Elisha Mancer

by E. C. Ambrose

  “You?” Sabetha said. “Unremarkable?” She snorted. “Maybe in your mad world of witchery, everyone can appear from nothing a thousand miles away, or heal a woman with a thought, or make the earth shake so hard a man can’t even stand. Maybe that’s all so much porridge to you, but it’s not to me. Not to anybody else I know.”

  Elisha thought of the baby, but he said, “Everyone? No, Sister. The travel—that takes a connection through life or death.”

  “Contact,” she said brightly. “Yon surgeon’s been telling me about that. And knowledge, yes?”

  “Right. The mancers travel through murder. They need a strong contact between where they are and where they’re going. They might have less knowledge of the end point, but they know the murder intimately and its power overcomes the distance.”

  “So they fake up relics by hacking people to bits.” The nun crossed herself. “The devil’s own—they must be.”

  “A sensitive magus, one with a knowledge of life and death, like myself or Mordecai, could travel through contact with life. We deliberately chose a very slight contact—hair—to be sure no others could follow me. Speaking of which—” Removing the furred cloak, Elisha stripped off his bloody tunic and crossed to drop it into the fire, prodding it with the poker until the flames caught.

  “Give over.” Sabetha stood up and made a grabbing motion until Elisha handed over the cloak. “You’ll not want to burn this. I’ll get it cleaned up for you, and bring you a fresh shirt.”

  “Thanks,” he told her.

  Her annoyed look suggested her reluctance to leave the conversation, but she went, draping the cloak over her broad shoulders and prancing in her imitation of a courtier as the door swung closed behind her.

  Mordecai glanced up, toward the silent member of their little household: Brigit. “Will you see her?”

  “I should.” Elisha sighed, drained his cider, and pushed himself up, Mordecai trailing after as they mounted the stairs. Pushing open the chamber door, Elisha still expected to be struck by her presence, that seductive blend of mystery, magic, and desire. Instead, he felt nothing. Lavender overlaid the faint scent of urine in the air, but it was nothing like the miasma of sickness at a hospital. Mordecai and Sabetha tended their patient well.

  As Elisha drew near the bed, he sensed the warmth of life, and the curious overlap of one life upon another: the baby that grew within her swelling belly. Brigit’s chest still rose and fell, her hair in red-gold trails upon the pillow had grown notably longer since he’d cut it months ago. Her eyelids flickered when he touched her arm, but her eyes remained mercifully closed. To look into those vivid green eyes, knowing he had riven the soul behind them, would be his undoing.

  “I’ve been researching her state.” Mordecai laid his olive-skinned hand on Brigit’s forehead, the strength of his healing presence swelling around him. Elisha’s left eye saw the wisps of shadow trailing the surgeon: patients he had lost, his own slain family, like strands his presence tethered to the earth. When he touched Brigit, the strands briefly faded, as if banished by a glow Elisha could not see although he felt the rising focus of Mordecai’s interest. “I have found little of use. There are fairy stories of princesses who sleep for years and wake again, and your nun tells stories of saints who rise from such apparent death. We found a narrative of Hildegard von Bingen, describing trance states and visions she received from them, although they were of short duration.”

  Brigit’s beauty grew a little thin; the soups they could feed her sustained her life, but she did not flourish. Still, her lips looked rosy and almost expectant, and Elisha knew how the princesses in those tales awoke. According to the tales, the king, her husband, should kiss her, and her eyes would open. The image repulsed Elisha in an instant. Thomas married her in a moment of despair, needing the heir she secretly carried, grateful for her apparent rescue of him, and terrified of Elisha himself. None could know Brigit’s full treachery until the day in the chapel when she had evoked the spirit of her dead mother and tried to use it to break or kill all the aristocracy of England. Oh, no, if Brigit had a true love to wake her, it was power alone could offer that kiss. If her sleeping form could be brought together with sufficient raw magic, Elisha had no doubt that the lure of power would draw her back again.

