Elisha Magus (8 page)

“Yes. I know. I’ve known it’s a problem, it’s just—” She hesitated, then finished firmly, “I know.”

In his arms, Chanterelle stirred again, then cried out, shoving against him. They both fell, him to his knees, her tumbling onto the pathway, then trying to scramble up again. “Wait!” he shouted, “You’re hurt.”

She froze there, her eyes flashing white. “Don’t touch me.”

Elisha spread his hands. “I won’t. No more unless you ask it.”

Her glance darted from him to Rosalynn and back, then she grabbed the chemise and ripped it off, flinging it aside and staring at her limbs. Rosalynn made a startled sound, but the girl ignored her, touching the mud. The cloth had smeared away some patches, but her skin already looked smoother and less red, as if the healing were well on its way. “Thank you,” she mumbled. “I should say that.” Her toes dug into the earth—no, more than that, they seemed almost drawn into it, her feet following, small stones and grasses shifting aside to admit her.

“Please wait.” Elisha reached toward her. “Please.”

“I can’t wait. They’ll come.”

She did not look around, but he felt the furtive ripple of contact in the earth beneath him, then it was gone, a glance indeed, but in the dirt. “The necromancers.”

Quickly, she nodded, her hair scraggling about her face. “Mancers. Close by all the time now. The others don’t believe.”

“But you know better. How?”

She spread her fingers into the dirt, her flesh growing dark with the contact, matching the color of the earth. “I feel where they meet. I’ve begun to sense that they feel me, too. They look for places—like that. Places of the dead.” She did look at him then.

He stared into her dark eyes and said what he needed to know. “But I’m not one of them.”

She nearly smiled. “You’re one of us.
Indivisi
. You don’t seek death. It’s already with you.”

“What is with you?” he asked, but she was vanishing before him, sinking into the earth without a ripple, until she was gone. And he did not need her to speak to know the answer.

“M
y goodness,”
Rosalynn breathed as the space between them settled again into an empty pathway.

Elisha rose slowly, brushed off his palms, and took a few limping steps nearer to his guide. His hands felt loose and numb. “Please,” he said, “I need to rest.”

“This way.” She started walking again. “Do you know, some monasteries have vows of silence. Perhaps I should try that?”

Exhaustion and giddiness rose up through him. “Tell me about your brother’s home,” he suggested.

She glanced at him sidelong. “Not silence?”

He managed a slender smile. “It would be a help to me to have something else to think about.”

After a moment, Rosalynn obliged, describing the fine estate in the north country where she had so recently stayed. Elisha let the sound of her voice wash over him and keep him awake enough to move, focused enough not to give in to the light-headedness of spell-casting. The walk, accompanied at every step by the stinging of his feet, seemed to help fend off the aftereffects of magic, even as the gloom under the trees set in. Rosalynn chose this trail, then another, tending south toward the sea. The ground rose and fell gently, then the stands of oak and willow gave way to the crooked shapes of apple trees, like hunched old men but with the new, tall shoots that showed they had not been tended for some time. Mist crept up between them from the river Elisha heard down below. The vague shapes of buildings clustered at the other side, against the trees.

“Oh, we’re here! But it occurs to me, we may not be able—”

A huge dog barreled out of the trees, baying like the Devil, and they instinctively jumped together. With the long muzzle and powerful build of a deerhound, the beast’s head came as high as Elisha’s chest.

“There it is again!” cried a voice from the darkness. A door banged open, and the firelight within gave shape to a small house. “I’ll get the brute this time!”

“Leave off, Patric—don’t hurt it! If we catch it, we’ll make good money.” Two brawny men burst through the door with a clatter of mail.

“Who goes there?” shouted the first. Patric, presumably.

Rosalynn leapt behind Elisha, but the dog veered off, snarling, and lowered its head. Patric sprang to the attack, a sword in his hand, while the other man shouted at him from behind. The dog leapt, clamping its jaws round his gauntlet, but Patric flung it aside. The dog fell hard, skidding, and lay still. The second man ran up. “What’ve you done? That’s a valuable animal, I tell you.”

