Elisha Barber: Book One Of The Dark Apostle

by E. C. Ambrose

  “It was Matthew.”

  “Oh.” Brigit continued up until a stand of willows blocked her from view. “Why does Matthew hate you so?”

  “He wants his master’s praise and the physician’s notice. Lately, I’m a distraction to them both.”

  “Professional jealousy, most likely.”

  “Of a barber?”

  “A very skilled barber, by all accounts.”

  Elisha’s laughter echoed beneath the bridge. “By whose account?”

  “Well, the soldiers at any rate. I’m afraid I have no skill at healing magic, or I should do something for you.” She paused. “Did you bring me here simply to pass the time of day?”

  “Bring you?”

  “Didn’t you want me to follow?”

  Elisha had to admit this was true. “I had a thought, about what you told me yesterday. How like things have affinity. Do you think a seed could be turned to an egg?”

  The river brought him only cold for a long while, then she said, “Why, Bittersweet, I think you have hit on an idea. I don’t know that it’s been done, at least, I’ve not done it, but you’re right. It may be difficult though, since one is of earth, and the other is air.”

  “But a stone is of earth and a fish is of water.”

  “Still, that’s a difference of only one degree. There’s a natural order to the elements: earth, water, air, fire. Think of trying to turn water to fire. Water to air, or air to fire—one degree each—is not so tricky, but to change water directly to fire would be two, a step beyond in the hierarchy.”

  Elisha nodded to himself, cupping his hand around the egg. Then her comparison reminded him of something. “That night I threw my cloak over you. How did you come to catch fire?”

  “That chapel burned because of two boys with a candle, afraid to come forward, even when an innocent man was caught and accused. If I spoke in his defense, I couldn’t reveal how I knew the truth. At best, I’d be ignored, at worst, I’d stand accused myself. So I made a diversion, and hoped he could handle the rest.”

  “You lit your own hair on fire.” Elisha stared at the bend where she had vanished, and caught sight of her slim figure picking her way among the plants.

  “It worked, though there was a moment I thought no one would come put me out, and to douse my own flames would reveal all that I wanted to hide. If you’d not come along…”

  Elisha squinted, wishing he could make out her face. “The messenger last night was that same man.”

  “He told me, and that you hit him in order to save his life. Truly, you must have been sent to defend us that night.” She mused a little longer, then said, “But you asked about affinity. Find a place where the power is close to the surface—the ancient holy places are best, but the church here is one such. Bring a talisman. Do you have a talisman?”

  “That’s a magic charm?”

  From the ripples in the water, he could tell that she was laughing. The longer he spoke this way, the more he seemed to understand it, to find the nuances of ordinary conversation, and sometimes an undertone of emotion, not easy to see when you spoke face to face. Especially when the face was as lovely as Brigit’s.

  “It isn’t magic in itself, but in what it means to you. It’s something you hold very dear, a repository of power outside yourself that you can draw on. The longer you’ve had it, the better. Or if it’s associated with strong emotions—a birth or a death, for instance.”

  Or both, Elisha thought grimly. “I have something like that, yes.”

  Brigit hesitated in her answer, as if some of his emotion had flowed along with the water. “So, take it with you. Keep the egg and the seed. Begin with the doctrine of Knowledge: For the spell to work, you have to understand both the thing to be transformed, and the thing which you desire. It’s difficult to explain. Think of all you know about them, and how they are alike. Imagine the one becoming the other. Try the egg to the seed first, it’s easier to descend the hierarchy.”

  Mystified, Elisha studied the egg in his hand. “Is that all?”

  Laughter and a school of tiny fishes swam the river around him. “All? When you try, I think you’ll see. There is little of technique in this, and much of attunement. It may take you months.”

  “I haven’t got months,” he protested. “I need eggs.”

  “Then you should buy yourself a chicken, Bittersweet!” Her hair flashed red in the sunlight, and he felt her laughter all around him, a joyous breeze, cooling the sting of his wounds and rippling through his hair.

