Chapter 28
Mancers stalked Elisha’s dreams. He stood in the Valley, holding it back with all his might, while the warden of the Valley, that faceless presence he had sensed whenever mancer blood mingled with that of their victims, rose against him, towering and dark. Sometimes, it was Katherine herself who assailed him, fulfilling her nightmares, raking her poisoned nails across his face, weeping all the time. Then he heard a baby crying, and he ran through a dark forest, but he could not find the child, and he startled awake, snatching at nothing.
For a moment, he thought to rise and leave for Rome right then, but the idea made him all the more weary; he did not even speak the language, nor had he a long voyage like the one that allowed him to learn the German tongue. Still, he must go, and soon—to cut through the web of mancer intention and spoil their plans.
That returned him to the idea of the Valley. They could not simply leap through from place to place—they could not even use living blood, but must depend upon the greater power of murder. This thought comforted Elisha in an awful way, for it meant that they must make contact with their fellow mancers first. They must find and recruit each other, travel by horse or river or on foot to forge the rings of their chainmail conspiracy. No wonder it took time for them to build this far, to seize their captive thrones and plant the relics that would yield their harvest of horror.
Last night as he worked to manipulate the Valley, Elisha observed the flaw in their power. Back in England, he met a group of magi so devoted each to a single talisman that they became indivisible from it: indivisi, whom the other magi accused of madness. To be so attached to a single thing, while it gave them great power over that thing, also made them vulnerable, like the iron magus who rusted to death. They thought, in fact, that Elisha was with Death, indivisible from it, but his affinity seemed more subtle than that, a delicate awareness of the threshold between life and death. Because of his devotion to healing, he saw more, knew more, used more: while the mancers drew only upon darkness, Elisha remained capable of holding the light. They ignored the opposite of their strength, while he relied upon it. He did not know how that would help him—a hundred mancers sucking in the pain and fear of a dozen murders could rout a battlefield without an army resilient enough to fight back. Elisha’s hand brushed over the talisman he wore about his neck, the earth of England, and wished he could talk to Mordecai about all of this to sort through what he knew and to devise a plan for Rome.
He felt her presence and sat up, groaning at the aches that assailed his body, as Katherine entered, her eyes too wide and lips compressed with worry. When she saw his hand fly to his side, to the slash he had healed, her face softened to sympathy. She came to sit by him, setting down the lantern she carried. “I felt you wake.” Her right hand spread upon the thick wool of her robe, the nails still edged with a hint of blood. “It took a moment to realize it was you. I shall need to scrub harder so that I am not bound to you.” But she gazed at her nails as if that were the last thing she wanted.
“I’m sorry to wake you.” He pulled the blankets a little closer about his hips. “We both need the rest.”
Katherine reached out and caught his hand. “There are other ways to calm the mind and flee the fears of night.” The heat of contact rushed through him, her desire captured in the sweat of her palm and the pressure of her hand, and he tried not to respond in kind.
“True, but the Church has not lifted its ban on opium.”
Her hand stroked his cheek, turning him gently to face her, her fingers working through his hair, tracing the cross-shaped scar and the pockmarks that had been holes into his skull. Her touch, just there, poured through him, a cascade of emotions that tightened his chest and burned into his loins. “Let me give you this, Elisha, once more, without fear.”
The lantern gilded her silvering hair and made an enticing darkness between her parted lips. He stood too often on the threshold now, using his knowledge to force back death, but only rarely able to embrace life.
Elisha met her eyes, then pulled her closer, his hand sliding beneath the robe, finding her skin hot, damp, naked, without the chill hand of a dead man trapped between them. Without fear. He kissed her, gripping her back, her hair tumbling over his hands. The vial of England pressed into his chest. Without fear, but not without shame. Could a man atone for what he did not truly repent?
Elisha found the vial with his hand and tugged it to one side, sliding it to dangle against his back. Then they tangled in each other, casting a deflection against the senses of the world and the confusion of the heart, and Elisha let himself be lost in gratitude for her gift.
He slept at last without dreaming, and long after Katherine had left him, woke to daylight glowing gray through the arrow slits in the end wall. The building creaked as people rose and built up the fires, fetched the water, performed all the hundred tasks a manor required every day.
Almost refreshed, Elisha dressed and walked back down to the Great Hall. Here, he found a day board spread with slops—trenchers of bread soaked in the juices of last night’s meat, accompanied by a light wine and heaps of apples. Elisha ate heartily, not knowing when he would find another meal. By day, his clothing looked disheveled, even his rich cloak looked like something he had stolen from a grave, but it would have to do. He could take a few minutes to brush out the worst of the mud and blood, and hope that Rome was dark and damp this time of year. In order to set about his plans there, he must live as quietly as possible, attracting no attention, avoiding mancers unless he must confront them. There would be no mancer-hunting, no raids of mancer-lairs to liberate their victims. If he caught their eye too early, he would be killed or forced to flee before he could stop them.
