Elisha Barber: Book One Of The Dark Apostle (36 page)

“Sorry,” the surgeon muttered, a preface to his tearing Elisha’s ruined shirt down the middle and drawing it off by each sleeve.

While Ruari gently washed him with soft rags and warm water, Mordecai sprinkled herbs in one of the remaining pots. He disappeared for a moment and returned with his pot of ointment, folding back his sleeves.

“Should I…?” Ruari asked, indicating the pot.

With a shake of his head, Mordecai studied Elisha’s face. “I should do this.” He drew up a chair. “Find him a dry blanket, will you?”

Ruari nodded and left.

Holding out his hand, Mordecai offered a sad smile. “I did warn you about the truth.”

“Aye,” said Elisha faintly. He lay his right hand, palm up atop the offered hand.

Taking a bit of the ointment, Mordecai smoothed it gently over the round burn. One by one, he dabbed the cooling stuff over each of Matthew’s burn marks. It seemed to penetrate with a lingering sense of Mordecai’s healing warmth. “You have good hands,” Mordecai murmured.

Elisha managed an inquisitive sound. His throat still ached too much to speak at any length, though whether from the noose or from his knowledge of Brigit’s betrayal, he couldn’t be sure.

“I wondered why your patients didn’t die. Forgive me, Barber, for I have met too many of your peers to be impressed by any.” Again, he smiled, a fleeting movement of the lips before he moved on to the larger brand over Elisha’s heart. His lightest touch still brought a whimper of pain, and he flinched then hesitantly tried again.

Ruari ducked through the door clutching in his hands a thick blanket of several layers stitched together. He draped it over Elisha’s shoulders, smoothing it down with a clucking sound as if he tended an ill child, but his hand lingered with a gentle squeeze.

Looking over Elisha’s shoulder at Ruari, Mordecai’s eyes narrowed, and he nodded. “As I say,” he continued, “I wondered why your patients lived. When you took on Ruari and that girl, I felt sure the charm would be gone, that it was your skill.” Glancing back to Elisha, he took another smear of ointment. “Your skill extended even to choosing your assistants.” He paused a moment, then continued. “There are three things that make a good doctor.” His touch on Elisha’s skin said
Four
, but he did not elaborate, and Elisha knew he referred to the sensitivity they shared. “Skill—what you two share, even with Matthew.” His lips turned down at that thought, but he went on. “Empathy, which that other one has not. And knowledge, which can come with time. Should you pursue this labor, Ruari, I would encourage it.”

“Oh, aye,” Ruari said with a laugh. He released Elisha’s shoulder and
found a mug, drawing a draught of the brewed herbs. As he held the mug for his friend to drink, he spoke to Mordecai: “And ye be all high and mighty wi’ the rest of us, sir, as if yer encouragement should make me eager t’ be like ye.”

Elisha bit his lip and let it go. He tried to speak, to defend the surgeon, but his voice had gone again.

Slowly, Mordecai shook his head. “You shame me, Barber. You both have. So long have I kept myself apart. I work among the lords because they know my skill, and more because I know theirs. What good can one man do, a common man? He has no power, nothing to contribute but his life for the cause.” His voice turned self-mocking, and he drew his hand away, bringing the blanket around to cover Elisha’s chest. “So I believed, so we all believe who are born above that station, for how else could we go on as we do? I serve the lords, they make the wars, they make the peace, they move this brutal little country that much closer to civilization.”

Standing abruptly, he jammed the lid on his pot, screwing it down tight. “Why risk your back for a peasant, what difference can he make? Then the peasant somehow becomes the messenger, becomes the king’s own son, and instead of embracing you, he hangs you from a tree.” Mordecai bit off the words, his hands shaking with his anger. “And, yes, I am ashamed that I chose such service.” He took Ruari’s arm in a quick motion and slapped the pot of salve into his hand. “Reapply in a few hours.” The surgeon strode from the room, casting eddies of frustration and guilt in his wake.

