Elisha Magus (18 page)

B
rigit was coming,
seeking the talisman. Elisha reached out through his awareness, infusing it with death and tragedy and the memories of that day, crafting a false impression of the talisman itself. Brigit hesitated, her search turning aside at the clues that he provided. He could hear her approach now and scrambled to his feet, turning, at first holding out his ruined blade, then scowling as he thrust it back into his belt. No matter what he knew of Death and of Brigit, he could not kill her, for the child’s sake if not her own.

She came along the path, a lantern in her hand that cast writhing shadows across her face and figure. Seeing him, she stopped short, raising the light, adding its glow to that of the guttering torch the
indivisi
had left behind.

“There’s no point pretending surprise,” he said, squaring his shoulders.

But Brigit did not even attempt it. “Oh, dear Elisha!” she cried and sprang forward, the lantern held aloft. “I was so afraid he’d kill you—then he said you’d escaped. I was never so relieved.” She was beaming as she came to him. Her free hand reached out and trailed across his throat, a touch that shivered his flesh with heat. “You’re hurt.”

He smacked her hand away. “No surprise there, either, Brigit. You hired the men who tried to rape Rosalynn and strangle me. Did you tell them my past, so they’d know how to scare me? Did you give them some help from the rope that hanged me?”

Her green eyes gleamed with tears as she brought her hand to her own lips—as if his blow had injured her, too. “They weren’t to hurt you. Neither of you. Threats, only! I’m sure my orders—”

“Were to do whatever it took to make me use the talisman. Stop it, Brigit, just stop.” He folded his arms, angry at himself for the way she still moved him, for good or ill. Any time she made him feel, she showed her power over him. He was the one who had to stop.

She swallowed hard, her pale skin and exposed throat making her seem vulnerable. Again, she reached for him. “Teach me, Elisha, please. Teach me as once I taught you.”

This time, he seized her hand, turning it to reveal the scrape on her palm. “Did you not see enough? Didn’t your blood show you every horror?”

“I know you’ve hidden it around here.” She did not draw away, but let his grip bring her closer. “I saw,” she murmured. “I felt, but I did not understand. There was cold … a darkness.” She shook her head, biting her lip as she looked for words. “I remembered all that from when you first shared it with me—”

“I never. It was you who came, like a crow to a corpse. You who made me see what it was I carried.”

“Yes, you’re right.” Brigit tipped her head from him, letting the lantern down to her side, her face shadowed. “I am so sorry for all the pain I’ve caused you.”

“And the hanging rope? Dragging me down for your lord’s pleasure? Are you sorry for that as well?”

At that, she frowned. “Just a memory. I didn’t believe it would really be strong enough to hold you. Not you.” She touched his arm, a shy stroke.

Elisha seized her to him and savagely kissed her, one hand cupping her head, the other snaked behind her, searching, drawn by the echo of his own pain embedded in the hanging rope. He steeled himself and snatched the rope from her belt even as she opened her lips to him, drawing him closer. Then he let himself remember. She wanted him closer, she wanted him to share—and share he did: the full force of the hanging rope.

He remembered terror that tore into his throat, the wrenching of his head as he was yanked upward and the tearing skin of his wrists as he struggled to free himself. He cataloged the darkness that throbbed over his vision, the desperation of his cries, even the feel of grass dropping from his bare toes as he kicked and fought for life. Brigit went rigid in his arms, breaking the kiss. He remembered how it felt to see her that day, to believe that she was coming to save him, the dread upon his heart when he knew she came to watch him die.

Brigit hit him, pounding against his chest, fighting away from his cruel embrace. She panted as she wiped her mouth, blinking back tears and shaking.

“Just a memory,” he said bitterly, the taste of her upon his lips for the last time. He wrapped his fist around the few inches of hanging rope, a single strand of what must have been three at least. She had divided it, for future use.

Staring at him, still stunned, she asked, “Is that—was that—how it was for you?”

