Living With Ghosts (27 page)

Again, he said, “No.” And then, “Quena, please.” “Merafi or Yvelliane. What would you?”

She was beautiful and deadly and false. He would fail and she would not withdraw her hand from Merafi. He said, “I cannot.” He pulled himself to standing. “She has been my protector.”

“And what am I?”

He met her sky-eyes. He said, “I beg you, Quenfrida
undaria
. Ask anything else of me. But I cannot do this.”

She said, “You never could. You were never adequate. I should have let you pay the price of your failure.” She rose in turn and went to the door. Opening it, she said, “I’m your death, Gracielis. One day. But you’ll never know when or how.”

He had known it forever. She was leaving him in anger; she was abandoning him. He was too weak to catch her, to hold her, to follow. He reached out for her even as the door began to close. He could hear his own voice, begging, tear-swollen, outside of his control, saying what he had thought he would never say.

“Quena. Quenfrida. I love you.”

She was gone and the mist would have him and he was always alone, for she had taken away his center.

The knife of his ritual was still very sharp. The touch of it along his narrow wrists was sweet as a benediction.

So much blood.

So much peace.

10

J
OYAIN HAD NEVER FELT any great affinity for paperwork, but after the alarming events of the aborted duel (about which he was determinedly not thinking), he was unexpectedly comforted by the pile of unit business that had collected for his attention. He had found himself a carafe of watered red wine and settled down in his closet to work his way through the heap. The residence staff bustled about in the hall outside, exchanging gossip with each other and the guards. Joyain found worrying about the correct form of address for a clerical third cousin of the queen (and how was he supposed to know that?) was a splendid displacement activity.

He wondered vaguely how long this duty was going to last. Leladrien had opined that the trouble in the new dock was more or less over. It seemed possible that Joyain might be relieved in the next week or so. He had a friend who had bought out of the regiment a year ago and married into a small estate to the south. He’d had an invitation to visit for some time. He might well take it up. Get away from the city, catch up on news. Don’t think about what he might be leaving behind. In particular, anything that had occurred this morning.

He was three quarters of the way down the paperwork (and all the way down the carafe) when someone knocked on the half-open door. He called, “Come in,” without looking up, and went on trying to balance the figures for his unit’s expenditure. Absently, he said, “Ensign, what’s fifteen multiplied by seven?”

“One hundred and five,” came the answer. “Is the number important?”

It was not the ensign. Joyain controlled a start, hearing Iareth’s voice, and looked up. “Only in a financial sense. Can I help you?”

She had taken a seat. She smiled. “Possibly, yes.”

“Right . . .” Joyain found it impossible not to return the smile. “I’ll be with you in a moment . . . one hundred and five?”

“Indeed.”

Joyain added up the column of figures, checked it, caught himself beginning to recommence the whole calculation from scratch and forced himself to initial the item instead. He put down his quill, wiping it carefully, recapped the ink, made sure that his two sets of papers were in neat, separate piles, sharpened the spare quill, straightened his collar, fastened a button on his cassock, and realized that he had run out of excuses to avoid eye contact. He sighed and looked up. “Now, how may I help you?”

Her cool green eyes were thoughtful, watching him. She said, “You had other duties this morning?”

“Something like that.” Joyain found himself looking down again. It was nothing to do with him, her past relations with Valdarrien of the Far Blays. It would stay that way, if he could manage it.

“Kenan has contrived to injure himself,” Iareth said.

“Seriously? Has a doctor been sent for?”

“It was minor: he has treated it himself.”

“He . . . I trust it wasn’t deliberate . . . An insult to an important visitor would be . . . Or involving him in a . . . an incident, or a . . . duel . . .” Joyain realized he was making no sense and fell silent. He began to fidget with the quill. “Very embarrassing for us, too.”

Quietly she said, “People are exiled for insulting diplomats and princes. I have reason to know it.”

Joyain shut his eyes. Once again, he’d walked right into the obvious. It had been a diplomatically embarrassing duel (with a Tarnaroqui aide) that had led to Valdarrien being sent to Lunedith, where he had met Iareth Yscoithi. He said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . .”

“I have said it before. I am mistress of my past.”

“No, I . . .”

“There is no cause for you to feel embarrassed. I make no assumption of commitment.”

“That isn’t . . .” Joyain looked up, and sighed. “It isn’t that. I’ve just had a rather . . . unusual day. I have no right to inflict it on you.”

“It matters not.” She smiled. “I have had a somewhat unusual day, also.”

“Prince Kenan?”

“Indeed. The matter of his injury . . .” She shrugged.

“It can only have been an accident. It is nothing over which you should worry.”

Joyain looked at her sharply. She was frowning. “But you should?”

“Perhaps.” She paused then shook her head. “How long does it take your couriers to travel from here to Skarholm?”

“It depends on the weather. A fast courier is supposed to take eight to ten days.”

“So.” Iareth appeared to calculate. The outcome seemed to displease her. Joyain, already uncomfortable, began to think he was being downright unfair.

He cleared his throat. “Would you like a drink?” “Thank you, no.”

“I can ring for chocolate.”

“No. It is unnecessary . . . Something troubles you, I think?”

“Of course not,” he said. And then, “Yes.” She looked quizzical. “Something odd happened this morning.”

She rose and came to stand behind him. He looked up at her. She said, “You wish to tell me?”

He hardly knew. She was almost a stranger, even now. And besides, ghosts were not commonplace in Merafi.

Thiercelin of Sannazar had seemed almost to be expecting it.

Joyain sighed, and said, “I had an . . . an affair of honor this morning. It was interrupted.”

“A legal problem?”

“No . . .” He sighed again. She rested a hand on his shoulder. “A . . . friend of my opponent turned up. It was rather unnerving.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes . . .” Joyain swallowed. She stroked the nape of his neck. A little nervously he said, “Valdarrien d’Illandre is dead. That’s common knowledge.”

