Living With Ghosts

by Kari Sperring

“I see.” Joyain found a pen, albeit very battered, and dipped it in the ink. As he expected, it was scratchy and blunt. “So this would be about when . . . ?”

  “I couldn’t hear the bell. The wind wasn’t blowing and I don’t own a clock. But Handmoon was starting to set. That’s when it’s most dangerous.”

  Joyain looked up. “What do you mean?”

  Banvier nodded at him. “You’re not with the watch, are you?”

  “I’m a staff officer in Her Majesty’s household cavalry.”

  “I thought so. I was a stores clerk in the arsenal. I couldn’t tell the watch this, you understand.”

  “Of course,” said Joyain, who didn’t. “Please go on.” This assignment was getting weirder by the minute. And he’d found the Lunedithin a strain. “Handmoon-set, you say?”

  “That’s right.” Banvier looked at him. “My brother went for a priest, nigh on fifty years ago. He’s dead now, but he told me a thing or two, and I’ve remembered. That’s how I knew when to be careful.” He met Joyain’s eyes. “The old kind are coming back, like in the stories. Neither dead nor alive, neither man nor beast, killing and maiming because they know no better. They killed my neighbor. He’d gone outside, you see, near the river.”

  “Near the river?” said Joyain, who was getting confused.

  “My brother told me about it. How there used to be creatures made of mist and air. But the old kings bound them and drove them out and so we’ve been safe. But not anymore. I saw it, you see. About a week ago, written on Mothmoon.” Banvier sighed. “Death in the water. First in the shantytown and the docks, as ever, and the low city. Then here, and next . . .” He shrugged. “Who knows? Someone should tell the queen.”

  “Umm,” said Joyain. He had stopped writing. None of this made any sense. It was worse than the things Gracieux had thought up to frighten Amalie. He said, “And the fire?”

  “They run from it, those creatures. I saw them through the cracks in my shutters. I watched and I prayed and I kept my own fire lit.” Banvier said. “Beautiful, in a way, but not like us. I’ve never seen anything like them, and I’ve seen some strange things. Dead things, even, and traces.” Joyain suppressed a shiver. “I’m telling you the truth. You do believe me?”

  Creatures of mist, inhuman, which retreat from fire. Gracielis’ tales, of river-borne danger . . . Joyain said, “Well, it’s unusual . . .”

  “But true.”

  “Your brother told you about these creatures?” Joyain knew he was buying time, trying to put his thoughts into some species of order. “And he was a priest?” If this was priestly knowledge, why had there been such a silence from them? They were usually all too happy to find excuses to call attention to themselves.

  “Yes, and no,” Banvier said. “They don’t believe, there on their island. These are old things, I told you.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “My brother saw things too, more than me. That’s why he went there, but they had no use for that. He used to read, looking for explanations. He said that some of the old books talked about it.” Banvier hesitated. “You could look there, if you don’t believe me. Or find a Tarnaroqui. They’re fey. They’ll know all about this. They’ll be laughing.”

  Joyain was beginning to feel irritated. First Gracieux, now this. The ensign had called the man respectable, but the ensign had reason to be less than delighted by Joyain’s presence here. Either something was so wrong that the city itself was losing its senses or he was getting the runaround.

  He said briskly, “Well, that’s very interesting.” Kenan Orcandros had some kind of relationship with a Tarnaroqui aide, Iareth had said . . . It was scandalmongering. A few high tides, a lot of unseasonal rain, and tongues began to wag. He wouldn’t be at all surprised if Gracieux turned out to be an agent provocateur . . . Out loud, he said, “Do you have Tarnaroqui blood yourself, Monsieur Banvier? Or Tarnaroqui contacts?”

  “Oh, no.” Banvier looked shocked. “I’m Merafien born and bred these five generations. You’re doubtful; I can see it. So I’ll tell you something. I wasn’t going to let anyone know this. No point. But when I saw you, I thought you might credit me. I could see it, you see, behind you. You’ve been touched by them, those mist-things. Their feel is on you. So I thought I could tell you. It’ll happen again. First this, then the sickness.”

