Living With Ghosts

by Kari Sperring

  “It should. Forgive me?” She reached out, touched his face.

  “Always.” He kissed her palm. “You know that.”

  “I wonder.” She bit her lip. She was embarking on dangerous waters. “Sometimes I can’t see why you stay with me.”

  “You know why. I’ve loved you since the first time we met. You ignored me completely.”

  “I didn’t mean to. And I still do it, don’t I?”

  “Don’t, love. It’s all right.”

  “I just can’t help it.” She sighed. “Even today. I didn’t come to you to make love. Only to ask questions. And

  I keep wondering how far I can go before you stop loving me. I drove Valdin to his death.”

  Something changed in his face. Despite the warmth of the bed, she went cold. He said, “That wasn’t your fault. Valdin never could keep hold of his blasted temper. It was his responsibility. It was nothing to do with you.”

  “Valdin’s fault? He’d stopped all that—stopped dueling. Until . . .”

  “Let it go, Yviane.” Thiercelin spoke sharply, turning his face away from her.

  There was something here she did not understand, did not want to understand. There was something he was hiding from her.

  He had seen Iareth Yscoithi. He had been in contact with Gracielis. She could not face it, not now. She did not want to be hurt any more. She pulled away from him and began to grope on the floor for a petticoat.

  Thiercelin said. “Yviane . . . there’s something I should . . . That is, I . . .” He sounded anxious, almost afraid. This was it. This was what she did not want to know . . .

  She sat up, pushing the covers away. “Iareth Yscoithi,” she said bitterly. “You’ve seen her. I know all about it.”

  “You do?” His voice was alarmed. “Listen, I . . .” She cut him short. “Valdin loved her. He’d have done anything for her. And she abandoned him.” Fear caught in her throat. She pushed it down, counted her breaths.

  “She had a duty to her family. Valdin understood.”

  “Did he?” She stood. “Not to my recollection. The only thing he understood was that he was hurting.”

  “Iareth was hurt, too.”

  “I doubt it.” Anger. That was easier by far than fear. She reached out to it, let it warm and sustain her.

  He said, “Be fair, Yviane.”

  “Why? She wasn’t fair. Valdin adored her, and she broke him.”

  “Valdin dramatized everything. He had no sense of proportion. He was getting over it.”

  “Really?” Yvelliane finished putting on the petticoat. She reached for her skirt and began to fasten it. “That’s easy to say.”

  “It’s true.”

  “I’m happy you can think so. It must be a great comfort to you.”

  Thiercelin sat up. “And just what is that meant to mean?”

  “What do you think?” She turned. They glared at each other for long moments. “You haven’t exactly been slow to run after her now that she’s back in Merafi. And I doubt she’s discouraging you.”

  “Yviane!”

  She ignored the outrage in his voice. “Valdin wasn’t enough for her, clearly. And you’re making it easy for her.”

  “I made,” he said, “one courtesy call on her. I haven’t seen her since, nor do I expect to.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Your choice.” His voice shook.

  Yvelliane drew on her bodice with jerky movements. Her fingers fumbled over the stiff buttons. “And what about Lieutenant Lievrier?”

  “Who?” Momentarily, he seemed baffled. Then he blushed. “Oh, that. It’s unimportant. And it’s none of your business.”

  “None of my business? When my husband goes fighting duels with an officer assigned to the Lunedithin embassy?” He was silent. “Did you really think you could keep it from me? He called on you here, you know.”

  With an effort, he said, “It’s nothing, Yviane. A silly disagreement.”

  “Call it off, then.”

  He looked away.

  She said, “Well?” She made herself hold his gaze. She must not back down. She could not be hurt, not again, not now. She had her anger to hold her, to protect her . . .

  He said, “I . . . It’s a matter of honor. However little I may want to fight him, I can’t back down without losing . . .”

  It was Valdarrien’s answer. Somewhere, beneath her fury, Yvelliane felt pain creeping up on her. She fought to keep her voice cold. “Losing what? Your life, like Valdin?”