“That is so.” Iareth’s hand stilled.

“Yes. Only this morning, the person who interrupted was him.”

She leaned forward so that she could see him clearly. Her face was thoughtful. “Valdin Allandur?”

“Yes. Thiercelin duLaurier spoke to him.”

“Thierry?” To his surprise she smiled. “He said something to me to that effect, when he visited.” Joyain stared at her. “Forgive me. You are Merafien, of course. These matters are distressing to you.”

“And they aren’t to you?”

“Yes, but it’s different.” She sat on his desk, and put her hand on his cheek. “Will you honor me with your trust, Jean?” He hesitated, then nodded. She said, “It is not wholly unexpected. And it involves Kenan. I must have further speech with Thierry.”

Joyain caught at her hand. “You’re not worried? I’d have thought . . .”

She interrupted him. “I am more than worried. But there is no use to that. I am not unpracticed at waiting.”

Joyain was confused. He started to say something, but nothing of meaning would come. He shook his head, then, and rested his forehead against her.

Something is wrong
. . .

Gracielis hurt. His head echoed with pounding blackness. Fragmented memories tumbled, mingled, distorted. Magnolia and the thunder of falling water. Mist-shapes reached, pursued, surrounded him, dream-beleaguered. Swan wings beat across a rain-drenched sky, fell silent under the torrent of bell-song. Long hair, silken, unbound, dusty-fair golden, spread across the pillow like a shattered rainbow; lemon-scented to speak the syllables of a name. Hunted through the long aisles of a garden, the dark reach of the mountains, looped back upon himself in fear and blood and death. Blood that pooled on the rock, and on the straw, on the polished boards, to trickle over his hands. So very sharp . . .
they say the haft is cut from human bone
. . . So cold, so very cold, and the bitterness seared him. It was too hard for him; he could not face learning to live without Quenfrida. He faced a darkness so profound as to overturn all confusion, unknown, unknowing, afraid . . .

There was too much to control, to recall. Impossible to bind it all into a cohesive whole. Instead, strands within him unraveled into separate broken threads, slipping too easily between his impotent, helpless fingers.

The river is turning
. . .

His eyes opened onto an expanse of painted ceiling. Flowers, smoky with age, entwined along the beams and bordered the static dancing figures. He frowned and blinked at the ceiling. He wanted to raise a hand to rub those same eyes. He met reluctance, pain stinging his arms. The inside of his mouth tasted sour. His lips were dry. He began to turn and was arrested by dizziness. He shut his eyes again and groaned.

Someone spoke his name. He opened an eye to see a fuzzy silhouette bending over him. A woman’s voice. He made himself open the second eye. She smiled at him. It was Amalie, and the ceiling belonged to her personal chamber.

She said, “How are you feeling?”

There was something that threatened her, which she should be told. He could not quite remember. He said. “I’ve felt better.”

“Poor love.” Her hand caressed his hair. “Do you want anything?”

He could make no sense of it. He said, “I don’t know. May I sit up?”

“If you like.” She moved pillows, made to lift him. He tried to help himself and pain lanced down his wrists and arms. He gasped. It took a moment or two before he was ready to look about him.

He was in her old-fashioned high-post bed. Light filtered through the windows and a fire burned in the hearth. Amalie sat beside the bed in an upholstered chair. She was dressed simply, and there was an embroidery frame on her lap. She said, “Better?”

He hurt all over. He found a smile and said, “A little.” And then, “What happened?”

She looked worried. “Don’t you remember?” His face must have answered that, for she continued, “You tried to kill yourself. I don’t know why.”

It almost explained his lassitude. He looked away from her and noticed another lack. He began to shiver. “When?”

“The night before last . . . I went to your lodgings to leave you a message and found you. It seemed best to bring you here. The landlord helped me. He won’t tell anyone where you are.” She hesitated. “I hope you don’t mind.”

Almost on reflex, he said, “Your concern honors me.” But in truth, he hardly heard her. Through the window, he could see the rain falling; watching it, he let himself slide backward into the memory. Sickness in the city and in himself. No cure. No solution, only the sly bargains of Quenfrida.

I am your death
. . . She had promised that and taken from him the comfort and horror of her presence. She had left him, and he had said . . . had said . . . had taken up the knife from the floor and hacked through both wrists with it. Across Amalie, he said, “You should have let me go.”

She put down her embroidery. Tears stood in her eyes. “Oh, love, why?”

He knew he should comfort her, but he could not. He said, “The river is turning. There’s death in it.” She reached out a hand to him, then stopped halfway, uncertain. He said, “She wants my collusion.” For nine years he had not wept at all, and now it seemed he could not stop weeping. Amalie watched in mingled concern and fear. He could not bear that. Looking down, he said, “I should have died.”

She put her arms about him. Her touch was familiar. It was not the touch he longed for. She said, “Hush, dear one. It’s over.”

It was not over. He swallowed hard and said so. Her arms tightened around him. He said, “If your ship comes in, you must burn the cargo.”

She withdrew a little. “What do you mean? I need those goods.”

“No. You don’t understand.” He shivered. “There’s sickness.”

“In the new dock? There always is.”

“Everywhere.” Turning so that he might see her face, he said, “Ladyheart, do you trust me?”

Her fingers twisted in the blanket. But she nodded. He said, “Listen, then. There will be plague. Flooding. You must leave Merafi now and not return, not for years. There’s a . . . a power here, which should not be. It’s awake, and inimical. If you remain, it’ll harm you.”

She looked away, at her lap. Very carefully she said, “You’re overwrought. It’s understandable . . . There was just a minor disturbance and a small flood in the shantytown . . . There’s nothing wrong, you’ll see.”