  “I see.” Joyain rubbed his eyes.

  Banvier rose. “The watch know about the creatures too, but they won’t admit it. If you stay overnight down here, you’ll see. But you must stay inside and keep your fire lit.”

  “I’ll bear it in mind. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Banvier bowed, and turned to go. In the doorway he halted and looked back. “Oh, the fire. I’d forgotten. I’ve an idea where it started, although I didn’t see, as I said.” Joyain, resigned, raised his brows. “There’s a girl—was, I should say—who lived on the west edge of the district. She made her living sewing. She often sewed half the night, and burned a fire. But she always left her shutters open. The fire will have started at her place, I’ll warrant.”

  “Thank you,” said Joyain automatically, as the door thumped shut. He put his hand over his eyes and sighed. Then he looked up and yelled for the ensign.

  “It’s so slow,” Kenan said. He pushed his chair back from the table and stood. “I’d thought that by now . . . I’d hopes of something more immediate and dramatic.” A smile twisted the corners of his mouth. “I’ve waited so long.”

  “In your terms, perhaps.” Quenfrida was disapproving. She put down her embroidery frame and looked at him. “You’re losing your sense of perspective, my Kenan.”

  “Am I?” Kenan frowned. “You credit me with overmuch interest in your goals. You forget that I have my own expectations. I’ve waited all my life for the moment when I might free my homeland from the hands of the Merafiens.”

  “And I have waited four times your lifetime.” She spoke calmly, but her face was mocking. “Patience. You’re not dealing with human things now. The old powers are not swift to waken. They’ve slept a long time.”

  “Rain and mist and paltry deaths.” Kenan walked to the window and stared out into the rainy darkness. No lights showed in the houses around the courtyard. A depressing smell of rotting vegetation mingled with a sickly tang of caramel from a nearby confectioners’ shop. He drummed his fingers and sighed. “Is that all?”

  “It will escalate.” Quenfrida rose and opened a small cabinet with a key from a chain at her throat. She took out a decanter and two glasses. The firelight played pretty games with the color of her skin. “The time is right for us now, by moons and by water. It won’t be much longer.”

  Kenan watched the rain. “Yet meanwhile, I still see nothing.”

  “That, too, will come.” She hesitated. “Ghost-sight isn’t everything. It isn’t essential.”

  “Your first disciple has it.”

  “And it is of no use to him.” She came to the window and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Forget him, and drink with me.” The air was abruptly heady with her perfume. “Waiting is its own art.”

  “I can so nearly touch it.” Kenan pushed her away from him. “I feel what is out there, but it remains outside my reach. I’ve made my compact, yet my hands remain unfilled.” He hesitated. “Perhaps the bloodletting at Saefoss was insufficient. Perhaps injury and what I did in the the old clan hall weren’t enough. Perhaps I should take a life in the ritual.”

  “That rite unlocks power only in those with the right blood. You’re clan-bred. It won’t serve you. You have other powers, clan skills he can’t ever attain.”

  “And now? What do we do?” Kenan looked at his hands. “You speak of death in Merafi. Yet when I walk its streets I see nothing, sense nothing.”

  “You are its master. It dare not come near you.” She took his arm. Placing one of her small hands under his, she formed it into a hollow. As he looked down at her, she smiled. She said, “As to now, you practice; and you observe.” Heat dance
d along the edges of his palm, signaled in wispy smoke. Quenfrida lowered her eyelids, and the candles grew dim. The room was very still: he could hear only her breathing, regular as any clock. She said, softly, “Work through me. Conjure it.”