  Elisha’s fingers lightly wrapped her wrist, feeling the pulse there, slow, but steady. Should he have killed her then, sacrificing the life of the baby to ensure that the mother would never rise? “The baby?” No. His baby. Brigit would make any sacrifice in service to her dream. Thank God he had not had to sacrifice his child to stop her.

  Mordecai lifted his hand, his moist eyes meeting Elisha’s glance. “What will you do when you get to Rome?”

  “I have to locate all of their talismans and find a way to steal them from the churches, or to destroy them, all at once, and without the warden of the Valley knowing I’m there, if at all possible. Sometimes I feel his presence in the Valley. If he is all his son and the others say, he could readily destroy me.”

  “Could mark the relics, keep contact with them as you find them, keep yourself secret as possible.”

  Elisha considered. “I can’t use blood, it could give them the means to trace me and make contact in turn.” He stared down at Brigit’s still form, trying to think of another way.

  “Hair, then. Like the talisman that brought you here. Should be slight enough.”

  “Good idea.”

  “Are you the only one who can travel in deaths he did not make and lives he does not know?”

  After a moment, Elisha said, “So far as I know.”

  “Unless there are thirty-five others as your friend Jacob claims.” Mordecai’s presence shimmered with humor.

  “Hush,” said Elisha. “I didn’t come here so you could tell me stories. And I still get twice as many wonders as you do.”

  “And you still don’t think they are enough,” said Mordecai in the witches’ way, sending his gentle thought to brush upon Elisha’s awareness.

  Shaking his head, Elisha drew back his hand from the still form between them. “Even if I go to Rome and ruin their relics, somehow, without them finding me, it still leaves the mancers to scheme again. Rome is not the end of their design. They need to topple the Church itself. Even if I can stop them in Rome—I cannot stop them forever. And they still want Brigit. They’re searching for her; they have some role they think she could fill in their plans.”

  Mordecai bowed his head gravely. “Then I will do everything in my power to shelter her.”

  “I should go. I’ll return your talisman to London on my way.” At least they had sketched a plan for how to manage the relics of Rome, dangerous though it would be. And the timing should allow him to find the mad tribune, Cola di Rienzi, to see if he, too, were one of the mancers’ playthings.

  As if Mordecai could sense his worries, he said, “If anyone could work this wonder, Elisha, it would be you.” The surgeon raised his right hand, allowing his sleeve to slide back and reveal his wrist, ringed by faint crossings, the sutures Elisha once used to bind his failing life. “You have always had good hands, Elisha.”

  Elisha smiled faintly, but he turned away.

  Chapter 30

  In the screens passage, Elisha found Sabetha wearing the now-brushed cloak, but she glanced up and sighed when she saw him. “Gave this up when I chose the veil, didn’t I? As if I’d’ve had a chance for it anyhow.” She passed him a clean tunic which he slipped over his head, then reluctantly handed over the cloak.

  “Never thought I would, either, Sister.” He stroked the furry edging and ran his finger over the golden ram Isaac had given him. Things too fine for a barber. Too fine for a killer.

  “I trimmed off the torn fur, but you’ll hardly notice.” She eyed the luxurious garment. “You move in the company of emperors now. Can’t say as I envy you, though, facing them, night after night.” She shivered an
d led the way back to the hall with its crackling fire.

  Night after night—and he hadn’t even spoken of his dreams. “Thanks for tending her. Them, really.”

  Sabetha rubbed a hand along the wimple at her forehead. “Well, it’s mostly no trouble, is it? Don’t know if I want her to wake or if I don’t.”

  Silently, Elisha agreed.

  “Yon Jew’s teaching me to read—he tell you that?” She pointed to a wax tablet, likely the same one Mordecai used to teach Elisha a few short months ago. “It was him that worried me, to tell you the truth.” Sabetha squared her shoulders, prepared for his taking offense. “I’ve heard all kinds of things about the Jews, all my life. I said yes because you were asking, and because the princess was going home to her Da, but I figured your Jew was as likely one of the devils as one of us.” She cocked her head, frowning. “He’s a bit prickly, but I never seen him do nothing demonic.”

