The empress shifted forward on her seat. “Pay no heed to my husband. I fear he has many things to worry him.”
The side door opened again, and a servant came through; expecting Gretchen’s return, Elisha found himself disappointed to see a girl he did not recognize. She carried a bundle which she held out to him as the door swung shut behind her. Decorously, he replaced the empress’s hem before he rose to accept the bundle.
“In thanks for your care, we give you this. Our autumn can be cold here, Doctor, especially upon the river. Allow my gratitude to keep you warm.”
Indeed, the closing door had let in a draft of chill air that tingled his skin. From the bundle, he unfolded a short cape, hooded and lined with fur. As it unfurled, he sensed a quiver of excitement, and he envisioned Gretchen, taking it up to bring it here, then giving it to another. What could have delighted her and distracted her from her mistress? “I thank you, Your Majesty.”
“If you’re done bestowing largesse, darling,” the emperor interjected, “then I believe the barber can go. Harald shall escort you to the gate.”
“On the morrow, Doctor,” said the empress.
Elisha bowed himself from their presence, his bent head concealing his surprise. Barber—yet those he knew here called him “Doctor.” Perhaps Thomas’s letters had revealed more than Elisha would wish.
As the steward led him through the crowd, Harald said, “I’m sorry his Majesty is no more kindly disposed toward you. I had hoped for better, as, I’m sure, did you.”
“I hoped to tell him about his enemies. He doesn’t even know what he’s facing.”
The steward glanced at him sidelong, then gave a half-nod. “It may be that the empress’s favor will bring you favor with his Majesty as well.”
They came to the stairs leading down to the main gate, and Elisha stopped him. “Is there a man in the emperor’s employ called Bardolph? Tall, handsome, recently injured his arm.”
“He’s a royal messenger—why do you ask?”
“He’s dangerous. He’s working with enemies of the empire.”
The steward’s eyes flared. “Charles?”
Elisha shook his head. “Worse than Charles, though they are in league with him.”
“Bardolph came in this morning, just after you arrived, in fact.” The steward sighed and shook his head. “Looking for his leman, unless I miss my mark.”
“Gretchen.” The thrill of her excitement clinging to the cape, the sharp draft that disturbed him shortly after it was delivered. He’d taken it for the breeze of the closing door—not for the subtle opening of the Valley itself. Damnation! Bardolph had found her. “Where did he go? Where would he look for her?”
“The queen’s chambers, but—”
“Take me there, now.” He caught Harald’s arm, sending his urgency. “Please, it could be her life if you don’t.”
Harald thrust up his chin. “Unhand me, sir, or I shall call the guard to expel you.”
“You don’t understand.” Elisha shook his head, drawing the man with him, the steward resisting as Elisha moved them from the aisle where servants and courtiers lingered. “The emperor is the target of sorcery. There are witches working with Charles to bring down your master and send the empire into ruin. Bardolph is one of them, and Gretchen is in danger because she spoke to me. You’ve got to help me find them!”
Shaking him off, Harald took a step back. “I caught a glimpse of Bardolph’s hand when he returned. The injury . . . it’s not natural. It’s as if his arm has aged a hundred years. Come, this way.”
He ran back the way they had come, Elisha on his heels, dodging the richly dressed courtiers, hearing Brother Gilles call out to him, but he waved away the question. They rounded a corner and stopped before a door guarded by another pair of pikemen. “Did the emperor’s messenger Bardolph come by here?”
“Aye, steward, he’s within.”
Harald pushed open the door to an empty chamber and closed it again at their backs. Elisha moved ahead of him, spreading his senses, tossing down the cape that hampered his arms. Rich carpets covered the stone floors to match tapestries on every wall, on chairs, tables, cushions. A door led to the side, presumably into the chamber where the rulers held court, and a second door stood open at the back. Both men crossed quickly to find the revealed bedchamber likewise empty.
