“Thought I saw that beggar you mentioned, captain, and I was following a bit, but no sign of ’im now,” one of them replied.
“Mebbe you’ve run him off for good. Get back to your posts.”
The other soldiers moved away. Shaking his head, Elisha came up and dropped to one knee beside the dog. With their clean, well-kept clothes and quality swords, these men were no bandits; it couldn’t hurt to cooperate, at least for now. The new owner they spoke of was likely Brigit herself. Elisha’s weariness ebbed away, replaced by a sense of doom. He didn’t want to be here when Brigit arrived, but he didn’t know how to talk Rosalynn back out of the house. There was nothing to be done for it until morning, and maybe he could find a way to search the house and grounds in the meantime.
Before he laid a hand on the dog, he reached out in his mind, feeling for the energy of its presence, a warmth palpable at this distance.
Mentally urging it to keep still, to trust him—best yet, to stay unconscious until he was through—Elisha edged forward. Wetting his lips, he murmured the sort of soothing noises he used to use on the farm dogs when they lay whelping. His first medical experience had been assisting the delivery of puppies, soothing the mothers. He lay his hand on the dog’s fur, stroking softly, then pressing a little more firmly, finding the pulse beneath the matted fur. A collar nearly as broad as his hand encircled its throat, with spikes of metal sticking out at intervals.
The dog breathed with a wheezy note, and Elisha worked his hands down through the fur, carefully, carefully, exuding all the comfort he knew how. Stunned, yes, and with two ribs broken from the impact. Still stroking the rough fur, Elisha looked up to where Ian stood, trying to make him out in the darkness. “Could use some rest, but he’ll be all right. He broke a couple of ribs, I think.”
With a grunt and a nod, Ian told him, “Bring him out to the barn and tie him off to something. Let me know when he wakes, and I’ll have a go making friends. Meantime, I’ll get your lady her supper.”
Elisha gathered the dog in his arms and lugged it into the barn. A few horses stood in narrow stalls, chewing on hay thrown down for them, and he found a larger stall on the opposite side, the straw inside disturbed as if it had already been used as a bed. Likely the dog had been sleeping there when they showed up. Good—it would be familiar.
A torch stuck into a holder on the outer wall gave some flickering light, enough to make out the rows of hooks for harness and bridles. Here, Elisha found a stout length of rope and made his way back to the dog.
“Leave it!”
Elisha jumped, spinning to face the speaker, a ragged silhouette in the queer light. “Who’re you? Is it your dog?”
“I said leave it!” The man moved forward, thrusting out a long, curving knife.
Holding up his hands, Elisha took a step back, only to thump against the wall. “All right, take the damn dog.” Ian would be none too pleased, but Elisha had nothing with which to fight back, not even his boots.
Hunching down, without taking his attention from Elisha, the man called out in a low voice, “Cerberus!” Then he gave a soft whistle.
No response.
“Dear Lord, don’t tell me they’ve killed you, after so long.” He fell to all fours and crawled up to the dog, digging his fingers into its dense coat.
The man looked familiar, and Elisha placed him as the lordly beggar at the duke’s party. Apparently, more beggar than lord now, but what was he doing here? Slowly, Elisha lowered his hands. “Get him to keep still, if you can. He’s got two ribs broken on the right.”
“What do you know about it?” the man shot back.
To Elisha’s ears, the anger sounded false, a deliberate attempt to hide—what? The stranger hadn’t recognized him, thanks to the mask and finery he’d been wearing that night. Now, he might pass for a beggar himself. There were too many questions, too many people suddenly involved with this place. The men outside must be Brigit’s advance party, with this man trailing them. For what purpose? Elisha tried to calm his own jangled nerves and attuned himself, feeling the weary weight of the horses, the blank warmth of the dog, then sending his awareness to the complexity of the man.
Fear came first, seeping from him like that mist creeping up from the river. Pain followed on the fear, both a sharp, physical pain and a long-time desperation of spirit. Tied up in these, he felt exhaustion, grief, and worry, reaching out toward the dog that meant more to him than a mere hunting beast. Tears hovered close.
