Elisha Daemon

by E. C. Ambrose

  “I work to find a place here for your friends, that speechless child whom only Alfleda can convince to leave your side, that soldier-courtier who carried you home, that lady—well, some at court have found her more than pleasing, imagining, for all that we have been so close already, that I have brought her here to wed. It is a thought not unworthy of consideration, and yet . . . my spirit lingers here, entombed.

  “Were it in my power, I would have you laid to rest on featherbeds and satin. Did I not know how you would curse me for it, I would lay myself down at your feet. We will be a long time in repairing the damage of these times, and I know that you would have me here to see it done. By the blood of Christ, I swear to you, Elisha, that the sight of you has almost undone me. And yet it seems your wounds are not for love to heal.

  “Go with God, if that be your will, but know that I envy Him your company. I do not know what lies beyond your valley, but I may yet hope that even such deep shadows may be pierced by love.”

  The page trembled from Elisha’s grasp, then slid back to his lap. His throat ached, and a shaky hand covered his eyes. Too dry to be true to the beating of his heart.

  “Elisha.”

  He jerked at the sound of the voice and tried to turn, but succeeded only in spilling the coffin and himself with it, landing on the pile of tokens, the scent of citrus and roses brightening the air.

  “Don’t, don’t,” Thomas breathed, running. He spilled his candlestick and left it behind to fall to his knees at Elisha’s side, hands outstretched as if to a fire.

  Wincing at the image, Elisha turned his face aside.

  Thomas’s hand gently turned him back, his fingers lingering upon the scar that Brigit had made of an angel’s touch. Elisha gazed up at him, Thomas’s bright eyes still rimmed by darkness.

  “Oh, my king,” he sighed, “have you seen no rest?”

  At that, Thomas gave the faintest smile. “I have not been here every night, if that’s what you fear. But we do keep watch over you.”

  Elisha slowly sat up, and Thomas’s hand fell away. “We?”

  “Your friends. Madoc, Robert, Katherine, myself, that wild boy who must be convinced to do anything but sit by you. I prayed that I would be the one here, if it happened.” His hands clung together in his lap. “If you rose.”

  Holding up the letter, Elisha said, “You seemed confident of that.”

  Light brown hair shielded Thomas’s down-turned eyes. “I am a man of faith; you know that. For my own sake, I had to believe.” He blew out a sigh. “I was less confident that you would stay.”

  Tracing the edge of the letter, Elisha murmured, “Truth be told, I do not know myself.”

  Their breathing was the only sound to part the silence, then Thomas asked, “Where were you?”

  Elisha shrugged. He had not the strength to speak of the Valley and the madness there, or the darker madness of the days he lingered in the ruined temple, watching his own shade killing Brigit’s with that final touch, before he drew himself back to the flesh. He blinked back the visions and focused on the parchment, touching it gently. “I guess I returned for this, to know how it all came out, who had lived and who had not—what victory remained at the battle’s end.”

  Looking sharply away, Thomas made no reply, and Elisha knew it was not the answer he hoped for. Elisha squeezed shut his eyes, tucking the stump of his left wrist under his right arm. “Oh, Thomas, you know as well as I that there’s no hope for us—better, in fact.”

  “Hope of what?” Thomas shot back, and Elisha flinched. “Do you even know what I hope for? It is enough for me to know you’re safe, better still to know that you might be happy. God knows I wish that it could be with me.”

  “But you’re the king,” said Elisha softly, creeping forward over the flowers and tokens that surrounded his coffin. “You’re the king, and I . . .” but he no longer knew what to say, what, exactly, he was, and so he fell silent, Thomas so near that his presence brought warmth to Elisha’s face.

  The king pointed to a sack beside the plinth where Elisha’s coffin had rested. “You’ll find clothes in there, and food—we’ve changed it out every day, just in case—and the key to the lodge, not that you would go there if you mean to avoid me, but you’re still welcome. I moved your horse to the livery by Saint Bart’s and paid her board.” His hand dropped back, trembling, until he clenched it into a fist. “I dreamed of us running off together, fleeing to Capri, perhaps, someplace where it’s no sin to love each other.” His shoulders slumped, and the blue spark of his eye glanced back to Elisha’s face. “But someone has to stay behind. Someone must lead the nation out of this darkness. If and when we have recovered from the pestilence, then someone must change the laws, and work to convince the Church, and find a way to make your people safe.”

  Elisha gave a slight chuckle. “That’s what Brigit wanted, too, but she would not have settled for mere equality.”