  At that, Elisha chuckled. “You’ve seen demonic when you were traveling with me, yet I’m the one you trust?”

  “Back with the Mother Superior, everything was clear, see? Witches, evil; Jews, evil; pederasts, evil; heretics, evil. A beautiful face meant a beautiful soul.” She scratched absently at her back, perhaps reminded of the wounds where Brigit struck her with a rake, a dozen stab-wounds Elisha healed as he fled with her through the Valley. “It’s not so simple as I thought.”

  “Sometimes, I wish it were,” he murmured.

  “God be with you, Barber.”

  “And also with you.” He took out the vial of earth from the workshop, and opened the Valley back to his brother’s workshop in London. Even as the howling snapped shut behind him, Elisha felt the sudden heat and a surge of joy: the strong, brooding presence of the king. He should have known Madoc would go to the king. Immediately after this thought, guilt stabbed at his conscience and Elisha swallowed hard, preparing to face him, but before he could work out how to greet the man who was both monarch and friend, Elisha heard a girl’s voice call out his name. Then Alfleda’s arms wrapped about him, and the joy won out.

  Elisha pulled the girl close and swung her about, her golden hair tickling his face. “Such a welcome! I hardly expected to see you here, Your Highness.” He set her down at arm’s length, taking in her bright blue eyes, cheeks filling out after her two years of grief and confinement. Tall and lovely, even for a child of eight, Alfleda spun a little circle, displaying a gown of winter wool with a purple hood. She grinned at him and giggled.

  “I overheard—I wasn’t meant to, I know, but when that hairy man comes, I always hope he might bring word of you!” She tipped her head down, rubbing her cheek across his scarred hand, the contrast between her innocent, rosy face and his own rough knuckles made all the more apparent.

  Behind her, Thomas rose slowly, firelight adding gleams to his eyes and shadows to his dark hair. His own expression moved from a father’s indulgence to a mingled longing and fear. “I could not keep her away, Elisha. I do not think she could believe us truly reconciled until she saw us together.” Almost, he smiled.

  “Come, Father—give him the kiss of peace—then I shall be certain!” She grabbed her father’s hand and tugged him closer.

  Thomas lost his smile, but his gaze never left Elisha’s face.

  “He’s done that,” Elisha told her. “On the battlefield.”

  The king reached out and took Elisha’s hand in a grip as if to pull him closer, but he merely wrapped Elisha’s hand in both of his, pressing over the ring he had given. The heat of that contact was almost too much and Elisha dropped his gaze, looking to the child instead. “Here—” He plucked the carved votive containing Mordecai’s hair from his belt and offered it to her. “Find a place for this, would you?”

  “Yes, of course! It’s not a very good one, is it?” She moved away to search among the tiny nails for a place to hang it.

  “I know you did not wish to see me,” Thomas said softly. “Madoc tried to make it sound as if your urgency would not allow it.”

  “It’s not that,” Elisha protested, even as his stomach clenched—Thomas knew him too well to miss the lie.

  The king released him, folding his arms below the chain of his office. “Then what is it, Elisha? For all we’ve been through, I would at least hope for your candor.” But the disappointment that carved the corners of his mouth suggested he hoped for more than that.

  Elisha swallowed again, uncertain what to do with his hands. At last, he said, “Emperor Ludwig is dead. Forgive me.”

  “God rest him. A hard man but a good one.” Thomas exhaled sharply. “Why does his death require my forgiveness?”

  “I went there to track the mancers’ plans, and to warn him, Your Majesty, but . . .” Here he stopped, wondering how much to say. Did it matter anymore that Ludwig had been the mancers’ pawn? That Thomas’s marriage to Ludwig’s daughter had likely been part of their plot? Anna and her father were both dead now, both at the hands of the emperor’s erstwhile allies. In the far corner, Alfleda gasped over some trinket she discovered.

  “Shall I order you to tell me what you know?”