“They couldn’t’ve gone through the court chamber—I should have seen, unless they went in after I left with you,” Harald muttered while Elisha knelt, breathing carefully, and set his hand to the floor, sinking his awareness into every detail. He swept the room with his gaze, and his left eye caught a shimmer of darkness, like a whiff of smoke that dissipates when a candle is extinguished. Stalking forward, he focused on the place, the unmistakable sign that the Valley had been there, opened by a contact with death. It had touched him with its chill even in the other room. There was no sign of relics here, though something occupied the corner chapel he glimpsed from his position on the floor. Bardolph must have carried his talisman with him. Elisha sank to his knees, head bowed. How to track him?
“What is it?”
The slightest hint of warmth edged his fingers. A few tiny drops of blood marked the floor. Gretchen’s blood. Would that presence in the Valley which opposed Elisha find him now? Could he let an innocent woman die to avoid that risk?
“Doctor?”
“I’m sorry,” Elisha said, then he summoned his strength from every talisman, seized the steward about the shoulders and sent him sleep, an exhaustion of body and mind. At least the steward wouldn’t see him vanish into nothing. Harald collapsed into his arms, and Elisha laid him gently on the carpet, then ripped open the Valley and sprang inside.
Chapter 13
Elisha held himself in the passage, dampening the dead voices that howled at his ears as if he led a chorus of Hell’s jongleurs. A ripple passed before him, a span of heat that cut across the writhing madness, like a stone dropped in a river.
Far off in the rushing torrent of the Valley, Elisha felt the echo of Gretchen’s living presence. Whatever malevolent force had noticed him the last time was absent now. Others crowded around him, the shades of those he had killed, linking him to Bardolph in this chain of sorrows. Elisha ignored them, paring down his contacts to that one, the living girl swept away through this awful country of the dead. Taking a deep breath, drawing in the dead to defend him, Elisha reached back. Contact.
The Valley sprang open, tumbling him into a grassy meadow to trip over a pair of bodies. Elisha stumbled a few steps as the bodies stirred, one shouting, the other crying out. Flushed, they stared up at him, Gretchen pushing her skirts about, her bodice askew, Bardolph glaring, wiping his mouth.
She looked completely unharmed—lovely in her flush, if rather startled by his arrival. A tiny scratch on her arm was her only sign of injury, but she wore no bonds, and he carried no weapons. None that could be seen, in any case. “What are you doing here?” Gretchen asked.
“Spying on me,” Bardolph grumbled. He put out his hands—gloved in fine leather to conceal the damage—and helped her up. “Why can’t you leave me alone?”
“I don’t understand.” She clung to her lover, her eyes tracing Elisha’s form, then her face hardened. Her presence buzzed with worry, her awareness brushing over his, sparking like steel struck against flint. She tugged Bardolph’s arm, drawing him away from Elisha. “You’ve come with murder in your heart, Doctor—I can read it. Why?”
Elisha swallowed, the dark power chanting at his flesh, urging him to the attack in spite of his confusion. He stilled his hands, resisting. “I have reason to believe you are in danger.”
“Who would put me at risk, sir?” She laughed a little, then glanced at Bardolph. “You don’t mean—?”
“He took against me when we were in England, and we’d barely met. It was he who maimed me,” Bardolph told her.
“Is this true?” She reached out toward Elisha, seeking contact and confirmation, but Bardolph grabbed her, his left hand barely flexible.
“Don’t touch him! To touch him is death.”
The pent-up power shivered his muscles, but to move against Bardolph meant exposing Gretchen to that power and confirming all that Bardolph claimed.
Gretchen leaned back against Bardolph’s chest, her cheeks gone pale. “It is true,” she breathed, “I can feel it! Take us, Bardolph—take us away! He means to kill you.”
“I’m not afraid to meet him, not with you beside me.”
“No! He’s too strong.” Even as she said it, she wrapped a fist around a tiny pouch that hung at her throat, her talisman. All sense of her presence vanished, shrouded by her own power. “What are you?”
Elisha gave a slight shake of his head. “You have nothing to fear from me, Fraulein. Your lover is a murderer. I struck him when he tried to kill my king. I followed him here because I feared he would kill you.”
