Elisha Magus (2 page)

A
n hour later,
cleaned and clad in borrowed silks and a mask the duke had left for him, Elisha prowled into the ball, to look for his would-be killer. He felt awkward at events like this, which should be reserved for the nobility, worried that his low-born ways would offend some lord or other, in spite of the duke’s warm welcome. A banner of the king’s arms hung over the main door—a bit premature, given that Prince Alaric had not yet been crowned. Just below that hung a second banner marked with the French fleur-de-lis, a sign of welcome for the prince’s foreign guests, at the ball given to impress them with the king-apparent and his solidarity with the duke whose castle hosted them all.

Elisha’s mask pressed against his nose and cheeks, but he tried to keep from rubbing at it. Arches supported galleries down both sides of the Great Hall and sheltered the local nobility—knights, ladies, children who took up the benches or played beneath them, leaving the center of the floor clear for dancing all the way up to the raised table where Duke Randall sat with his guests as they finished their meal. Elisha’d been invited to the feast but declined, giving the funeral as his excuse and taking a cold slice of meat pie in the kitchen on his way out. Now, the scent of roasted onions dripping with beef gravy made him regret the choice—except for the company. Likely someone at that very table had hired out for his death.

“Are you the man who killed the king?” whispered a sly voice at Elisha’s elbow.

He jerked, turning away from the spectacle of the ball to squint into the murk around him. He ought to have felt anyone’s approach, but the accursed itching of his leather mask had distracted him. A small figure stood nearby, shifting one foot to the other, its face concealed by a mask with a grotesque nose. He sensed no menace, but a sort of eagerness instead. Glowering into the flickering torchlight, ignoring the swirling music and laughter around them, Elisha replied, “I am Elisha Barber.” Not quite an answer, nor an evasion.

“Very good,” purred the unseen mouth. “I speak for someone who has need of you.”

“Sorry, I’ve been hired by the duke.” Elisha sent a tendril of his awareness toward the hovering figure, seeking a deeper sense of the emotions behind the mask. Aside from the nervousness clear enough in the little man’s movements, he felt little. Chances were he simply did not know enough about the man to interpret him. At least he seemed an unlikely assassin.

“Yes, well, some are prepared to offer you the sort of wealth and standing the duke has little taste for.”

Uncomfortable beneath the eerie gaze of the bulbous mask, Elisha replied, “I’ve little enough taste for it myself, sir.”

The man raised his hands in a placatory gesture. “Think about it, Barber. What do you have a taste for? Women, perhaps?”

At that, Elisha laughed. After what happened with the last woman who interested him, he was hardly looking for another go.

With a darting glance around, the figure leaned closer. “Or perhaps boys? We are open-minded.”

Shaking his head, Elisha said, “There’s nothing you could offer me—and you’ve not even told me what you want.”

“We understand you are a man of many talents.” The man’s accented voice reminded Elisha of the speech of the nobles, but his clothing was not so rich, his shoes well-worn. A garter with a little spear-like emblem hung a bit low on his leg beneath an over-sized tunic. “You would earn the gratitude of many,” the man said.

A chill shivered Elisha’s shoulders, and he crossed his arms, flimsy silk sleeves rubbing on the rich velvet doublet. “Who are you?”

“A messenger.” The man gave an eloquent shrug, then the nose suddenly swung to the side. “I should talk with you later,” he said, the words a little rushed.

Elisha felt a growing warmth to his left hand and smiled, sensing a friend’s approach through the magical link they shared. “I wouldn’t bother.”

With a tiny bob of acknowledgement, the figure slid away into the darkness as the surgeon Mordecai drew up to Elisha’s shoulder, his unmasked face looking pale and strange in contrast with the colorful masks around them. “What’s that, Elisha?”

Frowning after the dim cloaked shape, Elisha wondered how the man had recognized him. Then he realized: the duke likely hadn’t heard yet about the attempt on his life and had no reason not to point him out. His heart sank. Not only would he never locate his target in this crowd, it was just as likely the archer already knew where he was. In which case, only the crowd kept him from striking again. “I am unused to being a wanted man—aside from those who want me dead.”