  He placed his other hand under hers, and fought to bring his breathing similarly into line. Her heat blistered him, but the force of her would not permit him to remove his hands. Closing his eyes, he sought his way to it, along the patterned channels of his blood, clamorous with confusion. Shapes twisted away from him, limping. He clutched at them with hungry fingers, trying to turn them outside their nature. Clan-blood, structured in the material world; none so pure, perhaps, but unbearably human. His hands convulsed with the effort. Quenfrida stood beside him, unmoving as dead air. He could barely feel her, beneath the heat, the pain. He made one last, immense effort, and felt sweat soak him, His head pounded. The shutters banged and slammed in a sudden gust of wind. The room quivered in unexpected cold. He could touch nothing new. His head fell back; he gasped. Quenfrida forced his hands away, and the room seared with a light so intense he could see it through his closed lids. He stumbled back, panting, dropped to his knees. The floor was damp, sticky: opening his eyes, he found himself slumped into a pile of decomposing leaves. Quenfrida watched him. He could not quite bring himself to look into her eyes. Into the brightness of her, sky-shaded. Light danced around her, weaving caresses into her creamy complacency. She shook the toffee-gold hair back from her brow, and color shivered from it to illumine the walls. Flames danced in her upturned hands. Within Kenan, some animal remnant awoke, urging flight, cringing before the drenching odor of honeysuckle and ash. He licked dry lips. He said, “Quenfrida. Quenfrida undaria.” His voice betrayed him, edged with the fear bound into his otter-clan-blood.

  She looked down, and the flames were extinguished. She placed a palm against a pane of window glass, and the wind died. She drew in two sharp breaths, and the room returned to its normal temperature. She looked at Kenan, and for the briefest half-instant, swan wings shadowed her sky-blue eyes. He shivered, still on his knees, and brought his seared hands in toward him. They were whole, unharmed. He cradled them against him and watched her gather her skirts to her. She looked in some distaste at the floor.

  He said, “It was already raining. Your wind brought the water in.”

  “Most likely.” Her voice was perfectly controlled. She smiled at him, and her eyes were clear. “Come: we’ll find a drier room.”

  The hand she held out to him was small and shapely, no probable vessel for the powers she juggled. Climbing to his feet, he took it and found it sweet and cool. He said, “What did you do?”

  “Party tricks. Bring the wine.” She had gathered up the glasses; obediently he collected the decanter, and let her lead him upstairs.

  He said, “I can do none of that. Not one part. It remains beyond me.”

  “That is due to your clan-blood.” Quenfrida took them into a large chamber. Placing the glasses on a chest top, she pulled open the tapestried hangings of the high-post bed and sat down upon it, dropping off her shoes. “It’s to be expected. But not everyone of the undarii has the ability to work with those ways, anyway. I am aspected in sky, and wind: those tricks are strongest in that quadrant.”

  “But he can do it.”

  “As it happens, no.” Quenfrida smiled beautifully.

  “Pour me a drink and come here, my Kenan. It doesn’t matter what Gracielis can do.”

  Kenan said, “To you, perhaps. It’s different for me.” Laughter danced in her clever face. She leaned back on her elbows and looked at him sidelong. “Jealous, my heart?”

  “I think not.” He handed her the wine. “Not, at least, in the way you insinuate.”

  “I can expect, then, no rivalry over my person?” Quenfrida laughed, then sat up. “He could not do what you’ve done: bind the old powers to his will.”

  “Naturally. He lacks Orcandrin blood. You keep reminding me that such is the major requisite for that deed.”

  She placed a thoughtful hand on his chest and looked up at him from under her lashes. “Any of the Orcandrin can bleed. But few have the necessary forcefulness to compel binding. What I was alluding to was his lack of strength.” Her voice turned gentle. “You can’t do conjuring tricks. But you are undarios. He failed. You can forget him.”

  He put his hand over hers and looked at her pensively. “You’re most insistent on that point, Quena.”

  “Well, it happens to be true.”

  “Mayhap. But I recall that you never discard anything. Don’t play games with me.”

  “I’ll consider it.” Her voice was indolent. She tugged at a button on his doublet speculatively. “If you behave likewise regarding me.”

  “Think you I would do otherwise?”

  “Perhaps.” Quenfrida pulled away from him, and began to unpin her hair. He watched. After a moment, she said, “You’re wrong, by the way.”

  “Concerning what?”

  “The extent to which our working has progressed.

  You ignore the extent of symptoms already present here.”

