Elisha Rex (23 page)

Over her head, Elisha could see Thomas's back, his broad shoulders slumped, his head tipped up and to one side, as if he watched the birds drifting across the sunset over his orchard.

“Did you come for the king, to kill him as you did his wife?”

Elisha flicked his gaze over her. “How hard you must study to perfect your acting. You know I did not kill her. What did you offer the mancers, Brigit, in exchange for your crown?”

“Come away, Brigit, there's no point to this,” said Briarrose.

“Answer the question, if you dare. We should all like to know what you are doing here.” The duke, with his wife's hand tucked over his elbow, stood by the house looking somehow stronger without his anger. Perhaps Allyson, magus that she was, channeled him some of her own quiet fortitude.

Elisha's toes curled a little into the dirt, but that availed him nothing against the chill of the oncoming evening. The tears in his tunic fluttered in the breeze like flags of surrender. Without his own full capacity, Elisha could not be sure how much of him Brigit was able to read, if the pregnancy increased her sensitivity enough to judge if he told her a lie. Elisha traced the shape of Thomas's too-distant form. “I was hoping to borrow a shirt; mine is rather the worse for wear.”

Brigit snorted, but Thomas half-turned, his hands hanging loose, the trace of a smile returning to his face. With the rosy light that stroked his tired cheek, Thomas seemed younger. Gently, he shook his head, just once, then ruffled back his hair as the smile faded away.

“Hello, friend,” Elisha whispered.

“What did you say?” Brigit thrust her chin forward.

“Truly, Highness, don't go any nearer,” offered the guard.

Trapped as he was, bound and now cornered, Elisha found himself at a loss for a plan of escape. But if Thomas could smile, if he could soften even so much, might there not be reason to hope? Elisha suddenly thought that if he had to break his hands to get free of the rope and crawl all the way to wherever they kept the king's daughter, he would do it. If once more he could see Thomas's smile, not the slender trace that remained today, but that rare and brilliant grin of pure delight.

“Don't you look at him,” Brigit hissed. “Don't you even raise your eyes to him or I swear I'll pluck them out and have them on toast. Even you cannot heal from that.”

She snatched her cloak up and marched back to where Thomas dallied, still in profile. He stared down at her, and she stroked her hand along his arm. “I know you'd like to have the city be witness when you bring back the killer, but it might be best to execute him quickly. He's more devious than we know, if he could get all the way here without our notice.”

“I've tried that already, my lady,” the duke put in. “His Majesty would rather not watch.”

Brigit arched a sharp eyebrow back at them, and pressed her cheek against Thomas's arm. “It must hurt you so, to face your betrayer,” she murmured.

The king spoke into the sunset. “I cannot recall when I last had a day without pain.”

The waiting horses misted the sky with their breath, and Thomas's words sank heavily upon Elisha's heart. When he had rescued his king, Elisha wept, for he could see no way to heal Thomas, even with his own death. He was tempted now, to offer it again, but if Elisha died, Brigit would be free to claim the crown she coveted, and to fulfill whatever dark bargain she had made. The pain gripped his belly, and Elisha bit down on the cry that stung his already hoarse throat.

A bark echoed from the stable, and Cerberus, Thomas's huge deerhound, clawed toward him, his leash clenched in Pernel's hands.

“Your Majesty,” the servant began, then his eyes caught Elisha's. His hands slipped, the dog bounding through the midst of the guards to Elisha's side with a yip of joy and a fierce slapping of his tail. His tongue sought Elisha's hands, slurping.

Elisha knotted his fingers through the dog's collar, and said, “River!” He flung one leg over the dog's strong back as Cerberus bounded away down the slope, bouncing and dragging Elisha along with him.

The startled cob looked up, dripping water, and gave a snort as the dog plunged in.

Shouting echoed down the hill. Elisha let go, splashing, whistling for his ugly, trusty mount. He got hold of the harness and dragged himself up, wrapping his fingers around leather.

The horse sprang into motion, as much escaping the guards who thundered down after them as obeying the kick of Elisha's feet. They galloped down the river, Elisha slopping around the horse's back, clinging for all he was worth, and Cerberus barking and dashing alongside, thrilled to be back in the hunt. Fire flared in Elisha's belly and he gasped, bent upon the horse's neck.

