Burning : A Tale of the Dark Apostle (9780698144743) Read Online Free PDF Page A

year, not a month, not even a single day. If they had spoken of names for their baby in the darkness of their bed, Elisha did not know it. He pushed the end of the cross, empty of mark or word, into the grass and brushed the dirt from his hands before he crossed himself.
    â€œI’m sorry,” he whispered through his tears, his hands clutched together, begging. “I am so sorry.” He squeezed his eyes shut, his throat burning, until the tears receded, and he thought he could rise without stumbling.
    With the spade alone to fill his hands, Elisha walked away through the shadowed streets.
    Back in his room, silence echoing overhead, Elisha set to work on his traveling chest. All around and over the dangerous jar, he packed envelopes and vials—melon seeds, slippery elm, cochineal, thistle leaves—then sat back and stared at the motley collection.
    â€œI’m not a damned apothecary,” he muttered. No doubt the physician had gotten several apothecaries already, and of more use than Elisha’s mere general knowledge. And the great man himself would have a store of expensive medicines: nutmeg and cloves, powdered mummy, bezoar stone. Elisha unpacked most of the herbs and put them aside in favor of a few more instruments, a larger amputating saw, a silver crow’s beak for clamping veins, a selection of probes and lances. All of his needles he added to the chest, and the rolls of suturing thread. A few ewers and bowls for bloodletting settled on top, with a smaller basin and a spare razor. These last he hesitated over, imagining Nathaniel lying beside his best basin. That one he could not bring himself to use again, no matter its value. Let Helena sell it off.
    Lastly, he dropped in his two other tunics, woolen hose with only a few holes—he meant to buy another pair once he had the money to spare—a good belt and leather apron, and draped his wet britches over the top to dry out. By candlelight, his boots didn’t appear too blood-soaked, and traveling mud would conceal that soon enough. This pair had lasted a good five years so far, with only a few repairs, and he hoped to get good use out of them for some time longer. The cloak he would wear, and the thick farmer’s hat his mother had made years ago.
    Staring at his one small chest, Elisha wondered how many Lucius would bring, and how large. Any man who could afford the cloth of that one robe would likely have several spares besides. This triggered a thought, and Elisha brought out a long wooden box left over from childhood.
    On top he found what he had recalled—his own hidden wealth, an unworn shirt procured for his brother’s wedding two years back. After Elisha’s foolish attempt to prove Helena’s treachery, Nathaniel had threatened his life if he dared come to the church that day.
    Elisha lifted out the good shirt, woven of linen with no decoration. Feeling the heavy cloth between his fingers, he sighed again at his folly. He considered himself a practical man, and yet he afforded himself the luxury of a shirt he’d never wear. As if he should save it for some special day undreamed of. Now, with today’s tunic hopelessly stained, and torn besides from long use, he had need of this symbol of his betrayal. Tomorrow, he would wear it on the start of a journey far from the home that would not be his when he returned. If he returned.
    Below the shirt hid his few treasures: a copper coin minted in a foreign land, a handful of embroidered tokens given him by the whores at the brothels he tended, knotted charms to ward off illness and accident, kept more for sentiment than superstition, a small tin crucifix made by his brother’s hand, and, at the bottom, a rumpled cut of cloth painted like a hawk—the pennant he had begged for, which had led him to the angel of his memory. If he ever did reach Heaven, perhaps this hawk would lead him once again.

A BOUT THE A UTHOR
    E. C. Ambrose is a fantasy