Carried only by the air, and by those words, the emotions still stung, and Elisha caught his breath. Two men as sensitive as himself and Mordecai should not meet so often—it threw them both off balance to feel too much.

“What’s that about then?” Ruari asked, assuming the surgeon’s chair, tossing the little copper pot from hand to hand.

“Thinks he should have defended me sooner,” Elisha whispered.

“As well he should, if he’s thought so much of you.”

Mordecai had too much to lose if his secrets became known, but Elisha could hardly tell Ruari that. “He had good reason for caution,” Elisha said, then a rustle drew their eyes to the door.

Lisbet hesitated on the threshold, then stepped inside and dropped a slight curtsey, flicking her lowered gaze from one to the other. “Mother says I’m not to see you,” she mumbled. “We’re going.
I’m sorry.” She darted another glance at Ruari, and rushed off in a flurry of long skirts.

Rising from his place, Ruari stared after her, his hands half-raised to hold her back.

Something in the line of his friend’s back told Elisha all he needed. “Go on,” he whispered. “I’ll wait.”

Turning his head, but not his eyes, Ruari said, “Ye’re sure?”

“Go, get on.” He made little shooing motions with his concealed hands.

At last alone, Elisha slumped in his seat. There was not a patch of skin which did not burn or ache or throb or shiver. He shut his eyes and let out a long, shaky sigh. His bruised throat protested, and he winced.

“Is it very bad?” Brigit said.

Jolted from his chair, Elisha turned his head to look at her, his eyes flaring. He stood, staggered, grabbed for the back of the chair, but a thrust of pain from his hand struck through him and buckled his knees.

Holding up her hands, Brigit rushed toward him. “Sit, please, sit before you fall down.” She caught his arms with a concerned smile.

He let her ease him back onto the chair, disgusted by the rush of heat her touch sent through him.

Still smiling, Brigit set a hand upon his knee, her fingers finding his flesh through a tear in the worn-out fabric. “Attunement,” she said, teasing.

“You would have let me die,” he rasped.

Brigit’s face fell, her smile turned in an instant to trembling lips. “
What did he tell you
?”

“I’m not a fool,” he said, the lie twisting his mouth.

She held up a twig of oak, twirling it in her fingers. “
I was about to break the branch, to let you down a little easier.
”

His throat hurt too much, so he resorted to the witches’ way, the words not quite reaching his lips. “
You let me down enough as it is.
”

“
Don’t talk that way, Elisha. You know I had to make it plausible, you of all people know what I would risk by any magic, I had to save us both.”
Her fingers stroked a small, hot circle.

“
Did he risk any less?
” Elisha turned his face from her, struggling for his lost control.

“
Either way
,” she snapped, the energy crackling in his skin, “
You are alive, with
magic to thank for it, and to all of them, it looks like divine providence has proved your innocence.
”

“
Even a moment longer, Brigit, and I would have been dead. I could feel it, like that night you showed me the talisman, only this time for me. Death already had one hand on me, and it wasn’t you who fought it back
.”

“
I did what I could, Elisha, I never left you
.” She smoothed the hair back behind his ear with a delicate touch. “
Earth and sky, you act as if I wanted you to die
.” She held her face still, an expression of compassion fixed upon her beautiful features. What if she did? A chill tingled deep in his bones, as if death had not fully relinquished its hold.

Brigit flinched.
“Is that what you think? That I wanted you to die? My God, Elisha, what for? What purpose could your death possibly serve? That’s just your fear talking.”

Before he could answer, he felt Mordecai’s approach. He allowed himself a slender smile, pulling away from Brigit’s touch and looking toward the door.

Her eyes narrowed, then she, too, turned as the surgeon paused at the doorway. “I only wanted to ask,” Mordecai began, “but I do not wish to interrupt.” He inclined his head, and turned to go.

Wait, Elisha wanted to say, and Mordecai stopped, as if the word were spoken. A man as sensitive as Mordecai did not interrupt by accident; ignorant though Elisha was, he was beginning to grasp the meaning of the magi.