  Elisha shut his eyes and breathed her in, her laughter filling up his soul.

  Chapter 19

  “Brigit!” a voice called suddenly. “Where have you got to, my lady? I thought you needed only a moment.”

  Peeking out from the shadow of the bridge, Elisha saw Lucius descending the bank, his elaborate robe lifted as delicately as a lady might carry her gown. He ducked back again, but the physician turned, scowling, and Elisha could not be sure if he’d been spotted.

  “Here I am, sir—and I’ve found the roots I wished to show you.” Brigit trotted up along the bank, holding out her basket.

  Still scowling, he said, “It was not necessary that you should come out just now.”

  “Sorry, sir.” She gave him a glowing smile. “I do tend to get carried away. But look, can you see how the root divides?”

  With a glance to the gathered plants, Lucius put an arm about her shoulders. “Come, I have many more questions better discussed over supper. You will, of course, join us.”

  “Certainly, if you serve again such a feast as we had last night. Since the battle began, we’ve had little commerce here for spices and the like. Still, I’d best wash first. This root can be deadly if you handle it wrong.”

  The grin on Lucius’s face revolted Elisha as he watched them go off side by side. He emerged from his hiding place and walked over to where he’d left his ointment to cool in an eddy of the river. As he retrieved it, he noticed the assistant Benedict standing not far off, his face impassive as he watched. With a precise movement, he turned and followed his master back into the monastery.

  What could they have seen? Nothing—Brigit splashing in the stream, himself resting in the shade; they had even come from opposite directions. And they could not be overheard, at least not by such men. Brigit tutored him in forbidden arts beneath their very noses, and they had not the slightest suspicion.

  Elisha allowed himself a grin of his own as he mounted the bank and returned to the hospital. The screams of cauterization had died away, but it was not hard to find the men who had suffered it and apply his ointment. His own pain flared again to life, now that he did not have Brigit’s distracting presence. Perhaps he could presume upon her charity and claim she must stay by him, to let him heal. He tried to sharpen all of his tools, but the welts protested his steady movement, and instead he taught Ruari how to do it; a skill that came easily to his woodworker’s experience.

  When another day was finally done, Elisha bid his assistants good night and returned quickly to his room, removing the packets that hid the sealed pot. In an instant, his optimism drained away. What right had he to feel joy or hope after what he had done? Although he worked hard in the hospital every day, and men went home to their families who might have been buried in the yard if not for him, it was not enough. Still, he had carried out his plan thus far and owed it to his brother’s memory to try.

  Elisha draped the sealed pot with a cloth to bear it away with him. This was the start of his magical learning. If he learned well, he might one day restore what his arrogance had destroyed. Walking into the ruined church, Elisha sat beneath the altar with the pot before him, a single flaxseed in one hand, the egg in the other.

  The seed winked brown in the moonlight reflecting from its slick surface. Given time and tending, it could grow to a long grass, to be cut, soaked, beaten, and slowly transformed into linen for spinning—an almost magical transition in itself. He dredged up all he knew of flax, its grow
th period and its medicinal properties, and the way the stiff grasses felt beneath an outstretched palm. As he studied the tiny seed, a sense of awe filled him, that this little thing had so much potential. He had never before considered the miracle of it, nor its place in a cycle that supported generations of farmers like his father, and the spinners and weavers and vestiers of many a town. Such a simple thing, this little seed, or so he had thought. Was this the Doctrine of Knowledge Brigit spoke of? Still and all, no matter how wondrous the process of seed into clothing, he couldn’t see what that had to do with magic.

  With a sigh, he turned to the egg and shook his head. Speckled and beige, the egg lay in his palm like a cipher. He had no idea what sort of egg it was and knew not the first thing about where it was found or how the thick liquid inside might become a bird. Brigit had mentioned something called “attunement,” but the physician interrupted before she could explain.