“You are mad! Bardolph and I are to marry!” She glanced back at her lover.
“Watch out!” Bardolph shouted, leaping backward and taking her with him. Elisha lunged toward them, expecting the chill opening of the Valley, catching the wild look in the girl’s eyes.
Something pierced his awareness, an instant before an arrow slammed into his back. Elisha spun about with the force of the blow, gasping, then choking as blood filled his mouth.
A second arrow ripped through his side, then a third.
A fourth furrowed his right arm as he tried to dodge, but they came from all sides. Pain shot through him and he tumbled to his knees, trying to catch himself on the left before jamming the arrows deeper still. Two feathered shafts stuck from his chest. Long, smooth, pale wood stained by spreading rings of blood. One at his back.
Elisha pitched sideways, trying to scream.
All the strength that he had mustered—strength to slay a mancer or to defend himself against magic—turned inward as Death leapt within the man who would be its master. Already, his hands and feet numbed, his limbs shuddered. His body curled around the wounds.
Tramping feet vibrated through his flesh, jiggling shards of pain that radiated from each embedded shaft.
“You were right, messenger,” grunted the archer who stared down at Elisha. “He’s not dead, though.” He touched the bow hanging over his shoulder.
Elisha sobbed, tears streaking his face. His own death might open the Valley and take him straight to Hell. His left hand fumbled toward his belt.
“Hey!” the archer stuck his foot out, kicking aside Elisha’s hand, then reaching down to grab the belt. He jerked on it, rolling and lifting Elisha from the ground before letting him fall back to earth. He struck hard, crying out as the shaft in his back shoved in deeper and snapped.
“No weapons to speak of. Grope all ye want.” The man straightened from his cursory search, signaling to his unseen companions.
“Bardolph?” wailed Gretchen’s voice.
Elisha rolled to the side, breathless.
“We thought he’d try again to kill me, dearest. I ought to have . . .”
But Elisha could not hear for the pounding of his blood. Desperately, he tried to marshal his scattering thoughts, to send his awareness back inside and judge the injuries. One arrow pierced his lung. One had nicked his heart. If he sealed the vessels, he might stop the bleeding, but he could not heal without pulling the shafts.
Something stung his chest, like the bite of an insect to insult a dying man.
The black tide welled up, a howling filling his ears and echoing in his skull. Elisha mastered his hands, groping toward the arrows in his chest.
With a low growl, the archer pulled out a knife.
Death’s laughter rang through Elisha’s body. His questing hand snagged on that stinging thing: the little pin with Lucia’s nail trimmings. “Don’t trouble over it,” Brother Gilles had told him, “I have more.”
Elisha pressed it to his chest, and fell into the Valley as the archer’s knife swung down toward his throat. The swirling abyss rose up all around him, enfolding him in cold comfort. The taunting faces of the dead mancers showed plainly against the background of shades. He sought for Martin instead, conjuring the warmth of his triumphant sacrifice to ward off death, to hold it at bay a moment longer. Brother Gilles. His wooden crate. The fingernails of a dead girl, given him as the remnants of a saint.
Wood cracked, and Elisha spilled onto a stone floor, straw and bones scattering around him.
“By the Rood!” cried a startled voice.
“Of all the—that’s your doctor.”
Footsteps vibrated through Elisha where he lay crumpled. “Help me,” he gasped. “Help me,” but he could not be sure they heard.
“How did he—he’s bleeding. Shot through with arrows.”
“Oh!” Gilles groaned, then the floor thumped, and he spoke no more. Elisha had chosen a fainter for his savior. He wept, his trembling hands refusing to obey.
Isaac’s hand clasped his shoulder. “He’s alive! Brother Gilles?” And a muttered curse in the language of the Jews. “I’ll go for help,” Isaac said, bringing his face very near. Elisha’s right eye saw his fear. His left eye saw a tunnel of darkness as if the Valley never closed. It sucked at his heart, frosting his lips.