“You’ve got a soft spot for dogs, Ian, and none for your companions.” Patric shook out his bruised hand and turned his eye on Elisha. “Who’re you? What do you want here?”

“I’ll have you know—” Rosalynn began, but Elisha caught her arm, giving it a squeeze.

“Weary travelers,” he said. “On our way to the Abbey.”

“Ye should’ve turned right,” Patric rumbled, eyes narrowing as he moved a little closer.

“We’re a bit lost,” Elisha said carefully. He scanned the man’s clothing for any heraldry, any symbol of his master.

“See, it’s got a collar and all.” Ian removed his belt and looped it over the dog’s collar, leaving a long leash which he gripped as he rose. “Maybe get a reward from the owner. Not surprising ye’d get lost, given it’s so …” He trailed off and took a few steps nearer, the leash drawn straight behind him. “Cor. It’s that barber.”

Patric’s sword swung up to point directly at them. Elisha tensed, but he tried to keep his voice even. “You have the better of me, good sirs. Who are you?”

“Hands up,” barked Patric. “You—come out where I can see you.” He directed the sword at Rosalynn, who carefully stepped out. “Closer. Bloody Hell—Lady Rosalynn.”

Ian and Patric shared a glance, then Ian led them in bowing to Rosalynn. “That’s interesting,” he chuckled. “Wouldn’t’ve expected to see you out here. Say, Barber, can you take a look at the dog for us?”

“Dogs aren’t really my trade. Besides, I must get the lady to the Abbey.” He kept his hands spread and visible; not that he had any weapons.

“Everything good?” called a voice from the darkness, and another soldier appeared from down behind the house. A fourth gave a call from the slope of the orchard as well, and Elisha gritted his teeth. Whatever they’d walked into, there were too many of them to simply walk back out again.

“Now, Barber, it’s awfully late and the lady looks a bit worn from her journey. Surely it’s no good taking her off into the dark.” Ian gestured toward Rosalynn with another slight bow that set Elisha’s skin tingling, but Rosalynn smoothed her gown with her free hand, the other still holding shut the torn side, her noble manners returning. “We’d be happy to offer you what hospitality we can. Least for tonight, eh?”

“Do you think—” Patric began, his heavy brows furrowed, but Ian flapped a hand at him without turning from Rosalynn.

“Lord knows we ain’t got much, but there’s a warm bed and something to eat, my lady. Any man can see you’ve had a rough time of it.”

“Well, yes, that’s true enough.” She glanced at Elisha. “You did want rest, after all, and surely …”

Elisha drew her toward him, leaning in to whisper, “We don’t know these men or who they serve, my lady. What are they doing here?”

She stared at him a moment, then turned away. “As grateful as we are, good sirs, we can’t presume upon the hospitality of your home.”

“Oh, not our home, my lady, we’re just care-taking for a little while before the new owners arrive. It’d be unChristian if we’d let a lady go off in the dark with no proper escort.”

Rosalynn’s eyes lingered on the open door, all hint of tension sliding from her shoulders as if she’d put off that mantle for the night. With every gentle word the soldier spoke, she moved from the resourceful woman back to the child of lords. “You see, Elisha, there’s no need for us to be uncomfortable. And who knows what might be lurking in the darkness?”

Who, indeed? And that was the argument Elisha could not deny. Whatever might be out there, he was too tired to handle it alone. These men clearly recognized Rosalynn—they wouldn’t dare to mistreat her. “Very well, my lady,” Elisha told her, “As you wish.”

She beamed at him, and Patric bowed her toward the entrance, bright and warm with firelight. “We’ve been trying to get the place clean, my lady, I’m afraid you’ll not find it ready for visitors.”

“Nonsense. I shall take matters in hand.” She plucked up a bit of her skirt to mount the front steps.

Ian looked up at Elisha from a bow of his own, the makeshift leash still clutched in his hand. “Would you … ?”

“Let me see the dog,” Elisha sighed.

“All’s well, you lot, but you’d best keep a better lookout!” Ian called to the shadowy shapes of the other soldiers as he motioned Elisha toward the dog.

“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.