Harald found him finishing his meal and took him to a private alcove, asking every question he could think of about mancer tactics, powers and places, his hawkish face utterly focused, the courtier vanished beneath an assassin’s intensity. He took the news of Bardolph’s true nature with a grunt of anger. “Bardolph could not be found in advance of this journey—he had been sent to Lord Eben, but Eben sent him on without consultation. I thought it strange that his Majesty so readily accepted Eben sending his royal messenger on another mission.”
“Another mission? You know no more than this?”
“Nothing. Eben was not a man to speak freely, though his manner always suggested that he did.” Harald propped his hands on his knees and pushed himself to his feet, covering his wince, but not well enough for a doctor’s eyes.
“Have you been seen to?” Elisha searched the steward’s presence and found him weary, battered, deeply bruised by his fall from the horse during the battle.
Harald shook his head. “We’ll be resting here a few days—I’ll be tended. I did not want you to go before I know all of what we face.”
Smiling grimly, Elisha said, “I wish I knew all of what we face. I fear these civil wars are only the symptom of something greater. The margravine will return when she finds safety for her sons, she’ll help you.”
Putting out his hand for Elisha’s, Harald said, “Godspeed to Rome.”
Then nothing held Elisha back but regret for the deaths that had happened here and fear of what was to come—neither of which would improve with age. He moved through the manor, where servants wiped tears from their faces as they worked, and spoke in low tones for fear of disturbing the widowed empress as she lay upon her childbed, in mourning. The miasma of grief haunted him, but at the same time, he knew these two terrible deaths were small compared with the mancers’ plans. They must be a spur to try harder, not to abandon the fight.
From the steps outside, a figure rose abruptly, the soldiers stirring—more of them since the day before—but the figure’s monkish robe and contrite demeanor made the guards settle again. Even so, Gilles nested his fingers together, slid them apart, nested them again as he waited for Elisha to approach.
“You might have sent word
you were waiting,” Elisha said.
Gilles separated his fingers again. “I hate to intrude.” He glanced away, and Elisha thought at first that his moment of tenderness with Katherine after the baby’s death had embarrassed the friar. Then he noticed that Gilles’s face might be averted, but he still flashed his gaze toward Elisha, his eyelashes fluttering as if he gazed at something too bright to be studied directly.
“How did you come to be in Bad Stollhein? You said the man who took you prisoner came to you.”
“He was a guest of the emperor, Doctor, an important man who had heard the rumors of what happened in my chamber, when you were healed by the relics.” Gilles chuckled. His voice still sounded strained, his eyes haunted after his role in the battle. “Well. I have never been to Rome, and I should dearly love to go, and so it seemed a blessing that this man had heard of the relics entrusted to me. Of course, it was you who interested him, your story, of which I know little enough.” He forced his hands apart. “And of course I had swooned at your ravaged appearance, so my testament offered little yet again. Still, he said he had need of someone to assist him in an important ritual, and of course, I agreed.” His tonsure glowed slightly pink as he stared at his sandaled feet. His voice fell very low. “I did not know he meant to tempt me to Hell itself. I should be there still, if not for you.”
“As dedicated as you are to the saints, Brother? I doubt you’d be there long.” Elisha found a smile.
“I will pray on that. Indeed, I have been praying all night.” He lifted his eyes again, round and gleaming. “You cannot tell me more of . . . of your purpose?”
“My purpose is to break the rings of demons who prey on men like you.”
Gilles straightened. “I pray that one day I will be found worthy to assist you. The empress, the widow, that is, has asked that we continue our work and craft a reliquary worthy of her husband’s memory, God rest his soul.” He crossed himself. “I pray this service will aid me in whatever penance must befall. The demon came to me, and I succumbed.”
“You needn’t blame yourself, Brother. These demons will look and act like anyone else.”
“The same could be said for angels.”
Elisha did not know how to answer that, so he replied simply, “Peace be with you.”
“And also with you,” the friar said, and Elisha felt certain his gaze followed until Elisha could no longer be seen.
Chapter 29
While most who were abroad at that hour went down toward the church or the market, Elisha walked up the hill, until he found a quiet corner where none would likely disturb him.
Rome awaited, but the idea of consulting Mordecai—and passing on what he had learned—had taken hold. Rested now, thanks to Katherine’s comfort, Elisha could muster the strength for more than one journey. As he uncorked the vial and sprinkled a little of the earth of London into his palm, he knew he was delaying his real task. But if he could take advantage of Mordecai’s knowledge, why should he not?
Steeling himself against the memory of his brother’s death, and casting a deflection against the stealthy awareness of Conrad’s father, Elisha opened the Valley and slipped inside. The Valley this time felt personal, thrumming with the betrayal of Nathaniel’s suicide in the wake of his child’s stillbirth and—he believed—his wife’s own death. Elisha passed with relief into the low, familiar workshop, its fire banked, a few candles glinting from the votives people left there to honor the man they claimed as God’s chosen king, a healer, a martyr risen from the grave: Elisha himself, in the guise of Saint Barber.