  “Please don’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, I . . .”

  She ignored him. “Iareth came here six years ago, and it cost Valdin his life. Now she’s back, and you’re risking yours.”

  “It isn’t like that.”

  She looked at him. “Prove it. Call off the duel.”

  He closed his eyes. “I can’t.”

  “Can’t, or won’t?”

  “Can’t. Yviane, I . . .”

  She cut him off. “You’re right. I don’t understand you or Valdin. As if any of the things you fight over actually matter!”

  He looked up. “I’m not in the habit of dueling. As you know.”

  “Then why now?” He was silent. “Because of Iareth Yscoithi?”

  “No.”

  “Then why? You have no other reason, have you?” Thiercelin still said nothing. She sighed. “Don’t you care, Thierry? She killed Valdin as surely as if she fired the gun.”

  “That is not true.”

  “It is.”

  “River rot it! Is that all you wanted this morning, to play off a jealous scene?” He glared at her.

  “I’m not jealous.” She lifted her chin.

  “You certainly could’ve fooled me.” She made no reply. “That’s it, isn’t it? Iareth did what you never could. However much you bullied him, Valdin wouldn’t behave. He just went right on quarreling and fighting. But she tamed him.”

  “I hardly think . . .”

  He interrupted her. “You always have to be in control. Of me, of Firomelle, of Valdin . . . He could never do a drowned thing right for you. You censured everything he did—his friends, his pastimes, his manners. If he was wild, is it any wonder?”

  “You tell me! You were fast enough to encourage him in all his games. Almost from the moment he set foot in Merafi, you were there, introducing him to all the rakehells and gamblers, and letting him keep you, half the time. Sometimes I wonder if it really was me you were in love with!” She stopped. She had not meant to say that. Had never meant to say it. If it were true . . . Her throat was tight; her eyes threatened tears.

  “Indeed?” Thiercelin rose and made her a small bow with offensive precision. “I’m surprised you waste time thinking about it. I’m sure Firomelle has better uses for you.”

  “Now who’s jealous?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Oh, really?” Her voice was contemptuous. “You begrudge every minute I spend away from you.”

  “Well, that would be most of your life, wouldn’t it? Why don’t you tell me something, Yviane? Tell me: why did you bother to marry me, if all you want is a man for an hour or two every couple of months?” he said. “Or is it that I’m cheaper than Gracielis?”

  She looked round at him and, despite herself, her eyes were wet. He reached out to her. She ignored him. She said, “Well, you should know his current going rate.” And swept from his room, slamming the door behind her. She heard Thiercelin curse, then a crash as he flung something at the wall. Halfway down the corridor outside, she stopped, pressed a hand to her mouth. Her heart pounded in her ears. Her eyes stung. Why did you bother to marry me?She had dared not answer that, not when he was so angry, so willing to hurt her. BecauseI was so alone. Because I felt safe with you. She half-turned, looking back at his door. She might go back, try to explain. She could still smell him on her skin, dearly familiar. She wanted to go back.
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br />   He was still angry. She might only make things worse. He had seen Iareth; he was seeing Gracielis . . . She had pushed and argued with Valdarrien all his life, and it had made no difference at all. He had never heeded her. She did not know how to deal with those she loved, only with numbers and intrigues and dry papers. Swallowing hard, she rubbed her hand over her eyes and made herself go down the stairs to her office and its piles of work.

  Alone in his room, Thiercelin buried his face in his trembling hands. “Drown you, Valdin,” he said, very softly. “Oh, drown you.”

  Miraude smoothed out the folds of her gooseberry silk afternoon gown, and contemplated herself in her longest mirror. The dress was new, but she had horrified her modiste by requiring it to be made in a countrified style.

  The round neckline was cut high, and the plain sleeves fitted tightly to just below her elbow, without ribbon or frill. On another woman, it might have been dowdy. On Miraude . . . She looked charmingly serious, a modest jewel in the casket of her suite. Her acquaintances would wonder at her for a day or two: she could afford that. In a week, at least a third of them would be wearing garments in the same mode.