The raw emotions surprised Elisha. Few men carried their feelings so close to the surface, certainly not when they were in full command of their faculties, and to get such a clear impression without even touching the man—but that desperation might tell all. How long had this man gone without sleep, without a proper meal? The fear drove him, and the pain pricked him constantly.
Elisha had never felt anything like it. It seeped through him, and he shook himself, withdrawing to the confines of his skin, taking a few breaths to settle his own emotions before he carefully unfurled his awareness again. He couldn’t afford to let the man stir him up like that, not until he knew what the stranger was about.
He took a step nearer, and the man jerked, the knife coming back to his hand though he gasped in pain as he lifted it. Still, Elisha held up his hands. “Who are you?” Elisha asked, his tone coming from that same place of comfort he had called on for the dog.
“Nobody.” The man trembled ever so slightly, then forced himself still. “A beggar, no more than that.”
A beggar, with a dog so fine. Not likely. “You were at Dunbury a few days ago, at the ball.”
The man’s eyes flared, he took in Elisha’s face and clothing, then he relaxed a little. “You danced with Lady Rosalynn. I remember.”
Elisha nodded. The swirl of emotion twisted toward guilt, and a hint of something lighter: desire. Rosalynn had at least one admirer, even if he had fallen from his rightful place. “I’m Elisha Barber—”
The ferocity of the attack knocked the wind out of him, even as the butt of the knife slammed into his head.
Chapter 10
Elisha blacked out as he tumbled away, then his vision flashed back, blurry, as his attacker pounced on top of him. Gleaming gold, the knife dove toward his chest.
Elisha threw up his arm, catching the other man’s wrist. Still, the knife edged down, slashing his shirt and cutting a groove against the bone. Slamming his left fist into Elisha’s temple, the man let a cry of pain escape between bared teeth.
The knife pressed against Elisha’s ribcage, blood and pus oozing down the hilt from the man’s hand, dripping to mingle with Elisha’s blood. Pain cut the shock that had struck first, and Elisha gasped. The face above him snarled its hatred, bearing down against his protective arm. Exhausted, yes, but still strong.
Elisha visualized the ribbons that tied his shirt cuffs, and the rope he had found to tie the dog. Affinity. His wrist circled by the ribbon, another wrist circled by the rope. He still carried the cloth talisman he had used at the fire. Drawing strength from it, he fumbled on the ground and found the rope. Contact.
The rope leapt to his command, snapping around the man’s right arm.
Crying out, the stranger struggled, and Elisha rolled him aside, sending the other end of the rope tight around a pillar of the barn, then back to find the other wrist. The rope wound itself around the ragged man, jerked him back against the wood, and secured itself in knots Elisha imagined with his pain and shock.
Edging away, gasping, Elisha demanded, “What the Hell did you attack me for?”
“You killed the king,” his captive spat.
From the house, Ian’s voice called, “Here, what’s going on out there?”
Staring at the man before him in the uneven light, Elisha saw the pain drawn in the dirty face. He didn’t want to speak, not until he knew what was going on himself. “I tripped in the dark,” he called back, noting the narrowing of his captive’s eyes.
“Take care with that dog
, mind you!”
Tilting his face to the sky, Elisha replied, “Aye, soldier,” and was answered by the thump of the door.
“You are a witch,” his prisoner hissed. “They ought to burn you and scatter the ashes where even God won’t see.”
“I’m sure they’ll get to that in time,” Elisha said. He untied his cuffs and stripped off his shirt, turning to face the torch so he could examine his wound.
Elisha heard the intake of breath behind him and ignored it. In the curly hair of his chest, the brand of his punishment showed smooth and darker than the surrounding skin, a barren patch as big as his palm, reminder of the interrogation he’d undergone at King Hugh’s demand, the interrogation where he protected Brigit at the cost of his own pain. Blood seeped from the freshly carved valley that cut across the scar. It stung with his every breath and reminded him of the French magus in his shroud, skinned, his muscle laid bare by a sharp blade and a steady hand.
“God’s blood,” Elisha cursed.
The wound was short and shallow, given that it touched the bone, but the already scarred skin would not knit well, and was too stretched to permit him to stitch it back again. There was nothing to do but keep it clean, and hope for the best.