  “Some fear witches more than ever, after her temple at Smithfield broke, and they don’t even know the truth about the plague. But the cult of Saint Barber grows every day as well.” Then Thomas, too, laughed. “How you must hate that.”

  “If it does some good.”

  “Everyone needs something to believe in.” He straightened, still staring toward the wall. “Your battle may be over, but ours is just begun.”

  The cold floor and the pervasive air of death began to seep into Elisha’s weary bones. He reached out and drew the sack toward him, hearing the chink of coins. How like Thomas to think of everything. He let the weight of that consideration rest upon his lap, the heels of boots settling against his thigh, the corner of a good wool cape poking out of the sack.

  “Elisha, please don’t go.” Thomas’s voice echoed from the stone and the silent statues of the dead. “Please.”

  “How can I stay without endangering all you would work for?”

  “Was it the letter? Did I not say enough?” Then, more softly, “Did I say too much?”

  “No,” said Elisha. “It’s a good letter—the best I’ve ever had, although that says little for a man who couldn’t read until a year ago.”

  “Then why?”

  Elisha, too, gazed at the wall, his breathing unconsciously falling in rhythm with his king’s. “Because there has been too much dying, too much pain. I just—I need to find some peace, and I don’t know that I can find it here.”

  “Peace.” Thomas nodded. “I could use that, too, but if all this has shown me nothing else it is that some things are worth fighting for.” He turned to Elisha, blue eyes sparkling. “You’ve known too much of dying, my friend. But what do you know about living?”

  “They cannot be separated—life and death exist in balance, one is but the shadow of the other.” Elisha tried to smile. “Without the darkness, would we know to love the day?”

  “Then come,” said Thomas, and he lifted his hand. “Come with me and stand in the light. For as long as it lasts, for whatever may come—we have faced the worst that God’s world has to offer—can we not still hope for the best?”

  In the gentle light of the single lamp, Elisha studied Thomas’s face, serious, lean, and handsome. He knew that he should leave, for all the reasons he claimed and more, and yet . . . sometimes knowledge was the least part of sorcery.

  Elisha reached out and took his hand. Strength flowed between them, and a heat so intense that Elisha forgot he had ever been cold. He laughed aloud then, and Thomas grinned in return. Affinity, he thought. Contact. Thomas pulled him close to his heart, and Elisha accepted the blessing of the king’s embrace.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Here we are, at the end of Elisha’s story—or at least, at the point where he and Thomas can finally go for a pint. As you read these thanks, please imagine them raising a pint to each and every one of you—and quite possibly getting rather drunk, given the number of people who deserve my grat
itude.

  First of all, my agent Cameron, editors Josh and Betsy, and the entire crew at DAW who helped to bring this work to your eyes. Without their assistance, the books might never have hit the shelves, and they assuredly would not be as strong as they are. Any faults are my own. Also Cliff Nielsen, the amazing cover artist who offered a glimpse of Elisha’s world.

  To my beta readers, Ken H., Ken S., Heather A.—and earlier readers Alex, Sarah, Steve, and Brett. With a special shout-out to beta reader and medical advisor, D. T. Friedman. Without you, Elisha might have been lost in the woods for a good long while. I will mention Sherry Peters here, as well, the writing coach who guided me through some rough patches in the midst of the muddle.

  My supportive friends and family deserve a longer note for letting me go to conferences like the International Medieval Congress in Kalamazoo, and sometimes for letting me stay home in my office; for not calling a psychiatrist or the police when I suddenly announce, “I’ve found the perfect way to kill a priest!”, and for generally respecting my writing time. Thank you so much, Mom and Dad, Laurel and Gabriel, and especially Ed! (along with cheerleader Stacy, sister Michelle, and writing buddies Robin, Rob, John, and Iain).

  Richard, longtime friend and reader, and now also a writing buddy, whose questions always make me dig deeper.

  The scholars of Kzoo, especially members of Societas Magica, MEARCSTAPA, Tales After Tolkien, Medica, and AVISTA, whose papers and conversation inspired my own research and sparked so many ideas.

  Last, but certainly not least (could somebody bring Elisha and Thomas another round of cider? Thanks!), for the readers who have followed us this far. Writers need readers to complete the journey, and I have been grateful to meet so many of you along the way. Some of you, like Carol and Kris, were there at the start, and some of you, like Ed and Clinton, reached out across the distance. Your enthusiasm has often carried me on the long road back to London.

  Many others, readers and writers, fans and friends, who have contributed in their own way. Thank you all, so very much. I hope to meet you all on another adventure someday soon!

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