  He sat on the hard, damp earth with a thing he knew intimately, and one he could not begin to understand. Brigit spoke as if he were something special, an undiscovered talent in this murky realm of the magi, and yet he could not pretend to understand a simple egg. It might take months, she had told him, and he leaned his head back to study the stars. How could he accomplish even the simplest spell if he must research every little ordinary thing, never mind work such magic as it would require to draw the dead again to life?

  Popping the flaxseed into his mouth, Elisha crunched it and swallowed. The egg he set aside. For magic, it might serve him little, but for medicine it had some use.

  Before him in the grass sat the accusing metal pot, the pale wax of its seal preventing any hint of its contents from escaping into the night air. He lifted it in both hands, feeling the scant weight of its terrible secret. Such a thing should weigh more. It should be borne down beneath the crush of the sorrow it embodied, not simply for its own sake but also for that of the mother recovering from the full trial of childbirth, but without the joy of the child. And still more so for Nathaniel, believing he had betrayed that joy and willing to go to Hell rather than live with his betrayal. Elisha considered Heaven, that reward his brother strove for—would God and his angels be fooled by Elisha’s deceit? Would Nathaniel stand before them and freely confess his own guilt, only to be cast below? Or was it all a farce, as Elisha had long believed—a tale told by churchmen eager to lure the faithful to their own service and betterment? For why should God exact such punishment from those most in need of Him? Elisha’s own angel was shot at the behest of the churchmen—a sign, or so he had long believed, that the church itself no longer knew the Lord. Now he knew the angel was no angel, but she seemed no less miraculous.

  “Have you decided to purchase a chicken?” asked Brigit’s voice, startling Elisha so that he fumbled the pot and saved it by clutching it against his chest.

  He rounded on her with a glare. “What do you mean by sneaking up like that?”

  “Attunement,” she replied simply. “It means sensing all that goes on around you. The finest magi can cast their awareness even beyond walls, perhaps beyond the skin of those around them. For now, you ought at least to begin by knowing your place.”

  “The physician beat me for that very fault.”

  With a cool smile, Brigit came toward him. She wore again that long robe of the night before, tied at her waist with a dangling cord. “I think you know that’s not what I meant.”

  Elisha shied away from her eyes, which seemed to radiate a light of their own. “Sorry. It’s a sore point for me.”

  “So I see. That’s understandable.” She maintained that seductive pace until she came up before him. “How is your egg?”

  “I’ve no idea. That’s the trouble.” He replaced the pot in the grass, close by him, and held the egg between thumb and forefinger. “I know nothing about it. Here I’ve lived with eggs all my life and never really saw one before now.”

  Drawing her robe around her, Brigit settled on the ground with the grace of a princess. “And the seed?”

  Tossing the egg in the air and catching it lightly again, Elisha said, “I ate it.”

  Brigit let out a peal of laughter. “Oh, what is the matter with you?”

  “Nothing at all,” he snapped. “I’ve got plenty more seeds where that came from. The seed is not a problem.”

  “Oh.” Her lips compressed as she regarded him. “I think I am beginning to see what the problem is.” Her gaze never wavered.

  Staring back, Elisha asked, “What’s that?”

  With a quick gesture, she reached out and tapped the center of his chest. Elisha jerked back as if she had struck him. “You,” she said bluntly. “There is so much potential in you, and yet you yourself will thwart it. Why?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous; I’m not getting in my own way. I’ve been working on the accursed thing for hours now. Maybe it’s the talisman.” Once the word was out, he could not retrieve it and slipped a protective hand over the pot.

  “I was coming to that,” Brigit said, her tone more soothing now, and curious. “What’s in there?”

  Elisha shrugged, sending twinges of pain all down his spine. “Something that met your description, something associated with a powerful moment. Perhaps it’s not strong enough.”

  Brigit’s mouth actually dropped open, her breath whooshing out. “Not strong enough?”

  Studying her, Elisha felt suddenly wary. “I’ve said something wrong, haven’t I?”

