Elisha Rex (22 page)

Elisha feinted left, then dropped and tumbled back to the right, the sword cutting over his head. He fetched up against something hard at the small of his back and caught a flash of fear that shot through his own pain. His head tipped back, and he glimpsed Thomas's face.

Then the duke's sword tore across his abdomen, and agony spun out from the wound. Elisha screamed, curling around it, rolling, his hand pressed to staunch the blood.

Randall's foot tipped under his ribs and shoved him over, Elisha's back arched, his throat burned. The healing spell shattered in his addled mind. His spasming fingers gripped a handful of fabric, twisting the wool as his scream rebounded to his ears. The cold power of death surged through him, leaping and cackling as the hounds turned on their fallen master. Death tightened his muscles, digging his fingers in, hunting still. Blood froze upon his trembling flesh.

Steel flashed through the darkness, and his enemy's breath came in pants of exertion and exaltation. If he died now, his death could shoot through every fleck of his blood that spattered the room, coated the swords, clung to the hands of those who hurt him. Death raced along his veins, and he struggled to force it back, to shape it to his will and bury the chance that, in his dying, he would kill all those he loved.

Elisha clung to the fabric; a snatch of reality against the madness that railed within. His awareness, unchained, sprang through his surroundings. Every drop of blood offered glimpses—the duke's fury and the grief that narrowed his vision and plugged up his ears, the righteous anger of his soldiers, the sorrow of Lord Robert to witness the death of a friend, the horror of the king re-living his nightmares. Thomas's cloak, warm and woolen, filled his grasp.

Elisha's hand convulsed, shaking away the cloth, the contact that meant Thomas's death if this mad power had its way. Feverish with the pain, Elisha heaved himself to his knees, one arm keeping his intestines where they belonged, blood coating his fingers.

He pushed himself away, farther from Thomas, as far as he could. Pray God he had not bled upon his king, if Death took hold of him, if he no longer controlled it. “The cloak, the cloak,” he panted. Take it off, he wanted to say. The sword hacked into his back, and Elisha crumpled.

He gaped into the darkness, and death chilled the flames in his throat. Suddenly, Elisha realized that he could die. Despite everything, despite the power that coursed through him now, he could let it go, turning it inward, taking control. His power could tear through him until nothing else remained, scouring the moment and the pain, ripping him free of the flesh, tossing him from the world into oblivion. The thought comforted him as opium calms a fevered soul. Pain racked his stomach and back, death clamored for its due, and Elisha began to surrender.

“Stop,” a voice thundered. “Stop in the name of the king.”

It cut the darkness and shot lightning through the storm that lashed Elisha's mind. As if it obeyed mortal commands, the howling ebbed away. The pain remained, and Elisha ground his fist into his belly.

“Your Majesty, let me end it now! He's weak, it may be our only chance. You saw how he healed himself.”

“I order you, as I am your lord, to sheath your weapon.”

“You can't mean for him to live! Surely, Your Majesty, Thomas—”

“I can't know what I mean!” Thomas cried. His ragged breath shuddering through the darkness. “All I know is this, Your Grace, that I cannot watch him die. Not again, not if there is any chance he speaks the truth. If you will not hold for your king, then hold for my sake. As by marriage I am your son, I am asking you.”

Elisha opened his eyes, turning his cheek to the floor, gazing sidelong up at his king. Tears blurred his vision, yet he saw Thomas standing tall and firm, one hand gripping Randall's sword arm. The smaller man faced him boldly, but his ribcage heaved with his exertions.

“You know what he's capable of, you more than any of us,” the duke pleaded. “We may never have him so again, Thomas.”

The king gave a slight nod. “At our mercy.”

“Just so.”

“Mercy,” Thomas repeated. “It's a dangerous word.” Thomas glanced down, his face impassive as he looked upon Elisha. He showed no flicker of compassion, yet, in that moment, Elisha remembered how to heal.

R
andall made a guttural noise,
as if he might spit, then he broke away, stepping back from the king as he rammed his sword back into its sheath. “Now what, Your Majesty? How do we hold him? What chain to bind Satan?” He shot a look at Elisha and his eyes flared. “Look at him, he's healing himself already!”

Elisha rested his head back on the floor, gritting his teeth against the pain. He sought the pathways of healing, guiding his flesh to merge together again. Thankfully, his intestines were not severed. He struggled to hold the image of wholeness in his mind while the duke raged over his head. Just as he thought he had it, a spasm of pain from the slash across his back jerked him once more into the world.

Elisha shut his eyes so tightly that red visions danced behind his eyelids. He started humming, low in his throat, the way he used to do when he faced a delicate operation. Quickly now, he brought the wounds together. He rushed to outpace the pain and whatever decisions the others might be making. When he finally unclenched his teeth and let go of his song, his stomach still burned but he no longer bled so profusely.