“Worse.” The rope in his own hand still had power—but it was a power too easy to twist against him. He stepped away, holding the scrap to the torch’s flame, wincing as, for a moment, his own skin flared. “Where’s the rest?”

“I don’t have it here,” she stammered. “If I had known—I’m sorry.”

Tense from his jaw to his toes, Elisha waited for her to twist the apology, to append her excuse, but she remained silent, her hair and cloak fluttering in the night breeze. For a moment he remembered how she came to him at what he then believed to be his darkest hour, bound to the whipping post, waiting to hang. She came to him with passion and hope, fulfilling his desires both body and soul, taking his child into herself. And the next morning, she came to watch him die.

“I told him not to kill you—I begged him, Elisha.”

“So you can use me to gather the other magi.” With an effort, Elisha let go and stood his ground, neither retreating nor giving in to the temptation to touch her again. “You should go. You will not get what you want.”

“I want you.” Her chin shot up, her eyes afire with lamplight. “I want you to join me. You watched my mother die, Elisha, and you hated yourself because you couldn’t help her then. You can help her now, by bringing her dream to fruition. A kingdom where magi work and live without fear. You’ve not been one of us for very long, but you know what it could mean.” She came to him again and laid her fingers on the back of his hand. “
We should not be killed for what we are, what we can do.
”

A land where witches need not fear? It was a pretty thought—but he thought, too, of all the witches he had met, those who derided the
indivisi
, those who refused to aid his healing of Mordecai because he was a Jew. Would the nation fare better with magi on the throne, with a woman on the throne who would betray her lover for her own ends? Two lovers, come to that. He thought instead of Thomas, alone somewhere in the darkness, and quickly brushed the thought aside before it could manifest in his emotions. “We should not be killed for it, no. Neither should we be crowned for it. Do you think an uprising of witches will convince the common folk to trust us, never mind the barons?”

Her brow furrowed, and she shook her head. “You would preach caution, then? Hiding in the shadows as we have done, hoping one day the
desolati
will suddenly find how helpful and friendly we’ve been?”

“Rather than seize the throne through underhanded means? Yes, I think I would.”

For an instant, he thought she understood too much. “I am marrying it; there’s nothing underhanded in that. It is the greatest moment our people have ever reached. My mother thought she could influence the court as the queen’s companion, a tutor to princes. Instead, they put her to flames.” A jolt of anger shot through their contact. With it came the terrible vision, a woman the very image of Brigit bound to a stake while fire sprang up all around her. She grew magical wings, only to be struck full of arrows. Elisha turned the image away and stepped back from her, breaking the touch.

“You see, Elisha! You know what they’ll do to us!” Her hand became a fist, trembling in the air between them. “Join us, Elisha, join your people. If you are with us, we cannot lose.”

“You speak as if there’s a war at hand—I’m no warrior.”

“You need only stand at our side and show your strength. Who will dare defy us, with your power at our command?”

Yet Morag wielded so much more. Elisha shivered. “I will not kill for you.”

“For all of us! You talk as if there’s only yourself at risk here. I thought you worked for others, to help anyone who has need of you. We need you. Every witch that walks the earth, every witch unborn. You have an awful power, Elisha. So does every man who wields a blade. Will you run from it? Will you cower behind it? Or will you claim it and make it your own?” Her hand snatched strength from the air. “Will you wield it to defend your people?”

Her words rang inside of him, speaking to everything he thought that he believed. And yet, there was one thing he could not believe: Brigit herself. It wasn’t Thomas who sought to kill his father and claim the throne. Yet somebody had. Somebody hired a physician as poisoner, somebody gave away the king’s secrets, maneuvering the king into place for an assassination that Elisha himself unwittingly carried out. Did Brigit know? Or did she really believe that Thomas was the traitor?