  “Not strong enough,” she repeated faintly, shaking herself, again she reached out to touch him, but he drew back instinctively, and her hand hovered in the air, a spectral form in the moonlight. “You can’t feel it.”

  Feel what, he wanted to say, but he knew enough to hold his tongue this time.

  The silence stretched between them, her eyes tracing the shape of his face, the set of his shoulders, returning over and over to that place on his cheek—the inner mark of the angel’s touch.

  Finally she said, “That thing you have, that thing you don’t wish to show me, Elisha, I can feel it from here. It woke me in my room, and the power of it drew me on. How is it possible you can hold it in your hands and not feel it?”

  Tapping a finger on the lid, he watched her stunned face. “I told you I am no witch. I should think this clinches it, if it’s as powerful as you say.” As he spoke, a secret hope ebbed away within him, but a spreading relief took its place. Perhaps, in spite of his speaking through the water, he could not truly make magic, could never perform the feat he had been planning, and must let go of his brother’s memory, but at least he would not live in the shadow world of witches, with fire waiting at every turn.

  “But my mother spoke of you, I’m sure she did: a medical man with death in his hands. You were there, she touched you so that we would know you.” Brigit shook her head fiercely, her trimmed hair bobbing about her shoulders. Then she looked up at him again, her eyes gleaming. “It’s clear you have no wish to share this talisman with me, but let me show you how it feels. Perhaps the trouble is that you do not understand what it is yourself.”

  Worry marked her face and eagerness as well—she did not want to let go of him, not without a fight, and the idea made him tremble. “Show me,” he breathed.

  “Take my hand and shut your eyes. It may take a moment to make contact this way.”

  Contact? He was about to ask, when the warmth of her hand grew hot within his grasp, and he could see her face—or, not her face, but herself, strong, beautiful, daring. At that same moment, the lid of the pot turned cold, so cold his skin fused to the metal. Elisha tried to peel back his fingers, but they would not obey him. His heart beat a little faster.

  Cold crept up his hand, suffusing his wrist and arm, until he began to shiver. His breath came in short puffs as the cold insinuated itself throughout his chest, reaching down into his legs and feet, crawling up his spine. The welts on his back tingled and burned until the pain of them took even the misty breath from his frozen lips.

  His head j
erked backward, his throat constricting and going rigid. He screamed but there was no sound, or else his ears, too, had shriveled on his head.

  His eyes iced over, first with the delicate ferns of frost, then deeper and deeper until the cold stung through into his skull.

  Panic welled up in him. His wild heart struggled to keep its pace. His memories froze, his thoughts stilled and crumbled until only fear remained. A black and all-consuming terror howled through him. It scoured the agony from his skin and swept the blood from his heart.

  Still hot, his left hand twisted and fought. His fingers tore at the skin which held him. All the strength of his body wrenched at her grasp. The tempest of horror blasted into his fingers, ripping at the other hand in a final attempt to be free.

  The grip exploded, throwing Elisha to the ground, his body convulsed with fear, the scream tearing from his throat. The scream echoed through emptiness. He slammed onto his back, and the lashes carved into his flesh all over again as he writhed against the chill.

  But pain grounded him. It snatched him back from the awful cold, flinging him into his body with terrible force. His head smacked the stone altar, and he lurched back onto his side, knees curled toward his chest. Sobbing, he fought for breath. He shuddered with the effort. His fingers clenched into talons, ripping at the grass.

  Heat hovered near his forehead, slowly seeping in as his breathing finally settled into a rhythm. The heat took the shape of fingers, a light touch at his brow, smoothing back the hair which had sprung free to tangle across his face. The racking sobs died back as well, his heartbeat slipping back from his ears and throat, back to his chest to calm itself more slowly.

  “What,” he croaked, coughing, “what the hell did you do to me?” The words came out in a gasp, warring with breath.

  “I’m sorry, oh, Elisha, I am so sorry. I thought to keep it under control. I thought I could guide you through, to give you a glimpse only.”

  The door behind slammed open. “Who’s there?”

  Elisha shook, biting his lip.