He dropped down by the victim’s tumbled form and touched his throat to look for life. Yes—there—stronger than when he had arrived. Thank God.
Gathering the man against his chest, Elisha stood unsteadily. He took a moment to knock down the lantern, setting free its little flame to flare up the old timbers of the workshop and dance madly across the surface of the wine. The blood he bore had washed away, but he no longer needed it—the man he carried gave him contact back to the church. He used the last of his magical strength to steel them both against the passage before he reached out through life and opened the Valley.
They stepped through into darkness, the victim stirring in his arms. Before he let go of the passage, Elisha borrowed a little of its bleak power. He felt the stinging wounds that cut the man’s feet and wrists and made them whole.
Elisha staggered as they entered the church proper; the vast space felt cold in a perfectly ordinary way. He let the man’s feet down to the ground, taking his weight upon his shoulder. The patient roused at the touch of the marble floor. “Where?” the man gasped.
“The church. The south transept. Can you walk?” He braced the man’s arm over his shoulders, his own arm lying across the welts of the mancer’s abuse.
“Barely.”
Together, they shuffled down the aisle, a few candles at the side altars lending their glow. Elisha leaned him against the wall long enough to unbar the door and drag it open. His muscles protested when he resumed his place at the victim’s side, as if bearing his own weight were more than enough. The wound across his back, healed though it was, still ached, the scrapes on his face and neck stung when they stepped out into the night air.
“Where do you live?”
“You can’t come there.” The man’s touch tingled with his alarm. “I am a Jew.”
“You are my patient, at least a little longer, just direct me.”
“Across the square and down a little.” His raspy voice gave out, and Elisha started walking, slowly, as his patient breathed.
At last they stopped before a door, and Elisha reached out to knock, the sound echoing in the narrow street. He knocked again, harder, and heard a muffled voice within, then the sound of footsteps approaching. With a scraping of metal, a little door opened at eye level, a light coming close so the occupant could peer out, a girl who squinted and tipped her head. “There are no loans now, sir. You must come back another time.”
“I need to see the master,” Elisha said, and the girl drew back, then slid shut the peephole and her footsteps hurried away.
After a moment, the opening slid again, a brown eye peered through, darkly ringed and red with lack of sleep, framed by a bushy eyebrow. “I am not giving loans just now, good sir. Do forgive me.”
“I don’t—” Elisha began, but the man at his side pressed his hand against the wood, leaning in.
“Father,” he moaned.
The eyebrow rose, then the eye flooded with tears. A bar scraped and the door jerked open so quickly they nearly fell in. The man inside let loose a stream of joyous babble in a language that sounded like German, but wasn’t. He pulled his son inside, touching his face with a trembling hand, shocked at the blood. “Elsa!” he bellowed. The servant girl started to turn toward the stairs, but steps already creaked from the next floor. “What is it, Jacob?” called a voice from above.
The victim swayed and Elisha caught his shoulder, urging him forward, toward a little bench in the hall where he sank down, his hands clasped in his father’s, trying to answer, shaking his head.
Elisha caught the servant’s eye. “Some water.” He pointed to the victim, and she nodded, returning quickly with a pitcher and a glass nearly as fine as those on the emperor’s table. She poured with shaking hands, then set down the pitcher, and held out the glass, smiling. “Don’t let him drink too much,” Elisha warned. “He’ll be weak for a while yet, and his stomach may not handle it well.”
An older woman appeared at the end of the hall, her hair covered, clad in a dressing gown of velvet which she clutched together with both hands. This small decorum fled her, tears streaming down her face, as she ran toward them.
Suddenly outside this family scene—in more ways than one—Elisha backed away. He leaned a moment on the doorframe. Weariness gripped him, but he knew of no safe place to sleep. Taking hold of the door, Elisha turned to go.
“Sir!” A tremulous hand touched his and withdrew, the old man smiling at him. “We cannot thank you enough. Nine days he has been gone. Nine! We never thought to see our Simeon again.”
Elisha hesitated, wondering how to frame what had happened to Simeon. “Your son suffered greatly. He will be a long time recovering from this.”
“But he tells me you have healed him.” The old man regarded Elisha gravely.
“I am a doctor,” Elisha told him, as if this were any decent answer. Across the street, a voice called out, and Elisha stiffened. In this city, he was a wanted man—both by the emperor and by the mancers. “I have to go.”
The man’s face sagged. “Of course, sir. It is a Jewish place. You have humbled yourself—”
“That’s not why,” Elisha said. “I’m a danger to you.” He winced, the scrapes on his cheek burning. “Men are looking for me—I have to go.”
The Jew studied Elisha’s face as if in doubt, and Elisha supplied, “The emperor’s men.”
At that, the man reached out and took his arm, drawing him firmly inside and shutting the door behind him. “If the emperor’s men are looking, sir, they will never search for you in Jacob’s house.” He touched his breast.
Elisha smiled faintly. Very likely, the man was right. Few Christians would take hospitality from Jews. Fewer Jews would offer it.