  That brought Elisha’s chin up, solidifying Thomas’s dual role into one: He was the king, and Elisha was his agent. As king, Thomas required the truth, no matter how it might wound him as a man. “The emperor had been served by the mancers in the past, Your Majesty, but they found him difficult, as you say. They sponsored the upstart, Charles, and this convinced Emperor Ludwig at last to reject them. By then, it was too late, and they were willing to sacrifice him. I failed to protect him.”

  Thomas gave a regal nod. “What was the disposition of your army?”

  Narrowing his eyes at the king, Elisha replied, “Only me, the emperor, and a man of his who turned out to be very capable. That man brought back a company of soldiers.”

  “And the enemy?”

  “Fifteen necromancers, drawing strength from the Valley itself, through a pair of mancers who are adept at manipulating its power.”

  “Good Lord!” Thomas’s voice drew Alfleda back to his side, clinging to his hand, her eyes wide.

  “It’s less than I fought here, for England,” Elisha pointed out. “And I lost the emperor—the man I should have saved.”

  “He would have wished to die fighting. What else?” Thomas prompted.

  Now, they came to it. Here, in this place where his brother died over the loss of his child, grief still echoed from the walls and the stained earthen floor. Elisha’s hands hung at his sides. “I also lost his baby, Your Majesty. The empress Margaret went into labor during the battle, and the child was slain by an agent of the mancers, not realizing Ludwig himself was already dead. I—tried to revive him, I even—” He swallowed and shook his head. He had even taken the form of an angel in his grief and madness. “I failed.”

  “Elisha, the baby was murdered.”

  “I should have been able to do something.” He raised his hands, the scars white against his clenched fists. “What is this power for, if I can’t even save a child’s life?”

  A knock sounded on the door, and a voice called, “Everything all right in there, Your Majesty?”

  “Yes, fine.” The fire popped, but the flames sank low, drawing shadows down the king’s lean, handsome face.

  Alfleda nudged her foot across the dirt. “You saved me,” she said softly, her hair falling forward.

  The king stroked a hand over his daughter’s golden hair, letting his palm rest lightly on her lowered head. “Isn’t that why you turned away from God, because He allows babes to die?”

  On the wall, a few tin crosses winked in the dying light, crosses like the ones his brother made. “It’s also why I became a witch, because I could not save a baby’s life.”

  “At least you hold yourself to a high standard,” said Thomas, with that edge of dark humor Elisha recalled so well. “Neither you, nor God, can save
them all. At least you are trying.”

  Elisha let out a tremulous breath. “Then why can I not succeed?”

  With a sudden rush, Alfleda pulled away from her father and came to Elisha, catching his fist between her hands. “You will,” she said earnestly. “Next time, I’m sure you will.”

  The next baby could well be his own, Elisha realized with a sick dread. The mancers were searching, not even knowing what a treasure they might find.

  With a shock of heat and the full strength of his presence, Thomas brushed his fingers through Elisha’s hair, tracing the scars where his cracked skull had been opened. “For all your power, Elisha, you are just one man. I pray you will succeed next time—and I know that you won’t stop trying.” The king’s sharp gaze shifted away from Elisha’s face. “The hair is coming in white.”

  Elisha held very still, barely breathing. “It’s a common effect after head trauma.”

  “I was looking for fresh scars. They must be well-hidden.”

  Elisha thought of the Empress Margaret, telling him that even his scars could be found attractive. He always felt exposed before Thomas’s gaze. “Not very,” Elisha whispered, and Thomas smiled gently, withdrawing his hand.

  “We pray for you,” Alfleda blurted. “Even though you don’t like God very much. We pray for you here and at the chapel, and sometimes in the big church, too.”

  “Thank you,” he told her.

  “I pray you come home safely,” Thomas said, touching a warning finger to his daughter’s lips, and she turned a little pink, embarrassed at her interruption. “I fear you’ll die over there, and we shall be left with nothing, not even a stone.”

  If Elisha died over there, there would be no grave: the mancers who slew him would dance about with his bloody bones. For a moment, he thought of staying, never again leaving English soil, no matter what came of it. But if he did, how much blood would flow in the streets of Rome? “Thank you for your prayers,” he said, though the words felt hollow. “I do need to go.”