The river ran slowly. Across its surface, mist formed and congealed. Its patience surpassed that of mortal things. It encompassed its own disturbances and admitted no conscious knowledge of human action. In the shantytown the air tasted foul. Debris lapped at the fringes of the settlement and the inhabitants shivered as night fell. In the embassy on the hill, Kenan looked up from his book and did not smile. Pain cramped through his hand. He rubbed it and touched alarm.
Dancing, Quenfrida pulled away from her partner and gasped. Across her palm was a deep gash fully three inches long.
Gracielis had forgotten that he was afraid of the dark. He had forgotten how it felt to be utterly alone. It was too cold in his room, and he shivered. Quenfrida would not come. He had transgressed and she would not come. She knew him too well.
The light was fading. Behind heavy clouds, the sun set. The moons rose unnoticed. He sat with his back to the shuttered window. He could think of nothing. His mind was empty of everything save the fear and the knowledge that he must wait.
She came into his room at deepest night. She perfumed the darkness. She encompassed all that lay within it. She was too beautiful. He gazed on her in need and yearning, while her sky-blue eyes held him in contempt. He reached out to her with his bloodied hand.
She ignored it. Softly, she said, “I should kill you where you sit.”
He said her name because it was necessary. She looked at the blood on the floor and said, “What have you done?”
“I needed you.” He was desperate. “Chai ela, Quenfrida. Quena, the air is full of death.”
“I do not,” said Quenfrida, “require you to teach me that. I am not blind.”
“It frightens me.” Death in the air and the taste of a power he almost knew. Honeysuckle and a strange face in his cards. He said, “You frighten me.”
“Do I?” She held his gaze until he was forced to look away. “Do you think that matters? You forget yourself. You broke your vow.”
“I had no choice.”
“You had every choice. You elected to do that to which you have no right.”
He was crying again, humiliated before her. He said, “The city will die, Quena. The people.”
“Merafiens. They are no concern of ours.”
“They live.”
“Death is the right of everyone.”
“But not this death. Their river . . .”
“Why not?” Quenfrida laughed, showing her teeth.
“They have chained it long enough. Now it takes its turn.”
It should not be possible. It was against the nature of the place. He said, “Stop it, Quena. Please.”
She smiled. “Stop what?” He made no reply. “Do you reproach me for my anger with you? Is that it?” He shook his head. “What, then?”
“Last night . . . I felt your hand, working.”
“So?”
He inhaled and forced himself to look at her. “You and someone I don’t know. Another of your making. I, too, am not blind.”
She regarded him curiously. There was a short silence. Then she said, “So I see. But how are you sure it’s only two?”
“I know you.” He could barely bring himself to say it. He could not quite keep the fear from his voice. “I know your history. The hierarchs distrust you. And I have seen . . . I have seen your second acolyte.” She was smiling now, but there was menace in it. Too late to back down. He said, “I read your past.”
Her eyes narrowed. Softly, viciously, she said, “You could not.”
“I did.”
They looked at one another in silence. Then he said carefully. “Forgive me. It was cards . . .”
Her smile broadened. “Cards?” He nodded. “Cards only? And what did you see?”
“The other one. I saw you had taken another.”
“Is that all?” She studied him for a moment. “Yes. You will not lie to me at present. So I have a new acolyte. What of it?”
He looked down and said, “Stop this working. I beg you.”
“Why?” She came closer, so that her perfume made him dizzy. “Tell me, my Gracielis. Our kind are banned from this city. If we are found here we risk death, or worse. Not death of our own device or selection, but the dishonorable death of strangers. Why, then, should we trouble ourselves over them?” He was silent. “This city is not our concern.” Her voice was no longer angry. Rather, it was patient and weary.
He caught her hand and drew it to his face. “There are those who have been good to me . . .”
She smiled. It was not a kind smile. “You are free to warn them. I grant you that much. If they will believe you.”
He looked down, no longer able to sustain the sight of her. He said, “Why not?”
She began to stroke his hair with her free hand. “We need them to be weak, my Gracielis.”
Almost inaudibly, he said, “I don’t.”
Her heard her sigh. Her lips brushed his brow. “Always so gallant. But the truth is that we must consider the wider political need.” She took her hand from his and sat on the chair arm. “Have you thought about what I said to you?”
He was lost, he was reeling. He said, “I don’t understand.”
“The seventh test.”
Magnolia and the chiming of silver bells. Water falling and a man with swan wings beating in his eyes. The cold smile on the lips of a redheaded stranger . . . He said, “I don’t know. I don’t think I can.”
She put an arm around him, gentling the pain. He wanted so much to turn his face into her shoulder, to hold on to her and never let go. She said, softly, sweetly, “I offer you a bargain, my Gracielis. Undertake and overcome the seventh test and join me. And then perhaps I may lighten my hand on this city, if you still wish it.”
His hair mingled with hers. Through the mixed curtain, he said, “But how . . . ? We have no temple here.”
“None is needed. I’ve learned other ways.” He could hear her smile. “All you have to do is kill someone for me in the right place and fashion. You have the access. It will not be as hard as you think. One death only.”
“Who?”
“Yvelliane d’Illandre of the Far Blays.”
He shook his head, tried to pull free of her.
She said, “You have the access.”
He found his voice. “No. No longer. I don’t see her or any of her family.”
Despite his resistance, her hands were on his shoulders. Such small hands, such strength. She said, “Two things, my Gracielis. First, Thiercelin of Sannazar spent last night in your room. And second, you’ve corresponded with Yvelliane since your eighth month in Merafi. You have no secrets that I don’t know. You are mine to your soul.”
He said, “No,” although whether to the deed or the knowledge was unclear.
She leaned against him. “But I wish it.”
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
JOYAIN 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 se
parate 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.”
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