Shutters covered the windows, and a new wooden door filled the frame, with gaps of weak London sunlight edging around it. Nathaniel’s shade sat at the center of the room, slitting his throat and dying. Elisha’s eyes burned as he blinked the shade away. He felt a whisper of movement, ducked and turned as a man rose behind him, sword drawn. Allowing the tip to rest at his heart, Elisha raised his hands, smiling down the blade at Madoc, once his captain, then his bodyguard, and now the self-appointed guardian of his shrine.
“Is it you, and not some skin-clad killer?” the man muttered, glaring back at him.
“I walked at the wheel of a siege tower, Madoc, and you commanded me to fall and feign death when the bombard shattered the tower.”
Madoc withdrew his sword and shoved it back into its sheath. “If you’d’ve stayed dead, it might’ve saved a world of trouble.”
Elisha’s good humor fled. “If I’d’ve stayed dead, Thomas would not be king, and England would be ruled by the skin-clad killers.”
“True enough. Shall I send for the king, then?”
“No,” Elisha answered, too quickly, wondering if Katherine’s scent still lingered on him. He took up the vial again to scoop back in the precious, tainted earth. “I haven’t much time. I need to go to Mordecai. Has he left the means?”
Madoc’s beard ruffled as he pursed his lips. “His Majesty won’t be pleased to miss you.”
“Nor I him.” Despite the shame that brought sweat to Elisha’s palms, he longed for the sight of his king, that rare smile breaking across his face, his blue eyes blazing. His keen gaze always saw a little more than Elisha meant to share.
With a brief arch of his bushy brow, Madoc turned away to count off the votives until he found the one he was after. “Glad to see you well, in any case.” He held out the carved object. “I am allowed to tell him you came? That you’re still alive?”
Elisha’s hand closed over the votive carving of an arm, feeling the warmth of the hairs hidden within, a talisman left by his mentor in Madoc’s care. “Tell him I’m well, tell him I’m sorry.” Tell him Elisha had allowed his father-in-law to be killed and taken a mancer as his lover. Once, for the sake of her sons, yes, but twice? The second time had been all for the flesh, all for Elisha, and he knew it, worldly powers egging him on to worldly temptations.
“Tell that saucy nun Sabetha I said ‘hello.’”
“I’ll do it,” Elisha said, then he stretched his senses, searching, concentrating on the lock of Mordecai’s hair. His wrist ached as he conjured his memory of the day he healed the surgeon’s hand and summoned him back from the brink of death. Elisha drew himself through the Valley. Because he made contact through life, and not through death, the passage felt narrow, somehow both sharp and tenuous, as if he might be drawn off course like a traveler forced to leave a forest path, never to return.
His head ached when he emerged, trembling, into the hall of a certain lodge on the Isle of Wight where he once stayed with Mordecai in exile.
“It worked, then,” Mordecai pronounced dryly, looking up from a book.
“Only because I’m a sensitive. It’s good to see you.”
Mordecai’s presence welled with the warmth of their friendship. “Queen remains stable. Eats what we feed her, dreams, sometimes. If I have contact I sense her dreams. Baby keeps growing.”
Elisha couldn’t help the flinch at the mention of the baby, his arms weary again as if with the slight weight of Margaret’s dead child. Mordecai slid his book away and indicated a seat. “Bad news festers in you, Elisha.”
Sinking into the chair, Elisha told him. He left out the depth of his relationship with Katherine but shared everything else, everything he could think of, in case the knowledge sparked some insight from his mentor.
“Been to Kaffa,” Mordecai said, and drew out a map from the heaps of documents on the table, pointing to a region across two small seas. “Long time ago. Barbarians rule the area, but the merchants of Genoa control the city, trading from there across the world. Strange peoples, spices the English never taste, diseases your physicians have never heard of. Anything could be shipped out of Kaffa. Armies, weapons. Heard they were besieged last year and pelted with corpses.”
Elisha shuddered. “That sounds like mancers, but I don’t see how a bombardment of corpses would help them destroy the Church
.”
Sometime during the narrative, Sister Sabetha came down the creaky stairs. She startled at the sight of him, then quietly settled across the table, her thick fingers interlaced as she listened. “Cursed unholy monsters,” she muttered, when Elisha spoke of the battle and the hostage children in the salt mine. She pushed off to pour a round of cider for them, which Elisha accepted gratefully, his throat sore from talking. Mordecai examined the letters from Jacob and the rabbi, his grizzled brows furrowed over the pages.
“Do you believe it?” Elisha asked.
“Baal Shem, a wonder-worker. Men will order the world according to their knowledge. Should have thought of it myself, but I’ve been too long from the lore of my own people.”
“It’s a tale that gives them comfort, nothing more.”
Mordecai passed back the pages with a tip of his head. “Same could be said for your Christ.”
“Fine, granted—I’m not that either.” He covered his scarred hands. “It’s a useful story if it brings me aid, like finding Daniel Stoyan, but that’s all.”
The surgeon drew back into his chair, touching one of the scrolls he wore at his waist. “From the first, Elisha Barber, you have denied yourself to be anything remarkable.”
The scars stood out at the back of Elisha’s hands, pale against his work-darkened skin. “I used to think I was, before I’d ever met you—before I knew anything of the magi.”
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