Simeon’s mother draped her son’s shoulders with her own robe, directing the servant to light a fire at the hearth and bring clothing, then she straightened, fists on hips. “He says,” she swallowed, glancing down at where her son’s feet stuck out from beneath the robe, a single ugly scar marking each. “He says they have done to him as some say we have done to your Christ.”
“These men, the ones who took him, they don’t care about God. Maybe they took him because he’s a Jew—I don’t know—but that’s not what they want.”
“What do they want?” She shot back at him, her voice strained by the years of suspicion that lay between their peoples.
“This,” he said, gesturing from himself to her. “They want to create fear, they want hate, anything that gives them power. And they will do anything to get it.” A wave of weakness passed through him, and he leaned against the wall, head tipped up.
“You do not know how it is for us,” the woman replied stiffly. “You don’t know how badly we are treated.”
“No, I don’t,” Elisha answered, “but you were not treated so by me.”
“These men,” Simeon whispered, drawing their eyes back to him. “Whatever they were, they were not Christian.”
Elisha came to kneel before him, touching his knee lightly. “Can you tell me what happened?”
Simeon took a few breaths. “It was late. I was on my way from the cranes. . . he came”—a slight shake of the head—“from nothing.” He spread his fingers as if trying to encompass the emptiness. “He had a knife—not . . . not just a knife.”
“A cursed blade,” Elisha said, for such a knife had slashed open his back. Simeon’s parents frowned at this, but their son gave a nod.
“He grabbed me. I offered my purse. But he,” Simeon drew a shaky breath, “took me. Through pain, shrieking.” His hand lifted toward his ear, his head bent, and Elisha felt the tremor of fear. Beneath his own tunic, clammy with wine, he carried a scrap of cloth Martin had given him—his first talisman—and conjured from it comfort, friendship, safety. Simeon relaxed a little. “He took me where you found me. He was not the only one.”
While he took an
other sip of water, Elisha asked, “How many did you see? Would you know them again?”
“Six. They let me see their faces. That’s how I knew I would die.”
His mother, Elsa, sobbed and came to his side, clutching his shoulder.
“Six,” Elisha echoed. “I’ve seen five, but two of those are dead.”
“You killed them?” The father asked.
“One—Simeon killed the other. Without his courage, neither of us would be here.”
Simeon breathed, “You gave me courage, when you came.” He rested his head on his mother’s arm. “Thank you.”
Sitting back on his heels, Elisha withdrew his touch. “You should sleep, take some broth if you can. Give it a day before you try solid food.”
Elsa spoke again in that unfamiliar tongue, and, between herself and the servant, they brought Simeon toward the back of the house.
“Sir, take some comfort.” Simeon’s father, Jacob, led Elisha to the adjoining chamber where a fire warmed the room. “We have brought some clothes that may suit you.”
“I’ll need parchment and ink, if you have it.”
“Of course,” Jacob replied, but he arched an eyebrow at Elisha and waited.
With a sigh, uncertain how his plan would be received, Elisha said, “I need to warn the archbishop. He seems a worthy man—he was already suspicious of one of the men involved, and he’s made them angry.”
“You are the Englishman who came seeking the wrong emperor. There was talk of it at synagogue.” He nodded as if this explained everything. “The archbishop is as close as my people have to an advocate before the emperor. And you? You are not merely a doctor. Not merely an Englishman.” He crossed to a tall cabinet and found what Elisha needed, along with a tablet to write on, and offered the tools.
“I warned you it’s dangerous to have me here. If you wish, I will go.” Although, as the fire warmed him and the soft cushions of the couch enticed him, he wished his conscience clear to stay.
“I owe you the life of my son,” Jacob told him. “Now sit.”
Elisha sank gratefully onto a chair and took the writing things.
“I’ll wake the cook to bring you food.” Jacob’s brow furrowed. “You look concerned.”
Concerned? Elisha felt like weeping. He stared hopelessly down at the parchment. “I can write no German, and my Latin is weak.”
Jacob slipped the tablet away again and tucked it under his arm. “Rest. Take some dry clothes. This will wait a little longer.” He bowed his head, then left the room, shutting the door behind him.
After a moment, Elisha roused himself to strip off his wet things and lay them out by the hearth, plucking free a few of his talismans to tuck into the borrowed clothes. He had been without a talisman before—it was not a lesson any magus should need to learn more than once. The vial of earth from his brother’s workshop still dangled at his chest and Thomas’s ring remained on his hand. He sorted a fresh pair of hose, trews, tunic, and a short robe from the pile of fine woolens, dressing with numb fingers. Finding the oilcloth packet of Thomas’s letters, Elisha stuffed in a few of his talismans and slipped it under his waist tie, beneath his tunic before he sank back into the pillows. He let his awareness spread to the door, a light touch like whiskers, ready to stir if anyone approached. The outer door opened and shut softly; Jacob and his servants moved in the hall. Beyond the far wall, Elsa fussed over Simeon, whose pain subsided with every moment he was home. Elisha let himself be comforted, and let his eyes slide shut.
When they opened, the archbishop himself was staring back.
Chapter 7
Elisha stifled his cry and pushed himself up in his chair. How had the man come so close before he noticed? But the cross that dangled from Baldwin’s chain might explain it, the relic within it serving a similar function as a talisman for a devout Christian. Once Elisha came alert, the archbishop’s presence loomed with authority and curiosity. “Your Grace,” Elisha managed.
