Elisha Magus (9 page)

E
lisha 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?” Elisha 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.

After a moment, Elisha set his fingers to the knots and untied them, lifting the rope from the man’s chest, easing his arms forward, the newly bandaged hands draped in his lap. He came around to study the young lord’s face, turned away in shadows, always averted as if he feared being recognized. He had dodged the question of his name once before; Elisha would not ask again now. “Look, they’ve got supper on inside. Will you let me bring you a meal?”

E
lisha ducked into
the kitchen, watching out for the low beams, dangling with betony and primrose—both said to be proof against witches, he noted wryly. The scent of rich beef stew reminded him he hadn’t eaten in quite a while.

A handful of soldiers gathered around the table with Rosalynn at the head, full bowls in front of them. She pushed back when she saw him, her face brightening, then going dark. “What’s happened to your shirt?”

He turned away, hiding his fresh wound, to fill a bowl from the pot hanging over the coals. “I used it to bind the dog’s ribs. He’d come awake and clawed at me, so the thing was torn up anyhow. I had to put him back out to deal with him.”

Ian gave a hearty laugh. “Aye, he’s a feisty one, then. He’ll fetch me a fine price if I can’t find the owner.”

“For a dog? All of this for a dog?” Rosalynn dabbed at her mouth with the only napkin in sight. They’d given her a napkin. Her hair was combed, and her dress held with a few pins. Evidently, the soldiers were upholding their bargain. “You should see the rest of the house. It’s lovely, but it’s clear nobody’s lived here for a long while. The whole place needs to be cleaned, and I haven’t any idea how to go about it without my maidservant.”

“You’ll get on fine, I’m sure.” Elisha smiled inwardly, suddenly eager to escape again to his wary captive and the silent Cerberus. With that thought, he plucked another bowl from the mantel and filled that as well.

“What’d you need two bowls for?” Rosalynn asked as he turned.

“Well, we don’t want the dog to go hungry, do we?” He looked to Ian, got his approval and more.

“Get a bigger bowl, then,” Ian ordered. “That’s a mighty beast we’ve got ourselves.”

Following the command, Elisha poured the contents of one bowl into another three times bigger and topped it up. “Maybe I’d best stay with him—make sure he recovers.”

“You can’t mean to sleep in a barn!” Rosalynn set her hands on her hips, but Elisha stared at her, then gave a little tip of his head, drawing her close.

“I’m looking for a copper pot that would just fit in this bowl,” he told her softly. “It’s got a sealed lid. It’s what I came here for. While you clean, will you look for me? I’ll be looking outside.”

Her eyes brightened with a conspiratorial smile. “I see. Of course.”

Elisha met Rosalynn’s gaze and mouthed the word “courage.” She lifted her chin and looked away. “I’ll see you in the morning then,” she remarked over her shoulder, not noticing the speculative glances that passed between the soldiers. They thought he was her leman. All the better if it meant they would leave her alone. Before taking up the bowls again, he tucked a half-loaf from the table under his arm and carried his booty out the door.

He entered the open end of the barn, carefully bearing the hot bowls toward the back.

The man started up, scrambling to his feet, his right hand flying automatically to his hip.

“Just me, the murderous witch,” Elisha said, with a slight smile. “If you want anyone to think you’re a beggar, you should be ducking your head rather than going for your sword.”

The man straightened, a deal taller than Elisha, then sank back to his knees, staring as Elisha set the huge bowl before him. “How on earth—?”

“It’s supposed to be for Cerberus, so you’d best share with him.” Elisha ripped the bread in two and handed some over.

As the man reached out to take it, he looked up, his eyes a vivid blue beneath their overlay of pain, his hand shaking. His eyebrows pinched together, and he let his gaze drop.

For a moment, their fingers brushed together. A rush of gratitude flowed through Elisha like the glory of that sunset, sweeping away the last of his doubts and his worries about what was to come. Suddenly, he understood what made monks give away all they had, and what made the nuns work so hard in the hospitals. Others might work for the glory of God or the glory of the church, but sometimes, it was enough to make a difference to one man, even for just one evening.