He lay near a bed, his head almost beneath it. He breathed carefully, trying not to move, trying not to seem recovered enough to warrant another assault. The duke faced Thomas across a short patch of floor, both silent. Blood dripped from Randall's hand. Elisha's poorly-mended guts felt twisted at the sight, and he tipped his head back, averting his eyes. He should be angry, for the times he had saved the man's life. Instead, nausea crept up inside. This injustice paled beside the wrongs done to Rosalynn. The small casket that held her skin rested on the next bed, with her mother sitting beside it.

Allyson stared back at him, her eyes leaden. She rose heavily and paced over to her husband, taking his bloody hand in hers. “Randall, my love, you still fight like a tiger. He shall not soon forget that.”

With a snort, the duke said, “It should be him we're burying.”

“In time,” she said, “all in good time,” and her gaze shifted to Thomas.

The king folded his arms and made no reply.

“At the very least, he knows things that might be of use to us,” Robert pointed out. “A more . . . reasoned investigation of her death might help us understand.”

“Reasoned. What has reason to do with what he did?” Randall snapped, his sword hand trembling as if he might draw on Robert next.

They had him now, too weak to try another casting, too sickened to care what they did. Even the hope that shone so briefly when Thomas stopped his slaughter began to fade. Elisha looked away.

The rope lattice of the bed cut his view into squares, bounded on one side by the headboard carved with leaves. Elisha exhaled slowly, gulped a breath, and exhaled again. The breeze of his breath scattered the dust motes beneath the bed and something gleamed in a patch of candlelight, then retreated. He blew out again and watched the shimmer of gold. He inched his bloody hand under the bed and touched, with a shaky finger, the strands of hair trapped against the rope trusses. Fine, golden hair, not too long.

Resting his forehead against the floor, he indulged the silent laughter despite the twinges of pain from his belly. After all of this, all that they had done, why should he risk himself again? If they knew his plan, they would hack him to pieces where he lay, and even Thomas would not stop them, not if he believed Elisha was a danger to his daughter.

Except that she was already in danger, and Brigit would stop at nothing. Elisha stroked the hair with his fingertip, then gently plucked it free and brought it close. To his sensitive fingers, it gave off a faint warmth. It could not be the mother's, for her death would give answer. Here, then, was what he had been looking for, and he had the duke's vengeance to thank for it.

He curled the strands together and carefully reached back and winced at the stretching of new scars. With his fingernail, Elisha tucked the strands into his sleeve with her father's.

“Here, what's he doing?” Boots tramped the floor, and someone grabbed Elisha's leg, hauling him out into the light.

Elisha kicked away the hand and curled around his pain, much dulled, yet sharp enough.

“Don't touch him!” Allyson shouted, too late.

Rolling to his back, Elisha stared up at her, the edge of his anger returning with the pulsing of his wounds. “If I wanted you dead, any of you, it would be too late.”

She glared back at him. “No, Devil, even you require contact.”

Elisha focused on his blood and drew out a faint tendril of death, cold and bitter. With a flicker of his fingers, he sent it through every drop of blood he had shed in that place, from the filth on the hands of the duke, to the marks on Thomas's cloak, to the spatters that marked every man, to the shared guilt upon Allyson's fingers.
“Yes,”
he sent,
“I do. I fought to keep from killing you before I found the strength to heal myself.”

“Wipe off the blood, quickly—all of you, quickly!” Allyson shook her hands fiercely, then wiped them on her skirt. She sprang to her husband's side and seized a flask of wine.

“I did not do this thing, Your Grace. When you have passed your shock, you will find the truth,”
he insisted, then his contact with her fled as she splashed wine over them to wash him away.

“Curse it, woman, how are we to bind him if we can't touch him? How can we ever hope to keep him?” the duke muttered.

The duchess frowned, then cocked her head and said, “Your Majesty, she gave you a rope, didn't she?”

Once more the center of attention, Thomas lowered his hands from his eyes and swallowed hard. He ruffled a hand through his hair and finally met her gaze. “Yes,” he sighed. “Yes, she did. In my saddlebag, on the left.”

The rope. “She” would be Brigit. And the rope could only be the rope she had twined with Elisha's hair to prevent him from finding Thomas, a boundary against his reach. How much of the accursed stuff could there possibly be?

With a click of his heels, the returning guard held out a length of rope perhaps a yard long, with occasional dark fibers twisted through.

“Bind his hands,” the duke ordered, stepping out of the way.

The man glanced down at Elisha, then back, stiffening. “Your Grace, where's his wounds?”

“He's healed them.” The duke flapped his hand in Elisha's direction. “Get to it, man.”

With a tip of his head toward the casket, waiting silently on the bed, the guard said, “Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but I'm not sure it's wise.”

“You're not sure?” The duke raised his hand. “Give it here, I'll do it myself.”

“No,” cried Allyson at once, taking his arm. “I've lost a daughter, I'll not lose you as well.”

“What choice do we have?”

Elisha watched them from the floor with a sort of detachment. They had nearly killed him and now fought over who would be bold enough to bind him. How indeed, do you chain the devil?

“Your Grace,” said Robert from his post by the stairs, “I will—”

“No.” Thomas slipped the rope from Randall's limp hand. “I'll do it.”