  It paid, she had learned, always to appear completely confident. Inside, however, she felt uncertain. Kenan Orcandros was a different kind of challenge. She had always been able to rely on her charm and her beauty to steer her to her goals. Kenan was unlikely to be so easy. She frowned at herself. Today, she must be quiet and modest, careful and scholarly, and hope that the simple fact of her nationality would not prove an insurmountable barrier. She wished Thiercelin were coming to her salon. But he had stalked from the house at lunchtime, face set and shoulders rigid. Yvelliane was locked away in her study and refusing to answer her door. Miraude’s frown deepened. Something was wrong in her home, and she had no idea why.

  She had no time to find out right now. However much she disliked it, it would have to wait. Giving her gown a final pat, she went through into the drawing room attached to her boudoir. Chairs had been arranged in a series of small, intimate circles about tables or before the hearth. A long white sideboard bore a selection of cold refreshments; on a square table close to the door were set decanters of wine and goblets. Maids would be ready in the kitchens to bring in tea and chocolate. The air was scented with fresh flowers and with pinewood. Books of prints, of poetry, of philosophy were on hand for debate or diversion. Atop another table was a ready supply of paper, quills, and ink.

  It was not necessary to be well-born or wealthy or even well-mannered to be admitted to Miraude’s salon. She had realized early on that one might meet one’s social peers anywhere. Interesting conversation was much rarer. From the first day she had set up the salon, that had been her goal. Her regulars included indigent writers, wealthy dilettantes, priests and scientists, philosophers and painters, aristocrats and musicians and travelers, actors, mathematicians, scholars, and anyone who intrigued or amused the hostess. Yvelliane was an occasional visitor; Thiercelin had always refused to attend. “I don’t mind listening, Mimi, but someone might expect me to say something clever.”

  “Mal comes,” Miraude had pointed out.

  “Yes, but Mal never minds looking like an idiot,” Thiercelin had said, and retreated to the stables.

  Today’s program included a recital of several new poems, a piece performed by a shy young harpsichordist, and a discussion of a treatise upon the nature and meaning of the Five Domains written by a skeptical university doctor. She had chosen them with care, seeking to engage the attention of her most particular guest, Kenan.

  He was among the last to arrive, accompanied by the Lunedithin ambassador, Ceretic. She met them at the door and dropped a neat curtsy. “Your Highness. Thank you for coming.”

  “We do not use titles in Lunedith.” He looked over her head as he spoke.

  “That must create an admirable informality of conversation.”

  “We find,” said Kenan, “that individuals know their place without constant reminders.”

  Miraude lowered her eyes and introduced him to the deputy priest of the temple of the flame.

  She made it a principle to talk little at her gatherings. She found she learned more that way. She passed among the guests, listening a little here, smoothing over an irritation there, smiling and gracious and demure. By the time she made her way back to Kenan, he had been joined by a scholar from the university, a priest, a satirical writer and a merchant-chemist who made it a point never to believe in anything he had not seen or measured or tested for himself. She paused beside them, leaning gracefully against the back of the writer’s chair, opposite Kenan. She knew she made a charming picture, the eggshell walls setting off the fragile color of her gown and the creamy gold of her skin, the late afternoon light striking deep blue notes in her hair, one long ringlet falling forward to kiss her cheek.

  The chemist said, “In the light of our new scientific knowledge, you have to accept that the old beliefs are metaphors. Our ancestors couldn’t grasp the world the way we do, they lacked our techniques. But all these tales of living rocks and shapeshifters . . . They’re just ways of expressing our feelings and fears about the natural world. They don’t literally exist. It’s not possible.”

  “The Books of Marcellan say otherwise,” the priest said.

  “Marcellan was a primitive. The work being done at our university and at those in the Allied Cities have clearly demonstrated that . . .”

  “In Lunedith,” Kenan said, cutting across him, “we are not so contemptuous of our past.”

  The chemist blinked. The scholar said, hesitantly, “Of course, all these things are open to interpretation . . .”

  “Fact is fact,” Kenan said.