At a whistle from behind, Cerberus stopped, whimpering, and let Elisha ride on, dodging trees. As long as he was bound, he could cast no magic, but Brigit could follow. Clinging to the horse's mane, Elisha turned his horse toward the barrows—the barrows where Alaric died, a death he knew, a place to which he was already attuned. He gnawed at the rope as he rode, nearly falling more than once, forced to take the road once they found it. Here, he allowed the horse to slow, sitting up and groping for the knife in his medical pouch. Bouncing along, he wriggled his hands a few times before he was free, stuffing the rope under his belt and replacing the knife. The king's men would pursue him, and he could ride faster with his hands free.

As for Brigit, she would pursue him by other means. Once he had the reins, Elisha reached for the dead. They were fewer here in the forest, but bandits and travelers still rose up, ancient shades shimmered from the barrows, and he cantered through them, cloaking himself once more from the living. He felt the king's riders as they galloped past on their search, but they did not find him. Instead of fleeing as they must expect, Elisha found a hiding place that suited his need. Among the stones where Alaric died, Elisha rested and sent his awareness creeping over the land. He sought the princess with the warmth of her golden hair and the chill of the mother who died to defend her.

Long before dawn, he rode again, guided by her presence as a sailor by a star.

M
id-day found
the horse walking slow, leaving the course of the river and riding through ever more sparse trees until they crested a hill and looked down onto a farming valley, the fields rich with summer wheat, a few pigs prodded away from the harvest by their keepers. A rambling convent of stone and plaster buildings dominated the opposite hill, sharing space with a field of crosses, and Elisha knew he had come to the right place: the dead here felt familiar.

He dismounted awkwardly, knees quivering, and leaned against the horse for a moment. His gut throbbed now that he had released his numbness. Leading the cob beneath the porcelain sky, Elisha approached the convent, exchanging nods with a few nuns working outside. One of these rose from her work bench, dusting off her hands from the carving she worked over, and came to greet him at the gate, though she looked him up and down, brow furrowed.

“Good day to you, traveler.” The nun had dark, deep-set eyes and hands marked with layers of fine scars, as if she had taken a long time to learn her art or had been no stranger to knives.

“And to you, sister.” He made a slight bow. “I would ask the hospitality of your house for myself and my mount, for a few hours only. We've ridden through the night.”

“This way.” She waved her hand and a young woman in the simple robes of a novice accepted the reins and clucked up at the horse, her weary face brightening as she gazed into the animal's eyes.

“Had a long night, have you?” she murmured as they walked away.

Elisha smiled in her wake, and the nun beside him sighed. “God makes a place for each of us, my lord, those who work the fields and those who tend to all His creatures.”

“Myself, I am a surgeon.”

“Certes?” She set out into the gate, letting him follow beneath its murky shadow, and then she turned under a colonnade. “Trying to explain that wreck of a tunic, are you? Next time you steal a horse, take yourself a new shirt as well.”

Elisha floundered for a reply, but she walked on and brought him to an arched door, gesturing for him to enter. She walked briskly past him toward the broad fireplace at one end of the hall. Long tables and benches formed three rows pointing in that direction, with a handful of chairs at the end, and she brought him to one of these. “You'll want to warm up after your ride. We've already broken our fast, but some sustenance will be found. Wait here. I shall tell the prioress of your arrival.” Her robes brushed the floor as she left him.

Elisha collapsed onto the chair, facing the crackling fire. He dearly wished it made him feel warmer.

A series of shuttered windows marked the long wall that bordered on the central yard, letting in the sound of conversation and distant singing. Elisha shook off the nun's suspicions. Whatever she thought, he couldn't very well leave with his objective so near at hand. Someone here, among the nuns or their lay-men assistants, spied for the mancers, keeping watch over their hidden treasure. He wondered if the very door-warden might not be the one, hurrying even now to send a message of his curious arrival. Or perhaps she merely went to rouse the laborers to hold him until the aggrieved party in his obvious robbery arrived in pursuit. Self-consciously, Elisha rubbed at his neck, and thanked God that it was still intact.

“Worried about your neck, are you?”

Elisha jumped from the chair and spun, heart pounding.

A taller woman stood beside the gatekeeper, her narrow nose giving her the look of a bird. “Sister.” The prioress dropped the word like a stone into water.

