Living With Ghosts (50 page)

The last of her luggage was by the door, a small valise and the cat in a basket. He made to carry it for her. They collided in the doorway. The feel of her was so very familiar. He gasped and turned away. Amalie put her arms around him. He said, “I have nothing to give you . . .”

“It doesn’t matter.”

He said, “Amalie,” and stopped. The truth was, he had nothing to say. She reached up, and kissed him.

She said, “He’s a good man, Lord Thiercelin.”

“What?”

“Dearest one, I’ve known you five years . . . there are some things I can tell. I know you’re in love with him.”

“And he with his wife.” Gracielis drew in a breath. “You know you may always call on me?”

“Yes.”

He kissed her hand. “Then let me carry your bags, at least.” She looked at him and he shook back his cuffs. “Since last night my wrists are healed.” She smiled then and acquiesced.

Her carriage waited outside. Herlève was already inside. Gracielis passed the cat up to her, then handed the valise to the driver. He helped Amalie with the step, then bowed over her hand. She settled herself by the window. He began to step back, then halted, holding on to the frame. Herlève clicked her tongue at him.

“What is it?” Amalie asked.

“The river tides.” He frowned. “You have tables for them, but the pattern’s probably changing. Do you know when the next high winter tide is due?”

She considered. “Mothmoon is at half-phase. Handmoon approaching it, I think. That means double-f this month. The river was last very high four months ago. It’s only a guess, but I’d think it’ll be in about four days. You could ask the guild master. Or I can try to calculate it properly and have the result couriered to you. I take it it’s important?”

“Yes.” He kissed her hand again. “I am always thanking you.”

“I’ll write.” Amalie released his hand, and shut the door. “Be safe, love.”

“And you, Ladyheart.”

She waved to him as the coach turned the street corner, but his sight was too blurred to see it.

“What time is it?”

“A little after sunrise.”

The voice that answered Thiercelin’s question was not the one he expected. He turned, hissing as pain caught him in the side, and squinted upward. A man of middle years sat by the bed. He reminded Thiercelin of someone. He met Thiercelin’s gaze and said, “How is it with you?”

Thiercelin considered. His dreams had been high-colored and disturbing. He was stiff, and his side ached. His arm, strapped across his chest, pained him, too. He was aware that he probably ought to have felt worse. He said, “I’m not sure,” and then, “How long was I asleep?”

“A full day, and half another. Do you recall what befell you?”

“Yes.” Thiercelin winced. He did not want to remember that. He looked at his companion. “Forgive me, do I know you?”

“I am Urien Armenwy.”

“This is Madame Viron’s house . . .” Thiercelin remembered Gracielis telling him that, last night—no, the night before. The night he’d talked again to Valdarrien. But that, surely, had been a dream? He said, “Has Yviane . . . Has my wife been told what’s happened to me?”

“Gracielis
undarios
took word to her. I expect she will come shortly.”

“Iareth sent for you?”

“So. She is here also with Valdin Allandur.” Urien’s eyes held Thiercelin’s. It was hard to return the gaze without faltering.

Thiercelin said, “It wasn’t a dream.”

“No.” Urien said.

And another voice, dearly familiar, said, “Oh, charming.” Valdarrien stood in the door. Iareth was beside him, and Thiercelin had to look away from the expression on her face. Valdarrien favored Thiercelin with a hard stare and added, “I find your perpetual disbelief most hurtful, Thierry.”

“Well, what do you expect?” He had no right to his sudden jealousy. He was being petty. “Valdin, you’re . . .”

“Dead. I know.” Valdarrien came into the room and sat on the bed. Iareth folded silently cross-legged at his feet. She looked at Urien; some message seemed to pass between them. Valdarrien said, “We just don’t seem to be able to get past that one little detail. I’m bored with the topic.”

Thiercelin could think of no obvious answer to that. Urien said, “You lack patience, Valdin
kai-reth
.” Valdarrien looked at his feet. Iareth reached up and took his hand.

Yvelliane had not yet come. Thiercelin tried again to suppress his envy. Six years of marriage, and she had not come. Whereas Valdarrien . . . Thiercelin sat hard on his self-pity and said, “Where’s Graelis?”

Valdarrien said, “I really have no idea. But I must say, Thierry, I question your interest in him. He’s a foreigner, to start with—saving your presence, Urien
kai-reth
—and he’s a . . .”

“Whore?” The interruption came from Gracielis himself. Leaning on the door frame, he smiled. He was hatless, and his bright hair hung loose. He watched Valdarrien, open-eyed, playing innocence. Then the long lashes swept down. Toying with his lovelock, he said, “I crave your pardon, monseigneur of the Far Blays.” He glanced at the two-colored gloves at his belt and shrugged, beautiful to the bone. “Shall I leave you to your privacy?”