Elisha spread his senses, carefully, lightly. Deliberately, he made contact, touching her face, smoothing back her hair, softening the words that he must speak, and searching for the truth. “Even if he regrets trying to kill me, Brigit, I can serve no king I cannot trust.”

“Alaric will be swayed by me, given time.” Then her face hardened. “It’s not Alaric,” she snapped, “It’s me. You despise me, and so you turn your back upon our people. You would burn every witch in the kingdom if it meant they’d kill me, too!” Tears shimmered at her eyes and fell upon his thumb. Her lips trembled. “How many times must I apologize? How many times must I crawl to you, Elisha, before you relent?” Her tears touched him with anguish, her skin quivered with righteous pain, her muscles tensed, just a little, with the truth she tried to hide, deflecting his attention from Alaric back to her. He could not tell if she loved Alaric, but she knew her prince, knew what he was capable of and what he’d done. And Elisha could feel his horses drawing nearer. If Alaric caught him here, with her, there’d be one execution, that was certain. A swift death, a gravedigger, a mancer’s blade. Elisha’s skin shivered.

“I can never be what you want.”

“Every witch who dies now dies for you.”

He walked away, trying not to hurry, her words stinging him, burning in the place where her mother’s wing had touched him long ago.

“Brigit!” called a voice that echoed in the night, and Elisha heard her gasp. She had been so focused on him that she hadn’t looked for any other. Elisha seized the moment, certain she would turn toward that familiar voice, and ran, sprinting for the nearest broken house and ducking behind the leaning door, his heart racing. Insensitive Brigit had missed her own betrothed’s approach, surely she would overlook Elisha’s presence? He wished he could let his awareness spread to feel as well as hear what they would say—but she would know if he did, and he dared not draw back her eye. He hid behind the door, trembling with each shallow breath. As he mastered himself, he practiced the skill of deflection, drawing upon the law of opposites: his presence implied the chance of his absence. He seized now upon this idea, suggesting that he had gone, erasing any trace of himself that might be felt by another.

Through the narrow gap, he saw Brigit turn about, scanning around her, searching for him, her face furrowed with shadows. She whirled back as hoof beats echoed into the square. “Alaric!” she squeaked as the prince dropped down from his mount, a few guards stamping their horses to a halt behind, lanterns casting bands of light that swung as they moved, making Elisha vaguely ill.

“I told you not to leave the abbey, Brigit,” Alaric said, catching her arms, “not when the barber might get his accursed talisman.”

“He wouldn’t kill me, my prince.”

“What happened to Ian and Patric?”

Elisha could hear her smile. “They’re good men, your highness. They obey my orders, even if those orders are to remain behind. I can’t get anything done while I am tended so diligently. But you did not come here to argue with me.” Her shoulders softened, her body melting toward Alaric, as once she had melted toward Elisha. “Come, let us reconcile.”

“My love,” Alaric said, stroking back her hair, “you are not meant to accomplish anything. I am king—as good as, in any event. All you need do is show our people what an excellent queen you will be.” He kept stroking in spite of the way her posture drew up, her shoulders squaring again beneath his touch. “And take care with our baby.” His hand moved down her side, a gesture at once intimate and commanding. If Alaric thought Brigit would respond to any of this, he was a fool.

“Go on,” Alaric called out. “Establish a perimeter.”

“Aye, Highness!” Mortimer gestured sharply at the soldiers, directing them with his hands until each moved off in a different direction, one passing the corner of the house where Elisha was hiding.

“Do you know where the barber is or how he was taken? Was that your doing?”

Brigit gazed up at him. “I was as surprised as you—but his escape gives you a chance to reconsider. You cannot think you will be strong enough alone to take and keep this throne. Even Dunbury only supports you because he can’t be sure about Thomas. If Thomas gets to him—or to the other barons—”

“Thomas won’t be a problem much longer. I have other allies, allies your friends wouldn’t like. I had hoped your barber might provide a balance against them.” Alaric gave a shrug. “As it is, I must hope they don’t know that.”