“I heard what happened in the churchyard.” The sense of Mordecai’s presence turned a shade concerned. He brushed his hand over Elisha’s, and the next words echoed through Elisha’s skin.
“As for this, you’ve worked a powerful magic, the sort that makes the lords take notice, one way and another.”

“
His master seems ready to offer me whatever I want, in exchange for unspecified services. I thought the nobles hated us.
”

With a wrinkle of his graying eyebrows, Mordecai replied without sound
, “They both hate and envy us, and more than a few depend upon the power of a magus.”
He gave a nod toward the head table. Beyond the refuse of a rich meal, Randall, the Duke of Dunbury sat listening to his guest of honor. On the other side sat his wife, Duchess Allyson, a highly respected magus who had loaned her power to that impossible healing a month ago when he had stitched Mordecai’s hand back on, rejoining flesh and bone and creating the bond between himself and his mentor.

Elisha glanced away from the dark-haired duchess to the young, self-declared king, Prince Alaric, who held forth on God knew what despite the evident irritation in the duke’s posture. From the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of the lady who sat beside Alaric: Brigit, Alaric’s betrothed. Elisha drew a deep breath, and let it out with a quiver of pain. His right cheek warmed as if her hand rested there, atop the mark her mother had placed in that same spot when he was a boy; had placed with the infinite wonder of her outstretched wing, before the fire claimed her.

With a sigh, Mordecai shook his head. “Many cures I’ve made, but that you must heal for yourself,” he said aloud, breaking the contact of their skin.

Hoping his thoughts had not been too obvious, Elisha asked suddenly, “Do you know why they burned her mother?”

At this, Mordecai’s eyebrows rose. “You don’t know? Suppose not,” he answered his own question. “She’d been the queen’s lady in waiting. Queen died, king found her out, a witch so close to his wife.”

“King Hugh, again.”

“Really don’t know politics, do you?” asked Mordecai dryly. “Best start learning, or you’ll not last in this world.”

Breathing in the scents of gravy and good wine, Elisha admitted, “It has its attractions, but I don’t know that I want to be a part of this world.”

“Not sure you’ll have the option.” The surgeon’s dark, damp gaze settled gravely on Elisha’s face. “Take care.”

“Don’t I always?”

Elisha felt the answering ripple of laugher in the air around him. He could not feel most men this way, but since he had healed Mordecai, they shared a bond beyond even those of other magi. Not that Elisha had been one long enough to know what to expect. Still, his sensitivity extended beyond his skin, and he felt someone approaching, an unfamiliar touch. He flashed back to the little man in the bulbous mask, who had bid him a hasty farewell before Mordecai arrived. The little man was a magus—one both sensitive enough to feel the surgeon’s approach and powerful enough to conceal his own nature. Elisha had dismissed the messenger too soon in his eagerness to seek out an assassin instead. He spun away from Mordecai, scanning the crowd around them, but the little man was nowhere to be seen.

“That emissary, he was a witch,” Elisha murmured, but Mordecai cut him off with a gesture, and they turned as one to the newcomer.

Clad in a light gown of blue that neither emphasized nor concealed her ample bosom, the woman wore the mask of a bird, done in painted leather complete with exotic feathers twisting back over her dark hair.

Both men bowed, and the lady nodded in acknowledgement then held out her hand, palm down, to Elisha, who sucked in a quick breath. He felt the stirring of Mordecai’s silent chuckle, and Elisha reddened beneath his mask.

He took the lady’s hand on his palm, with the lightest possible touch, and bowed over it, blowing a tiny breath across her knuckles in the acceptable substitute for a kiss he was not worthy to bestow. Through the contact, he felt curiosity, attraction, and irritation in a strange jumble. Frowning, Elisha slipped his hand from hers. “To what do we owe the honor, my lady?” he asked, using the plural despite the fact that her attention was clearly all his own.

“My father speaks so highly of you, Elisha Barber, and I have cause to wonder why. I’ve not been home two days now, yet I’ve heard more about you than the rest of the battle and all his retainers combined. Why so?”