Urien said, “Madame Viron has left her home and resources in your hands. It is not for you to seek permission under this roof.”

“Perhaps not.” Gracielis looked up. “But since Lord Valdarrien disapproves of me . . .”

“He possesses, without doubt, the facility to keep his views to himself.” Urien did not frown, he merely looked at Valdarrien, who once again looked at the floor. “As you do yourself, Gracielis
undarios
.”

Gracielis looked momentarily blank. Then he smiled and shook his head. Thiercelin knew a sudden desire to ask Urien just how such meekness might be compelled. There was a chair near the door. Gracielis moved it into the circle and sat. He looked once at Thiercelin. Thiercelin smiled back. To Urien, Gracielis said, “I’ve been to see the master of the Haberdashers’ Guild about the tides.” He hesitated then added, “However, he wasn’t at liberty to make any calculations; and I’m not competent to do so. We must either await word from Amalie—which may take too long—or find someone with a head for figures.”

Yvelliane. But Thiercelin did not say it. He shifted and winced as the motion tugged at the bindings on his arm. Gracielis leaned forward, concerned. Thiercelin avoided his gaze.

Urien said, “We will do so.”

“Forgive me,” Valdarrien said, “but I seem to be missing something here. Tides?”

“I told you,” Iareth said gently. “Urien believes that the old powers awaken in your city. We must undo that.”

“Superstition,” said Valdarrien. Thiercelin, despite himself, snorted. “And I fail to see, Thierry, what you find so amusing.”

“Nothing,” Thiercelin said. “Only the incongruity of you, of all people, complaining about superstition. Not in a very strong position to do that, Valdin. Under your circumstances.”

Valdarrien glared at him. Then he turned to Urien and said, “Iareth told me last night about what’s happening. Kenan Orcandros and Quenfrida d’Ivrinez.” His voice held a certain satisfaction. Thiercelin looked at him in alarm and caught Iareth doing the same. “The woman might be a problem, I grant you—perhaps we can set my sister Yviane onto that?—but Kenan should be easy enough.” He patted his sword hilt. “A fair challenge, and . . .”

“No, Valdin
kai-reth
.” Iareth rose to her knees. “There is a risk to it.”

“So?”

She looked at Urien. Into the silence, Gracielis said, “It wouldn’t work. Killing the principal won’t stop or undo the working. And, anyway, you wouldn’t be the right person. You’re a part of the working.”

“If,” Valdarrien said, “you are insinuating that I . . .”

“Shut up,” Thiercelin said, startling everyone, himself included. “I don’t claim to understand how or why you’re alive, Valdin, but I for one am not going to stand by and watch you make all the same mistakes again. If Graelis thinks there’s another way, then we’ll use that. All right?” The long speech left him breathless. He leaned back on his pillows and closed his eyes.

Urien’s quiet voice said, “Thierry speaks rightly. We will find out the time of the highest tide, and then act.”

“It may not be possible,” Gracielis said. “Quenfrida is skilled and experienced.”

“We can try,” said Urien.

It was an hour or so later that Gracielis found Urien in Amalie’s workroom. Thiercelin was asleep again. Valdarrien and Iareth were nowhere in evidence. Going to the window, Gracielis looked out. The day was gray and drizzly. Half the houses in the street were shuttered, and a pall of dirty smoke hung over the low city. He drew in a long breath and let ghost-sight take him. Under the mantle of sickness and mist there was a vast and weighty silence, coiled tightly around the vitals of Merafi, not yet ready to close in. It would take only a breath to set it into motion. He could not see the river, he could not see the bindings linking this curled power to Quenfrida, to Kenan. They lay just beyond him, heavy, half guessed at. He passed a hand over his eyes and exhaled. To Urien he said, “They are too strong for me.”

“Mayhap.”

“I’m not properly trained.” Gracielis turned. “What they’ve done must be contained and turned. That’s hard.”

“I know.”

“If my control is inadequate—and it will be . . .”

“Peace.” Urien lifted a hand. “We have some time to prepare.”

“Perhaps.”

“What we do not have,” Urien said, “is a choice.”

“Don’t we?” Gracielis looked down. “You’re Lunedithin, I’m Tarnaroqui. Perhaps the Merafiens should restore order themselves.”

“Perhaps. But should the servant of a guest make trouble for his host, should not the guest rebuke his servant?”

Gracielis smiled. “I doubt Quenfrida would care for the analogy.”

Urien said, “The sickness has spread throughout the whole city. Iareth has seen it even under the roof of Valdin’s kin, although as yet Yviane Allandur is safe.”

There was a silence. Then Gracielis said, “If I do fail . . .”

“There are contingencies.”

“Yes. But if the river isn’t brought back under control . . .” Gracielis stopped and shook his head. “You’re considering a sacrifice.”

“It may prove necessary. My ancestor stood beside Yestinn Allandur when he committed the killing that first laid the bonds upon these waters.”