Settling at a pillar opposite the stranger, Elisha slowly ate about half of his stew. He set the bowl aside and turned a blind eye when Cerberus’s questing muzzle dipped in. Meditatively, he chewed on his bread, letting one hand stroke the dog’s coarse fur. “You weren’t with the king’s army, then.”

Glancing up, his mouth full, the man shook his head. “Up north,” he said, taking a bite of bread.

“With Prince Thomas.”

The man jerked, his gaze suddenly sharper. “The traitor.”

“So I’m told. Are you sworn to kill him, too?” Elisha asked lightly, surprised by the twist to the man’s lips.

“An enemy of the king is an enemy of mine.” The stranger raised his bowl to take another swallow.

“I take it my life is forfeit when you’ve finished dinner?” Elisha crossed his legs, leaning back against a pillar.

“I’ve not decided yet.” Another swallow finished the bowl, and he cast a guilty look at Cerberus, who lay content enough. No doubt the dog had been able to supplement his diet with rats and other wild things his master would have disdained. Settling himself, the man said, “I confess I don’t know what to make of you. You killed the king, and with witchcraft, both capital offenses in this country, yet apparently you’re free and happy in the company of the duke and his daughter.”

“Perhaps we are neither of us what we seem,” Elisha replied, rubbing his arms.

The man shook his head, tangled hair wreathing his shadowed face. “You don’t know who I am?”

“A nobleman—or you were—on the run, for some reason. The king’s man, the owner of this house. What else should I know?”

The stranger drew back a little, and asked a question of his own instead. “Are you cold?”

Self-consciously, Elisha dropped his hands, but the gooseflesh showed plain enough, even in the dim light. “I’m always cold. A man doesn’t invite Death and expect it to leave again without a trace.”

The man gave a low whistle and a toss of his head.

Ears perked, Cerberus rose and padded over, draping himself against Elisha’s side.

Wriggling his fingers into the dense fur, Elisha felt the warmth of life and company. The dog was all this man had left, and still he sent him to comfort another. “Thanks.”

A half-shrug. “You say that it’s hard to cast a spell on a creature of will.”

“Nearly impossible, unless his will is bent to helping the witch.”

The stranger looked away, drawing up his knees and hugging them. “I don’t know that I believe you. Or that I want to.”

“You’ve had dealings with witches before.”

“A long time ago.”

Edging back from the chill in his voice, Elisha asked instead, “Tell me about Cerberus. It’s a strange name.”

This brought a small chuckle and a shake of the head. “You don’t know Greek legends?”

Irritated to be caught again in his ignorance, Elisha said, “Well, I don’t have much call for that in my line of work.”

Instantly, the stranger’s manner changed, the haughtiness turning to contrition, his hands falling aside in apology. “Of course, of course. It’s the name of the dog who guards the gates of Hell.”

Turning to Cerberus, Elisha remarked, “Then you watch out for me, I’ll be bound there some day soon.” He scratched the long muzzle, receiving a contented sigh. The dog’s presence drew away the cold, replacing it with a warmth of more than simply life, of friendship. “Did you raise him?”

“Yes.” Pride evident, then sorrow. “The puppy was a wedding gift.”

Keeping his eyes on the dog, Elisha felt the wave of grief and worry begin to rise all over again. “I didn’t realize you were married,” he said quietly.

“Anna’s dead,” the stranger whispered. “They’re all dead, all of the women who loved me.” Huddled there, wrapped up in himself, the man looked more like a child than either lord or beggar, a child who found his way home only to discover that home no longer held any comfort for him.

Quietly, Elisha said, “I don’t know how long we’ll be here, or how I will be leaving, but, if I am able, I’ll leave the door open for you.”

The stranger drew a ragged breath and looked away. Then his head sank to his arms, and his shoulders quaked as the tears finally fell.

Cerberus raised his head, and Elisha lifted his hand. They rose together and crossed the few paces.