The nun bowed her head and worked her fingers together into a semblance of propriety. “What is your will, Mother?”

“For whatever purpose he came, and from whatever he thinks to flee, I believe he asked the hospitality of a house of the Lord.” She never turned her sharp face from Elisha, nor did her voice soften as she spoke, and the nun shrank inside her habit. “Our pantry is open to all.”

“Yes, Mother.” She hurried off to the kitchen behind the fireplace as the prioress studied Elisha's face and figure.

Fine wrinkles edged the woman's pale eyes. Elisha tried to relax, though he could not bring himself to sit again without invitation. He gently unfurled his awareness through the floor and into the air around them, beginning the process of attunement. From here out, he must open himself to magic, and Brigit would be able to find him. Time trickled through his hourglass.

“Are you a thief?”

“No, Mother,” he answered automatically, then sighed. “Yes, Mother, in a manner of speaking.”

“A manner of speaking.” She unclasped her hands and tipped them outward. “This is the Lord's home as well as ours, sirrah, and He does not brook such dithering.”

Elisha's scalp prickled, and he pushed back the tangle of his hair. “If you want to know did I steal the horse, then the answer is yes, plain and simple. Though its owner was dead.”

For a time, they stared at one another. “Is anything about you plain or simple?”

Almost, Elisha wanted to smile. “Not anymore, Mother, but I was not always as you find me.”

“You told Sister Sabetha that you are a surgeon. Truth?”

At that, Elisha gave a slight bow. “You will find me—whatever else you find—to be a good surgeon.”

“Ah.”

Elisha's intestines pinched, and he pressed a hand to his stomach, then dragged it away again. When he raised his head, the prioress met his gaze. “What would God find?”

“A sinner.” The pain grew, and Elisha's knees trembled.

“Does He visit you now with pains, Sinner, that you recognize and repent of your sins?”

Elisha whispered hoarsely, “It was the hand of man, not God that dealt this blow.”

“Are we not all hands of God, whether we so believe or no, enacting His great plan for us?”

Her words echoed those of the archbishop, proclaiming him king. Elisha winced. “I didn't come to debate God's means or motives, Mother, but dearly I would like to sit.”

The eyebrows arched again, nearly invisible white bands of hair against her aged skin. “By all means, Sinner. Take what comfort the world has to offer. Still you shall find it wanting until you have allowed God both His means and His motives.”

Pain fogged out her words. A sudden cold burst through him, moving swiftly, and Elisha jerked upright, gasping. A shadowy figure, translucent against the flames, whirled from the fireplace, slapping at her habit. The shade of one long-dead, she mouthed voiceless screams and fell through him. Elisha stumbled out of his chair and floundered a few feet away, out of the path of the restless spirit as invisible fire consumed her. She vanished, and he braced himself to see it all again.

“What have you come for, Sinner?” The prioress's voice boomed through the chamber. “You admit your thievery. What will you steal from us? From the Lord's own house?”

“Nothing!” he shouted, one arm pressed to his ear. “Nothing,” he repeated as he sank to his knees. “Nothing that does not come of its own free will.”

The prioress moved forward. “So, Sinner. You have come to take someone away from us.” She stared down at him, hard and cold as the stone on which she stood. “Hospitality you may have, then you may go, and may God have mercy on your soul. No unrepentant thief shall lead anyone away from the house of God.” She turned away and stalked from the room.

Elisha scrambled up, meaning to pursue her and find Alfleda.

A door clattered open to his left and someone shuffled through, accompanied by steam scented with oats and a touch of honey. The cook limped into view, her shoulders humped with age, her skin hanging loose in wrinkles around her mouth and down the thin arms revealed by her rolled-back sleeves. She carried a wooden tray, and her head swayed back and forth like a dog scenting the wind, revealing a long scar that parted her hair on one side and ran across her brow.

The gatekeeper, Sabetha, moved up beside her. “Here, Biddy.” She put out her hands for the tray, but the old woman lurched past, one step, two, and slapped the tray down on the table with a triumphant grin, baring her few remaining teeth.

Biddy. A common enough name, but so near to the girl? Too much to be coincidence. Elisha turned from the door.