“Orcandrin blood, shed unwillingly, and in anger,” Gracielis said. “But Kenan revoked that death. If Kenan is your sacrifice, it’ll make an uneasy binding.”

“I was not considering an unwilling sacrifice.” Urien looked straight at him. “Kenan awoke this power by spilling Allandurin blood, not Orcandrin. Valdin’s, drawn unwillingly. A descendant of the first sacrifice offering the blood of the descendant of the first sacrificer.”

“Valdarrien d’Illandre wouldn’t make a fit sacrifice. He’s no longer human, and I doubt he’d be willing.” Gracielis hesitated. “The symmetry’s pleasing but surely it won’t work. You’d need an Orcandrin slayer to kill your Allandurin offering. And I doubt Kenan would play that role either.”

“I am aware of that.” Gracielis waited for Urien to continue. He did not. Gracielis sat and began to play with a pen that lay upon the table. Urien watched him. After a moment the Armenwy said, “How is Thierry?”

“Sleeping,” Gracielis said. Thiercelin would willingly offer up his life for this city, if it would redeem those he loved. If it would protect Yvelliane. Gracielis said, “No.”

Urien looked inquiring.

“He’s unsuitable. He’s only married into that line, he doesn’t share its blood.”

“Peace. He will come to no more harm.”

Gracielis said, “Then who?” And fell silent. He looked at his hands. Once, Quenfrida had asked him to encompass this very death . . . He said, “Does she know?”

“As yet she does not even know that I am in Merafi.” Yvelliane d’Illandre. As purebred as her brother Valdarrien and possessed of many times his courage. Her clear sight would lead her, step by logical step, to agreement with Urien’s plan. If it came to a sacrifice, Gracielis could think of no one better. He said, “It will break Thierry. He loves her very much.” Gracielis realized he was avoiding the center of the issue and raised his eyes. “I’m helping you because Thierry asked it. And now you’re telling me that I may have to shield him from heartbreak.”

“That is your part of our burden,” Urien said.

“Don’t tell him.”

Urien rose and said, “You believe we cannot wait for a communication from Madame Viron regarding the tides?”

“Yes.”

“So. Then I will follow the suggestion made by Valdin Allandur and apply to his sister. I will tell her again that Thierry asks for her.”

Gracielis rose also. “The high city may no longer be safe.”

“I will be cautious.” Urien smiled. “And I will be aware. That, after all, is my share in what we do.”

Gracielis turned away and went back to the window.

Cold. Cold water. A touch on his lips, which felt shapeless and old. A passage over skin that burned. Joyain turned into it and felt the heat sear him, roll him like a wave. He was weightless, adrift on this scorching sea; tossed and borne, limbs constrained and entangled as if in some cramping net. Dim light hovered before his eyes, crossed by a sense of movement, akin to the passing of a cloud. He made out Leladrien’s form, leaning over him, over the leaping heat. Joyain could call out no warning as the flames spiraled higher. Leladrien gasped, as they met him, as he writhed within them, skin peeling back, blown blackened from the bone. His ash covered Joyain, flakes filling eyes and ears and mouth, burning through the net. He was drowning in flame . . . A smile formed on Lelien’s lipless mouth, which did not reach his single eye, and he spoke a word that Joyain did not know. He lifted a hand to brush away the ash and felt the fire seize it; watched, then, as his own flesh turned painlessly to black fragments and whirled away. He could see through to the bones. They were hollow, channeling liquid flame, pooling down inside him, consuming, feeding the web. His body knotted within it, trapped, lingering, listening to the devouring roar. His breath crisped the air. His smoke curled upward, burning off the tips of his wings, falling into the sun. It twined down through his naked bones; it blew through Leladrien and drew him into elongated destruction, stretched to nothing all along the wind. His single eye watched Joyain, fading, weeping cinders and reproach. He was gone in flame, he was turned to ash and air, he would not hear, now, when Joyain had at last the time to speak his regrets.
Lelien, Lelien, I’m sorry, but the city is drowning, and I’ve forgotten how to fly
. . . The eye turned to nothing: the black flakes floated down, banking about Joyain. He lay there, bound to the earth, cast up on a burning shore, and he might, after all, be alone. There had been kindness, once, and the touch by night of tender hands. His skin had warmed to passion against another, lying embraced and embracing in that other heat. Her eyes—not like Leladrien’s—had been cooler than the river. She had offered no reproaches as she turned away from him to entwine herself with mist. Iareth Yscoithi in the dark arms of lost Valdarrien, who had once come between Joyain and a bullet in the Winter Gardens; and who had come once again, to reclaim his own . . . Joyain had held his hand over another’s property and felt the fire. He had been warned, he had been told, and the card bearing her face caught fire beside him, running flame-course, as she burned him, according to the promise.