“But Your Majesty—”

“Whatever he might have done, I do not think he wants me dead.” He held the rope clenched in his fist and kicked aside his cloak as he started to kneel.

Elisha pushed himself up, and Thomas flinched, his knuckles white as he gripped that rope. For an instant, their eyes met, and Elisha felt the heat of Thomas's breath upon his face, then Elisha crossed his wrists before him.

At the first touch of those strong, trembling fingers, Elisha shut his eyes. All the hope, all the trust that he could gather, Elisha channeled to his own hands even as the rope looped around and clinched tight against the skin.

“Do you remember when we met?” Elisha murmured. “Not that moment at the ball, but in your stables?”

Thomas hesitated.

“You would have killed me then, and I bound you for my own safety. Before I knew who you were or what you had been through.”

“Shut up,” the duke snapped. “Your Majesty, just finish, don't listen to him.”

A second loop slipped around the other wrist, more confident this time, though with a minimum of contact. The brush of Thomas's fingers echoed with a tension that ran all the way to his shoulder and down his spine, and a fatigue that went almost as deep.

“You have nothing to fear from me, Thomas,” Elisha whispered, his scarred chest tight.

“Nothing to fear?” Randall snapped. “From a murderer? A scoundrel who would mutilate the very archbishop? A monster who tore the skin from our daughter? I watched you kill King Hugh with my own eyes—even then you wielded darkness.”

“Your Grace.” Elisha faced him, tilting up his chin and settling back on his heels. “I am no more a murderer than any man among you. I have killed to defend myself, my friends,” he allowed himself a faint smile, “to defend you, Your Grace, and yes, my king. Every man of you has killed no more, nor less than I have done. Every one of you has fought your battles. I fight mine alone,” he said, “and even victory gives me no peace.”

The duke growled, but Robert piped up, “A pretty speech from one who once said he could not speak you fair.”

A couple of the guards chuckled, and fell silent.

Elisha slowly rose to his feet, his audience clearing a space around him, just in case. He gave a nod to Lord Robert. “I have kept better company since then.”

The lord blinked at him, dark eyes widening in his long face.

Elisha winced as his abdomen protested the change in position. “Let the monster be twice damned for daring to look so human,” murmured one of the guards.

“If that trick with the French navy's any way to judge, sometimes it's not so bad to have the devil on our side,” said Robert.

Randall growled. “Another trick to secure his place on the throne.”

From outside came the sound of hoof beats and the jingling of harness. A man called out and horses snorted as they stamped to a halt.

“She's here, Your Majesty,” the guard said.

In three strides, Thomas slipped past Elisha's shoulder and made for the stairs, his cloak rippling. He paused as he was about to duck beneath the floor and their eyes met. “Watch him close—there'll be no joy at this reunion.” And he was gone to meet his betrothed.

“Get on, then, we'll be going down,” said Robert.

Elisha, gazing after Thomas, gave a nod and started to move. A few of the guards preceded him, and he nearly swept them all down as the pain struck again upon the stairs. His hands jerked against the rope—the damned thing that kept his senses as tightly bound as the rest of him—but he had no way to stop himself. He would have fallen, but Robert grabbed his elbow and steadied him. No joy indeed. How could he look upon her, or she upon him?

“Must we?” asked Allyson, her voice drifting down from above.

“She'll be queen,” answered her husband. “She did save his life.”

“I know,” she sighed.

Elisha took his place in the little procession. The guards walked with swords drawn, flanking him but keeping their distance. Elisha wanted to snarl and snap, just to watch them jump or to divert himself from what was to come.

A coach painted with royal lions stood before the manor, with a few outriders tending their steeds. Thomas brushed his cloak over one shoulder and stepped up to open the door. He offered his hand, assisting a frail, old priest down from the carriage, then waiting.

Most of the guards sank down on one knee. The rest hovered, swords pointing in Elisha's direction. “Down with you,” managed the ruddy one, thrusting his sword at Elisha's chest.

Turning a sharp glare on the man Elisha said, “I will not kneel to her, and I think you will not make me.”

“Who's the rascal who will not kneel?” Brigit ducked her head out of the darkness of the carriage and froze, her cream-white hand set upon Thomas's, her red-gold hair blazing in the sun. She stepped lightly down, clinging to the hand of the king. “This is indeed a betrothal gift, love.” Her eyes traced Elisha's figure, focusing awhile on the gashes through his tunic. “Well done.” She rose on her toes, tipping back her head in an obvious request.

Elisha's stomach lurched, but Thomas brushed his lips against her forehead. “I used the rope you gave me,” he said, his back turned resolutely as he studied her.

“Don't tell me you touched him! Dear Lord, Thomas, you're lucky to be alive.” She pressed her free hand to her chest.

“Not so lucky.” He led her out of the way as one of the footmen handed down the last passenger, a plump young woman of about Brigit's age, whose limp, dark hair at first shielded her face, Brigit's companion, a magus Elisha knew as Briarrose.

Walking as near as the guards would let her, Brigit looked Elisha up and down. “Why are you here?”