistaken. Vertuollo, here?

  Then he heard the count’s gravely musical voice, echoing through the Valley, through his heart. “Come, Jude. Let us pay a visit. I think you shall like England, and your small friends will find so many hearths to warm them.”

  Vertuollo stood on a little rise, Jude at his side, hand in hand, his brothers in magic, united at last. And the count’s other hand held a little vial of crystal with silver fittings, a vial of the earth where Elisha’s brother died. For a sensitive magus like Count Vertuollo, that vial held a pathway directly to the heart of London, and his traveling companion held the plague.

  Chapter 32

  “No!” Elisha shouted. He snatched himself through the Valley, hoping the crowd remained focused on the Pope, and desperate to stop the threat to England. He stumbled to his knees at the count’s feet. Vertuollo stepped back, staring down his nose, the vial already concealed.

  The count’s stern voice resonated through the Valley, sending a chill to Elisha’s heart. “We spoke of this before, my brother, and you would then have no part of the conversation, as if it mattered not at all what might occur. I suggested that you might go home, but you refused, as petulant then as you are today.”

  “I did not know as much then as I know now, Brother, please.”

  The count nearly smiled. “It is too late for ‘please.’ It is too late for nearly anything. You went to Salerno and would not rest. You came to Rome, and would only antagonize me further, and now this.” He spread his free hand, his graceful sleeve flaring in the wind like a broad wing about to soar. “We find you in Avignon, bothering the Pope himself. You are a pebble in the shoe of the great, and we grow weary of stumbling.”