  “But that’s precisely my point. Science gives us facts. The Books of Marcellan merely give us stories,” the chemist said.

  “Stories believed by many people over many years,” said the priest.

  “Facts,” said Kenan, folding his arms.

  The chemist stared at him. “But, young man, no one has ever seen such things.”

  “Perhaps,” the writer said, quietly, “we need better eyes.”

  “I’ve seen them,” said Kenan.

  There was a silence. The scholar picked up his tea, cup rattling against the saucer. The priest said, “Well, of course, there have always been accounts . . .”

  “Delusions,” said the chemist.

  Miraude said, “Isn’t that often the first response to new discoveries?” She smiled at the chemist. “I remember you telling us how your brother reacted to your early findings. As you always say, proof before pronouncement.”

  “The Lunedithin maintain closer links to our common past than we do,” the priest said. “And, of course, the Tarnaroqui . . .”

  The chemist interrupted. “None of this is testable, gentlemen.”

  “Perhaps,” Kenan said, “your city is simply too young. You clear away your past in every generation. How can you know anything of your origins like that?”

  “Without progress,” the chemist began.

  “Truth,” said Kenan, “is not to be found in perpetual changes. You have neither depth nor faith nor any real past here.” He leaned forward in his chair. “Merafi was founded by an unbeliever. It was made to be blind. You have nothing here older than two or three centuries. My family have lived in the keep at Skarholm for a thousand years.”

  “The Old Water Temple . . .” said the priest.

  “Was rebuilt by the queen’s great-grandfather after the west city fire,” said the writer.

  “There are tunnels.” The scholar put down his cup. “Under the butter market and along the line of the old city wall.”

  Kenan turned toward him a little too sharply. That was interesting. The scholar continued, “And under the Old Temple there are ancient foundations. It’s possible they may belong to Yestinn Allandur’s original fortress, if the early maps can be trusted.”

  “I didn’t know that,” the writer said.

  “I’ve
been engaged on a program of investigation,” the scholar said. “A cellar was damaged in that temple last year, and the priests very kindly invited me to excavate.”

  Kenan’s face was neutral, yet the line of his shoulders bespoke intent attention. Watching him sidelong, Miraude said, “I should very much like to see that. History fascinates me.”

  “It’s dark and dirty . . .” the scholar began.

  She came to stand beside him. “And you would be there to teach me.”

  “Well . . .”

  “It would,” said Kenan, “be of interest to see if any part of Merafi has true antiquity.”

  Miraude placed her hand over that of the scholar. “With Prince Kenan and you to watch over me, I’ll feel perfectly safe. And,” And she smiled again at Kenan, “We might come closer to finding the proofs that our chemical friend requires.”

  The scholar lifted her hand and kissed it. “If you wish it, then.”

  “I do. It will be our adventure.”

  Across the table, Kenan raised his cup, hiding his mouth. She was pretty certain he smiled. Well, that was his privilege. But there was something he wanted here, and Miraude had every intention of ensuring she was with him when he found it.

  The lieutenant’s ghost preened, watching Gracielis with colorless eyes, aping his every movement. Pushing his wet hair back, Gracielis smiled and then shook his head, spraying water across the floor, through the ghost. He said, “You waste yourself, haunting me. You should haunt children. You’re the ideal excuse for wicked behavior.” It stared back at him, contemptuous.

  He shrugged and stepped out of the bath. His skin was flushed with heat. He stretched and reached for a towel, enjoying precious time alone. Well, almost alone. The ghost sneered at him. He bowed to it. Then, wrapping a robe about himself, he sat down to the glass and began to comb the tangles out of his hair. Unpainted, his face had a curiously unreal quality, as though he withheld his opinions even from himself.

  He had not found Chirielle or much information to add to that he had bought from Sylvine, but Amalie had been pleased with what he had been able to tell her and his expenses had been more than met. There was a new ring in the ebony box on his dresser. And, more importantly, his words had eased some of Amalie’s worries. It pleased him to please her and to spare her anxiety.