Slowly, the surgeon turned. A knot held his belt together, the damaged books hanging limp. “I merely wished to ask what became of the rope.”

“The rope?” Brigit asked, slipping her fingers away. “I don’t take your meaning, sir.”

But she did, Elisha had caught that much in her quick suppression.

“Only that there are some,” Mordecai explained in his best over-educated tone, “who believe a hanging rope is a thing of power. No one seems to know what has become of it.”

Shrugging with a roll of her shoulders, Brigit said, “I cast it aside. It may have gone in the brush, or even in the river.”

For a long moment, Mordecai simply stared, his limpid eyes looking too weak to even see so far, never mind to carry the warning Elisha felt in waves around him. “As you say, my lady.” He inclined his head. “Sorry to bother you.” Turning back, he stepped lightly away into the hospital.

A thing of power. A talisman marked by Elisha’s own death, and all of the fear, the pain, the betrayal that went along with it.

Brigit’s smile returned as she reached toward him.

Suddenly stronger, Elisha snatched her hand from the air. “What purpose would my death serve? What indeed?” Cold certainty pooled in his heart. “
Is that why you made love to me? To make the rope that much stronger?
”

“
I made love to you for your own sake, Elisha. That old man knows nothing about me, or you. Can’t you see how much I care about you?
”

Dropping her hand, Elisha felt the first waves of grief rise up to overwhelm him. “No,” he said aloud. “I can’t see you at all, Brigit, because I love you too much. You say that your prince knows what you are.”

Again, she reached toward him, shaking her head, warning him not to speak such things to the open air.

He blocked her touch with an upraised arm, the thick blanket coming between.

Her green eyes flared to life. “My prince, as you call him, knows all about me.”

“He knows that you would sacrifice my life to further your own ambition.”

“That’s not so, Elisha, it never was.” She sank to her knees before him, her posture and tone beseeching even as hints of magic thrilled through her, trying to woo him. “With you, I could be so much more,” she whispered. “No wonder my mother marked you for me to find. Two such powers as you and I—you speak through raindrops, Elisha, I speak through fire—together, there is nothing we could not do. You want an end to war? You want to save lives? Think of it, Elisha, so much strength between your hand and mine.”

Resting his head on the back of the chair, Elisha followed the cracks in the ceiling and laughed to stave off weeping. “Yes, Brigit, oh yes, offer me your hand. Haven’t you figured out by now it’s not your strength I’m after?” He squeezed his lips shut and stared at the cracks until he felt her go.

W
hen weariness overcame him,
Elisha got up from his chair before the kitchen fire and lay down in the pile of fresh straw in the corner. He slept immediately, the herbs from the pot filling his nostrils. He awoke to the dull throb of his injuries, but felt strangely clear-headed and calm. Some combination of the surgeon’s potions and the potency of his touch worked to make Elisha feel much better than he should, even if he remained miserable.

At the hearth before him, he could see a pair of feet beneath a long gown, feet clad in expensive boots with pointed toes. Elisha moved the arm under his head and blinked up at the figure of Benedict, his back toward him, stirring something over the fire. He recalled the brief moment when he’d thought Benedict might be the magus who called himself Sage, and smiled a little. When he felt up to rising again, he would go to the river and listen to what they said. Then he thought of Marigold-Brigit and the smile slipped away. Who knew what she wanted, or what she might do? If he hadn’t noticed Mordecai’s broken belt, he might never have known the truth. Brigit would have been willing to take credit, and Mordecai willing to let her have it if it meant none would know the truth about him. As a Jew, the slightest whiff of witchcraft would get him killed out of hand, and without the trumped up charges brought to bear against other witches.

Benedict muttered over his pot and checked a scrap of parchment he carried tucked in his belt, then added a pinch of something else. Lying there a few feet away, Elisha thought he could sense the tension in Benedict’s actions. Elisha, drifting in the haze of his recovery, began the process of attunement,
reaching out with his new inner sense to every corner of the room and everything in it.