“No,” Elisha breathed, backing this urgency with a plea from flesh to flesh. “Push the shafts through. Break the feathers, pull the points.” He gulped, spat blood, then tried again, “Please. I can heal this.”
Isaac started shaking his head, drawing back, but Elisha seized his hand, keeping it close. “If you go, it’ll be too late.”
Elisha’s hand slipped away, his arm twitching like a thing already dead.
Dark eyes growing darker, the goldsmith pressed his lips together hard, then reached for the first shaft. “You’re sure?”
A nod—or a tremor. Crimson pulsed across Elisha’s vision.
Isaac winced, then pushed the arrow. With a slicing of flesh it thrust through Elisha’s back. He cried out silently, then clamped his jaw and his eyes shut, turning inward. Wood cracked, then the shaft tugged against him. Elisha sank deep into himself, for the first lessons, the barbering of so long ago, to the anatomies he studied with Mordecai when learning his Latin. He urged his flesh to heal. As Isaac drew out the shaft, Elisha’s awareness pursued it, sealing, bonding, fixing, and patching: vessels to their mates, flesh to flesh, skin to skin. The arrow clattered aside.
The heat of Isaac’s touch shifted to the next, and Elisha followed, forgetting all but this. By the third shaft, the one already broken, the trembling of pain had become that of weakness, of too much spell-casting, and too much lost blood. He gagged, spat, and lay still, shivering, his forehead resting on the stone, his eyes still shut.
“Gracious Lord, what has happened here?” mumbled Brother Gilles.
“Something like a miracle,” Isaac answered.
“Does he live?” Another hand, more hesitant, touched Elisha’s shoulder and back, a finger stroked gently over the puckered skin of his fresh scars. “Saints be praised! The Lord delivered him here, to be healed through these relics. Can you say which saint provided the remedy? Oh, it is a miracle! The emperor will be so pleased. What did you see?”
For a moment, no one spoke. Elisha’s rough breathing echoed in his ears. Someday, likely soon, he would have to move or speak, but the hard ground and the prickly reality of the straw beneath his palm was enough for now.
“Herr Burghussen? Can you tell me what you saw? This will be important for the accounts. I must write a report for the Holy Father.”
Isaac’s voice sounded subdued. “I really can’t say.”
“He appeared from nowhere! As we spoke of the—I see! You and I, we are planning a most ingenious reliquary for the arm of Saint Brendan. Surel
y, this miracle is a sign of his approval.”
“What I’d like to know,” Isaac said, with a hint of his former acid, “is how he came to be shot full of arrows.”
A loud rapping echoed in the chamber, and Elisha caught his breath. If Bardolph came now—
The rapping sounded again, and Brother Gilles moved to the door.
“Brother. I’m looking for that English doctor.” The voice of the steward, Harald, whom Elisha had sent to sleep in the queen’s chamber.
“But he is here! There has been a miracle, sir. The doctor was beset and shot with arrows, and the Lord transported him to me, to my chest of relics, to be cured by his association with the arm of Saint Brendan.”
Footsteps approached, then the steward cried, “Holy Mary!”
“I don’t know that the Virgin interceded here, but it may be so.”
Elisha trembled as he gulped for breath. He must answer them, he must speak, but the agony still echoed through him, and his breath caught in his freshly healed chest as if scars impeded his lungs. He shuddered against the floor.
“The cape, sir, please,” said Isaac’s imperious voice. “The cape,” he repeated more firmly, then a dense warmth of fur and wool draped Elisha’s shoulders, the weight of it embracing him. Slowly, his breath evened. The steward and the friar shared their conversation, the one dismayed, the other fervent with his faith.
By taking Gretchen, just there and in that way, Bardolph lured him through the Valley to die, to be shot by arrows, a weapon he could not combat with his power. The archers carried no magic of their own. They were desolati, not magi, certainly not mancers. “The messenger,” they called Bardolph. Imperial men, in service to the mancers. “I have to go,” Elisha gasped.
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