Elisha swallowed, leaned away from her, and shot a worried glance at Mordecai. This was Lady Rosalynn, the duke’s daughter, whose denunciation by Prince Alaric had brought on the battle.

“
You seem safe enough now
,” Mordecai said in a touch. “
At least from certain death.
” With the tiniest of smiles, he bowed his head. “My lady, if you’ll excuse me.”

When she curtseyed his dismissal, Mordecai went off with a lively step and left a wake of humor in the air.

Bristling, Elisha turned back to her. In his moment of inattention, she had slipped the mask from her face, and wiped sweat from below her eyes with two careful fingers. Rather he assumed it was sweat until he caught the flash of wetness in her dark eyes. Every line of her plump features showed her broken heart. How long could he look on her without his own becoming clear?

“I saved the life of the Earl of Blackmere, my lady, during the battle, when I was still in the king’s service.”

With a rough gesture, she pulled her mask back into place, folding her hands together. “Yes, I heard that story, from Lord Robert, in fact. He seems vastly amused by the fact that he held a sword to your throat for mistakenly thinking you would kill the earl. Now, he acts as if you are the best of friends, despite the fact that you are a barber and he is of noble birth. It was he who told me where to find you. None of which explains why my father should take such a liking to you, unless the rumors are true? That you are responsible for King Hugh’s death, and thus my father’s deliverance?”

She had her father’s rounded features and shape, together with her mother’s taller stature and a prattling tone Elisha could blame on neither parent. Perhaps it was no wonder Alaric had determined to put her aside. Of course, Rosalynn could never compete with Brigit in any case, no more than Elisha himself could compete with Alaric for Brigit’s affections.

“Some rumors are more true than others, my lady,” he said, tucking the silk cord that bound his cuff back into his sleeve.

She made a sharp noise, and the beak of the bird mask lifted as if it might poke his eye out. “I see. You are awfully brash for a low-born living off a duke’s sufferance. Tell me, are you not enjoying my father’s generosity?”

Elisha replied, “I am grateful for my position here, my lady.”

“But I didn’t see you at the head table, and I’ve not noticed you dancing.”

He could hardly explain to Rosalynn, of all people, why he couldn’t bring himself to dine at a table with the royal couple, so he pounced instead on the second query. “As you say, my lady, I am low-born. This music doesn’t suit me, and I don’t know the dances of court.”

Tilting her bird’s head, Rosalynn lifted her shoulders. “I know them, but I don’t care for them, either. The past few months, I’ve been at my brother’s estate near Lincoln. They’ve got no proper musicians there but have to depend upon the local fiddlers.”

Heavens, Elisha thought, nobles forced to dance to common music.

“If I can get them to change the tune, will you dance with me?”

“My lady, I’m not a fit partner for—”

“You are favored by my father, and that will see you through tonight, so long as you do not take advantage.” As if she had crushed her sadness with sudden strength, Rosalynn thumped a fist onto her hip. “I have a mind to cause a stir for this king and all his fancy entourage.”

Hiking up her flowing skirts, Rosalynn crossed the floor in rapid, manly strides, though the view he had of her was anything but masculine. She cut this way and that among the dancers, certain to be noticed although she took care not to interrupt any of the sets. Her mother spotted her from the head table and got a familiar little frown upon her face; the young prince turned slightly more pale but did not turn his head. And there was Brigit. If he danced with Rosalynn, the stir would be more than sufficient. He considered slipping off into the shadows, perhaps even retreating to his little chamber near the castle infirmary.

Then he thought of the tears in Rosalynn’s eyes. She wanted to be daring, to dance with a peasant at her father’s feast and pretend the gilded presence of the prince meant as little to her as hers did to him. During the battle, Elisha had the impression that theirs had been a match of power, not of love. Still, the prince had no right to wound her. He had no right to get his father into the battle that had left King Hugh dead. The younger prince pressed his own claim over that of his elder brother, Thomas, since finding evidence that Thomas had plotted their father’s death. Faced with a choice between a liar and a traitor, Duke Randall supported the liar. But how would Alaric make any better king than his father, if he would break a vow and start a war over a woman? If this was politics, Elisha wanted little part in it.