Once again, this man had touched him, the torrent of his sorrow stemmed for just a moment and released by Elisha’s offer. Elisha didn’t know how to approach grief of this magnitude and mystery. He had no more words—even his attempt at kindness brought only more pain. It seemed ages ago when he had spoken to Mordecai, when he knew him as a magus called “Sage,” pouring out his frustration, and Mordecai had answered him, “
Each of us is as God has made us, cursed and blessed in equal measure.
”

Cerberus sank his belly to the floor and burrowed his nose in his master’s lap.

After a moment, Elisha sat down, his arm brushing against the stranger’s. His fingers laced together in his lap, Elisha leaned his head back against the post. He shut his eyes and searched for peace. Cursed and blessed.

Instead of attuning himself to this place, the sounds and scents of the barn and all it held, he attuned it to him, reaching out to draw on the familiar scent of hay and the warmth of the dog’s steadfastness. He found again the glory of the sunset and the wonder of the moon, and took strength from the beauty all around them. He softened this strength with that familiarity and comfort, and let it all seep from him into the other man, a silent current of faith that swirled into the other’s pain. As he had done when he danced with Rosalynn, he did not try to guide it but sent it on with all of his good wishes, the only gift he had.

Eventually, the torch guttered and died, a trail of smoke drifting their way.

The man’s sobs, too, died away. He breathed deeper and let it out without that rough edge. After a while, he raised his head, expelling a long breath into the night. “My God.” His shoulders shifted back. “I hardly know who I am anymore.”

In spite of himself, Elisha laughed, just a little, with that bittersweet air. “I know just what you mean.”

And the other man laughed, just a little. “I’m glad I didn’t kill you.”

“Not as glad as I am.”

Another laugh. “Aren’t you supposed to go in some time? The duke’s daughter is waiting for you.”

“No, not for me, nor for any man, I think, thanks to the one who wouldn’t have her.”

“That bastard,” cursed the cultivated voice.

So perhaps he’d guessed right about the man’s attraction. Elisha smiled into the darkness. “A king’s man, but not a prince’s?”

He laughed again, longer, and with a suggestion of real humor Elisha had not felt in him before. “No,” he said at last, “Not that prince.” He yawned.

“You two should get some sleep,” Elisha said.

When he hesitated, the tension flowing back, Elisha added, “I’ll keep watch.”

With an awkward smile Elisha felt as a warmth against his skin, the other man said, “I should not trust you.”

“Probably not,” Elisha agreed. “But your dog does.”

“Yes, well, he’s rather daft, isn’t he?” Pushing the dog’s head from his lap, he got slowly to his feet and walked toward the far stall, his bare feet crackling straw and dirt. He placed a hand on the wood of the wall, bowing his head for a moment, a figure shown silver by the moon and stars. “You cannot possibly know what it means to me to feel safe, even just for tonight.” He tapped his fingers on the wood then slipped into the stall, the huge dog stalking after, with a wave of its tail.

Elisha’s throat ached. He settled on a mound of straw, trembling from the force of the other man’s emotions. Shaking himself free of the compulsion, he stretched out all of his senses. It seemed he could reach further every time, as if the exercise of the power made it stronger, like a muscle he had never known he possessed.

His awareness brushed the lives around him, light and serene. Four horses dozed in their stalls, whuffling in their sleep. A low fire burned in the kitchen, a lone man awake, prodding it to occupy his watch. Rosalynn tucked in an upstairs room, sleeping soundly. He could watch over her, even from here. It gave him a measure of comfort. Had she found anything in her search? That answer, and his own search, must wait the length of his promise. Outside, small animals prowled the night, something died silently, something else was born. He thought of Chanterelle sinking in the embrace of her beloved earth.

And in the last stall, a man slept curled against his one companion. Slept at last, for the first time in days. Elisha reveled in this, taking the power to comfort another even when his own situation was far from safe. Into the night, Elisha guarded the trust his spell had earned him, his simple spell of kindness.