“What happened to you?” the prisoner asked, interest mingling with enmity.
“Which, the back, or the chest?” Elisha shot back, facing him again, his chin high. “I was lashed for saving the prince, and branded for loving the wrong woman. And hung for treason—I’ll give you that one for free.” He grinned. “How about you?”
The prisoner’s face had gone pale beneath his dirt and a month’s growth of facial hair. “The prince?”
“Well,” Elisha allowed, “I didn’t know he was the prince at the time. He was disguised as a commoner to carry the king’s messages. Not that he’s helped me out much since. Who are you, and what are you doing here?”
The man shook his head, forehead furrowed. “But you killed the king.”
“If it helps to know, I didn’t mean anything by it.” Elisha sat back on his heels, studying his prisoner, who slumped against the pillar, breathing heavily and watching him in return. “I never set out for treason, but he was threatening some people very dear to me. I didn’t see another choice.” The rush of excitement had pushed away his own aches. “I gather you heard about it, and me, and swore to avenge him, am I right?”
“More or less.” The man made an effort to straighten.
From the end stall came a low whimper. Both turned to stare.
“Cerberus!” the man hissed.
Claws scraped on the dirt as the dog heaved itself to its feet.
With a triumphant smile, the captive urged, “To me, Cerberus! Attack!”
Immediately, the dog burst around the corner, head lowered, teeth bared. It stopped short, skidding in the straw and whining as it slid up very near. The dog lowered its head again, but with the ears half-raised, the tail out straight. Interest rather than threat. Elisha let himself relax and smile. Cerberus on his feet was higher than the seated men and had to look down to shift his gaze from Elisha to the prisoner and back. The dog whined, his tail giving a slow wave.
Elisha held out his hand to be sniffed. Gravely, Cerberus pushed his wet nose against Elisha’s fingers, then gave him a single, long slurp, and lay down at his master’s side.
Casting a quick look at the dog, the prisoner turned as quickly away, his eyes shining. “What have you done to my dog?” he whispered, his voice cracking. “You’ve cast some accursed spell on him.”
At that, Elisha laughed, shaking his head. He had gotten a fright from that knife brandished against him, but, try as he might, he couldn’t see the danger now. Here was a man loyal to his king, seeking justice as he saw it, heartsick because his dog seemed to have deserted him. Letting go his irritation, Elisha said, “It’s nearly impossible to cast a spell on a being with willpower of its own. All I did was try to help him, to make him comfortable, nothing more. If that’s a spell, I believe it’s commonly known as kindness.”
“All witches are liars,” the man said, his neck arched as he turned his face away, his throat trembling with shuddering breaths.
“Maybe I’ll cast one on you, too,” Elisha murmured, and the man stiffened in an instant. Creeping behind the dog to avoid the prisoner’s thrashing legs, Elisha unfolded the fingers on one bound hand.
Rags wrapped the palm, but blood escaped around the edges and had bonded them into a single thickness. He had seen the bindings at the ball, and thought them a clever touch to finish the disguise. After a moment’s search, Elisha found the discarded knife.
With a soft moan, the prisoner mumbled, “Pater noster, qui est in caelis …”
The stranger went on, the Lord’s prayer tumbling from his lips in Latin as naturally as his native tongue. Elisha recognized the sounds and the sense of the words from the daily masses of his youth, and his estimation of the stranger’s position rose. He put the prayer from his mind, cutting away the foul bandage. Attunement, he was learning, worked both ways, enabling him to sense more than usual, or to selectively block certain elements to better focus on the task before him.
At the center of the man’s left palm, his right as well, as Elisha shortly confirmed, a patch of smooth flesh darkened the skin, with cracked skin all around, oozing and giving off the odor of infection. Wrinkling his nose, Elisha remarked, “You ought to take more care with your bandages.”
The man broke off his prayer, flinching at Elisha’s gentle touch.
“If I untie you, will you promise not to kill me before I’ve had a chance to see to these?”
“I’ll rip your head off,” muttered the prisoner, “before I let you curse me.”