“Aha, aha!” Biddy bobbed her head and swiveled her wrinkled neck to face Elisha. A grayish-blue film covered both her eyes, but she sniffed. “So, barber, your meal. God bless.”

Elisha blocked her path, allowing the shades to suffuse him with new strength. “What did you call me?”

“You smell too much of blood to be a regular surgeon, and Sabetha says you are no soldier. Barber it is, then.” Her head bobbed, wisps of gray hair rising and falling with her like the flapping wings of lazy moths.

“Yes, Granny, I have been.” The air around him hummed with an awareness like a web of sensing spread across the room. A magus, at least, but her presence felt warm, surprisingly sharp: not the mancer he expected.

“Aha,” she said. “Mother is a strict ruler. She can be hard upon others. Especially when she finds weakness.”

Her presence spread lightly in the room all around him, revealing how she cooked and served in this place—she must be attuned to it, and to its people.

“Came here for someone, did you? A wife, a sister?” Her wattled neck extended toward him. “A child?”

Elisha steeled himself. “I know where you were two years ago, Biddy, when they dunked you for a witch.”

She gave a harsh sound at the back of her throat, and Sabetha said, “Have you come to finish the job then? Some sort of witch-hunter out to persecute a woman who's come to the Lord?”

“They found you bloody in the street, with a handful of her hair,” Elisha said, focusing his awareness on her. “Did you lead the men who took her?” The tracery of her presence across the room intensified, a touch upon him from various directions. Biddy straightened as best she could, pushing back her sleeves, her sunken mouth working over something.

“Get up then and get out.” Sabetha stomped closer to loom over him. “The Lord doesn't want such stories told of his own.”

Biddy tapped the nun's arm and gave a shake of her head. “The Lord is my Shepherd,” she intoned, then added, “As I am hers.”

“Allie?” Sabetha demanded. “Is she what this is about?”

He breathed in the porridge steam, sweet and moist, mingled with the old woman's scents of ash and slight decay. She knew what he wanted, if not who he was. “I want to bring her back to her father.”

Sister Sabetha let out a bark of disapproval. “Her father left her here. He wants no part of her, poor thing.”

“What?” On Thomas's behalf, Elisha's anger rose. “No, Sister, she was taken from him, he still believes her dead.”

“More likely, he wanted her dead,” she snapped, setting her fists on her hips. “What, was she the mother's bastard, or his own? Or just too many mouths to feed, hmm?”

His stomach growled, and Biddy said, “Eat up, eat before it's cold and thick as stone. Like you are.”

Elisha frowned at the blind old woman with her bobbing head. She was trying to tell him something, beyond the command. He carefully touched her arm. “Biddy, will you sit a while?”

Contact buzzed between them, and her deep chuckle resonated through his skin. “I will, Barber,” she said. “I need my rest after a second round of breakfast, I do.” She limped over to the chair he had abandoned and plopped down in it. “Take your rest, Sabetha.”

“You don't command me, Biddy, and I'll not take comfort with the likes of him.” She jerked her veil straight and poked at the wimple around her neck. “The father, indeed. You tell the father she's got a better family here, with us and with the Lord.”

“That would break his heart, and he needs no more pain right now. I'm trying to be the one who brings him joy.”

She snorted again, but she did not go, and Elisha sat across from Biddy as the old cook slid the tray over to him.

“Eat up, cold one. She's safe enough a little longer.” Biddy's gapped grin looked oddly fierce. “Nobody goes near her without me knowing.”

Elisha bent his head over the bowl and murmured, “Thank you, Lord, and thank these, your daughters, for this precious gift. Amen.”

As he lifted the spoon, Sister Sabetha said, “There's no reverence in you, whatever you are.”

He blew on the mouthful and ate it, drawing in warmth and comfort with the thick stuff. “Which was it for you, Sister? I'm wagering on the extra mouth to feed.”

“The Lord provides for all of us here.”

“You grew up around here?” he asked, between mouthfuls, then nodded to himself, catching Biddy's grin from across the table. “Perhaps your family had a place in the Forest before the Conqueror drove out those who'd lived there for centuries. That's a long time to bear a grudge.”

“My folk never recovered,” she said. “It was hard settling elsewhere and putting too many people in too few fields. My grandparents barely made it, my parents even less so.” She plopped down on the end of a bench and set her hands upon her knees.