At the archbishop’s shoulder, Jacob patted the air, indicating that Elisha could relax. “I have told you he is our advocate. He has tried to locate Simeon these past days. I sent a servant to bring him the news.”
“And to say that there was a tale I must hear,” the archbishop added. “No need to be coy, Jacob.”
“I am not coy, but contrite. This man saved my son’s life, and now I have risked his by contacting you. If he is in danger because you are here, Your Grace, then I must make amends.”
“For the sake of our trust, Jacob, I will give him an hour. And then, of duty to my nephew, I must act.”
His nephew, Charles. Elisha’s heart fell, and he doubted anything he said would sway the archbishop’s intent.
“Eat, drink. Talk quickly,” Jacob urged, indicating a tray at Elisha’s side.
After a few swallows of wine that warmed his throat and made his tongue tingle, Elisha said, “Your nephew is under the influence of evil sorcerers who are helping him to take the empire, but not for the good of its people.”
“I see.” Baldwin settled on a chair, his silk gown crinkling as he folded his hands, the large ring on his hand winking. “King Philippe has said that sorcerers are attempting to kill himself and his family—is this related?”
Elisha chewed a piece of flatbread as he considered this. “King Philippe is killing innocent people who might have helped him against this evil. I must believe that the threat to France comes from those who claim to be on his side. In England, a group of them has already tried to seize the throne, at the cost of thousands of lives.”
“And you stopped them.” Archbishop Baldwin stared at him without expression.
“With the aid of the king and some others.” Taking another sip, Elisha darted a glance at Jacob who stood to one side, hands at his back, listening.
“So it is lucky we have you to defend us.”
Elisha nearly snorted his wine and slapped the glass back down. “It was luck that I was able to stop them in England—England is a small nation, an island I know well, and they did not expect my opposition. At least one mancer escaped from there to here, and another to France, Your Grace. Already, their tactics have changed. They know what I can do, and they know—” How to hurt me, he almost said, but held his tongue. The tone of this conversation was already dangerous enough.
“What can you do . . . Doctor?” The archbishop steepled his fingers. “Earlier today, I watched you send a man to Hell with a touch.”
“No—you watched him stage a show for your benefit, and that of the emperor. You saw exactly what he wanted you to see. He was one of them, these sorcerers.” Elisha knotted his fingers through his hair.
“Mancer? Is that the word? I do not know that word.”
“Necromancers,” Elisha spat. “Your Grace, ask Simeon when he recovers. Ask him what he saw and heard.”
“Apparently, these men who took Simeon intended to make him, a Jew, suffer the wounds of our Lord.” Archbishop Baldwin crossed himself. “This is terrible, of course, but not so far from the realm of possible crimes. Maintaining peace between our communities is not easy.”
Jacob stirred, but did not speak.
“I do not see why your necromancers, if you will use this word, why they would do such a thing, if not from the hatred of their hearts. They are wicked sinners, to be sure, and we shall try to bring them to justice—” Jacob made a sound of frustration, but the archbishop ignored him and continued, “But they are not acting against our people, or even against our rightful emperor. You say one of them was in England. Then he is barely returned himself. How long was your own voyage, to come so far?” The archbishop smiled briefly, but the smile did not touch his eyes. “Jacob is a modest man, but his family is quite wealthy. Some of this money is raised through usury—forgive me, Jacob—and that angers many Christians, especially those who might have difficulty with their financial responsibilities.
When we seek to assign blame for this dreadful matter, there is no need to cross boundaries of sea and spirit.”
Snatching a slice of chicken from the tray, Elisha took a savage bite.
“I do not take you for a devout man, my good doctor. However, you yourself display such wounds, and have yet to explain them.”
“A necromancer nailed me to the ground to kill me later,” Elisha said. Already, the archbishop meant to capture him. He had no evidence of what he said—even the slaughterhouse he had burned to prevent the mancers’ making use of it. He took another bite, more slowly. The archbishop had a point, at least in one respect: the mancers nailed a man to the cross—why? Not merely to craft new talismans for themselves—any terrible death could give them the horror they sought. At least, such power could be harnessed to the killer. But if he were right about what he had overheard in England, the power could be linked to any other mancer who shared in the crime.
Why torture a man that way? To forge relics, false holy items they could twist to their own ends. Emperor Charles collected relics, traveled with them, was devoted to the bones and bits of saints—or were they saints at all? He thought of Brother Gilles’ crate of death: an arsenal to the mancers who created it. But then why let these things out of their own hands? Wouldn’t they want to keep their talismans handy, the way the mancers of England had a stockpile of gruesome trophies to summon up their power?
Yes, the Archbishop was right: it had taken Elisha weeks to travel to Trier, but only because he possessed neither knowledge nor contact. He did not know any place here so well that he could open the Valley to travel to it, nor did he have the kind of strong contact required to do so—a contact made by following the presence of the dead. They came from nothing, Simeon had said. Elisha’s throat went dry, and he dropped the meat, shrinking into his chair.
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