Placing his elbow over the man’s shoulder, Elisha rolled the arm palm up, revealing the burn mark that scarred his palm and the trail of identical wounds leading from his wrist to his elbow. “You’ve been branded. Someone should take care of you before you lose both hands.”
The beggar averted his eyes. “I would’ve killed you—why do me any favors?”
Withdrawing his hand, Elisha said, “Because it’s just possible that both of us are good men doing what we must to survive. Who are you? Why were you branded?”
He kept silent, his head bowed.
“My guess would be theft,” Elisha continued. “That’s what they burn your hands for.” As he spoke, he loosened the rope, easing the strain of his prisoner’s arms, sending all his good-will into his hands. “But if you’d stolen something valuable, they’d’ve cut them off instead, even though you’re of noble birth.” The man stirred beneath his touch. “I’d bet you stole food. You’ve been on a long journey, and a hard one, that’s plain. Whatever has happened to you, you can’t count on your old ways, or on the brotherhood of your fellow nobles. If there is such a thing.” Elisha edged around the pillar, sitting shoulder to shoulder with his prisoner.
Again the prisoner turned his face away.
“Why do you any favors?” Elisha asked of the night. “To prove to God and man that I’m no killer.” He leaned over and found a few millet seeds not sprouted, rolling them between his fingers. “Yes, I am a witch. It doesn’t make me evil any more than does the fact that you’re a thief.”
That brought his head up, his dormant pride sneaking back in. “Don’t speak of what you do not understand.”
“It’s good advice, my friend,” Elisha said, closing his hand over a seed and opening it to reveal an egg, “but it cuts both ways, wouldn’t you say?”
The lashes flickered as a wary glance came his way. “Where’d you get that egg?”
Holding up another seed, Elisha pictured it similarly transformed, and let the new egg rock in his palm.
“Get away from me with those.” He used the loosened bonds to push himself toward the dog, turning his back to Elisha, the rope shifting against his wrists.
“Don’t you think, if I wanted to kill you, I’d have a better way than a couple of eggs?” Elis
ha set the eggs down, then ripped one sleeve from his shirt—he’d have had to explain the slash and the blood anyhow, might as well put the thing to use. Taking the man’s arm, he exposed one hand, the taut muscles resisting and finally submitting. He carefully cleaned away the ooze from each wound, steadying the injured hands as much with his presence as the physical touch, sending comfort, trust, calm through the contact.
“What’re you doing?” the man demanded, but his voice showed that weariness again, and his sense of defeat flowed through his skin. He’d been weary at the duke’s hall, but nothing like this, as if that party had been the final humiliation.
“Cleaning the wounds, then I’ll make a poultice from the eggs. It would be better if I’d not lost my herbs, but this should—” He broke off, considering.
“What? What is it?” Tension flooded the contact.
“I thought I saw some vines by the door. I wondered if they’re roses.”
Automatically, the man began, “No, that’s—” and stopped himself, his body going rigid, his skin trembling against Elisha’s.
Elisha looked up, the warmth of the other man’s hand cupped against his palm. “It’s your house, isn’t it?” Duke Randall had mentioned the royal family giving up the lodge, but he hadn’t said the name of its new owner.
Again, the head drooped. “The doors were all bolted, and I didn’t have the heart to break the locks.”
“Or the strength,” Elisha murmured, rubbing egg white gently over the brands.
The man gave a bitter laugh more a movement than a sound. “You’re a clever man, Elisha Barber. It’s no wonder you were able to kill him.”
“I told you I meant nothing by it.” Deftly, he wound strips from his shirt around the injured hands. “Take care, would you? Don’t try to kill anyone until your hands have a chance to heal.”
Another laugh, a little closer to a sob.
Elisha sat back and considered the man before him. He was tall but gaunt, now, with whatever grief he carried. His birth showed in his speech and carriage, even in defeat, and in the fabric of the torn clothes he wore, ruined though they were. The calluses on both hands took the pattern common to soldiers, but without the ground-in dirt also common. He was more than a captain, then. He wore no shoes—too easy to sell when you needed money—but his bare feet looked worn out. Unlike Elisha, he wasn’t used to walking unshod.
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