  “I would have the power to see it.”

  “There are more forms of vision than those of the eyes.” She finished with her hair, and began to undo her bodice. “Help me, please.” He complied, a little stiffly. “So prim!” He avoided her gaze. “You are very nervous, these last few days.”

  “It is to be anticipated, a little impatience. The queen has men stationed in my house to watch me. My entourage are restless.”

  “Indeed.” Quenfrida stood and stepped out of her dress. She started to unfasten the rosettes holding up her stockings. “Your impatience is in itself a sort of vision. You don’t see it, but you feel it.”

  “You believe so?” Kenan considered, not wholly displeased with the notion.

  “Yes.” She turned to face him, loosening her petticoats with slow deliberation. “You’re good on feeling, my Kenan.”

  “So,” said Kenan and swept himself into her scented embrace.

  There is a whirring of wings, a steady beat driving the air down away before them, across the sky, across moons, painted in reflected light and memory. The sky is clear at his back. There is mist before him. He cleaves it, straight, stark, bright with alien beauty. This is his world, more than any other. He knows it at gut level, along the vein, through the nerve; it strengthens within his hollow bones. None closer, none more directly born into it. The waterborne changes are flagged bright for him, tasting danger through bird senses. Full circle, back again to the very starting point of his delicate, long race-memory. They have troubled his rest. They have tampered with the rhythm of his serene days, and he will find them and see for himself the nature of their broken revolution.

  His is no ordinary fear of changes. The wind may blow as it will, for all of him, but he cannot help but feel its teachings. His shadow is long, occluding the disk of Handmoon, long as his balancing, killing hands.

  He is Urien Armenwy, called Swanhame, drawn down from the north.

  There is a chill wind blowing.

  14

  YVELLIANE SHOOK OUT HER SKIRTS and regarded her reflection. The russet gown was neat enough, if not showy, and at least she looked competent. She had forgotten to bring any of her good jewelry. Well, there was no one she particularly needed to impress tonight. She would do. Of course she would do. There was a faint line between her brows, and her eyes were dark-circled. There no longer seemed to be sufficient hours in any day. So much that needed to be done . . . She put the thought from her, that personal problems might have contributed to her fatigue. She had overseen too many years of Valdarrien’s wildness to be ruffled by the minor vagaries of Thiercelin. Jealousy was a petty thing, and spite was worse. Thiercelin was hardly property, at his age. They both had the right to make their own courses. She had other concerns. She had to keep thinking that. She might afford no weaknesses.

  Greater concerns. Think of Firomelle, grown so frail. Think of murde
rs committed by night in the low city, and sickness, and discontent. Think of all that, and turn away from the intrusion of private matters. A marriage was not worth more than the safety of a state.

  There had been stones thrown at her carriage today. That was enough to worry over. It was only tiredness that pulled her thoughts back to Thiercelin. She sighed and lifted her chin. It grew late. It was time for her to present herself in the Grand Audience Chamber, with calm demeanor, dancing in the face of civil adversity.

  The Chamber was filling when she sailed in. Firomelle had not yet appeared, nor could Yvelliane see any trace of Thiercelin amidst the throng. She schooled herself against irritation. His distaste for these affairs was renowned; and both Gracielis and Miraude (who was to partner him) were capable of taking many hours over polishing themselves for public display. Yvelliane paused in the door, smiling, then joined a fellow councillor.

  The Tarnaroqui ambassador bowed to her. She curtsied in return and avoided his eyes. Quenfrida hung on his arm, and her smile glittered with malice.

  There was no time to spare for this ridiculous obsession with Thiercelin. Yvelliane turned her back very firmly to the door and began a conversation with a colleague regarding the measures being taken in the city by the watch.

  It was past eleven by the time the footman announced the rest of the Far Blays party. Firomelle had appeared and sat with Prince Laurens by the fire. She looked pale and strained and she coughed too often. Laurens was plainly perturbed. Yvelliane had not as yet had a chance to speak with either of them. Now she glanced once more at the queen, put her glass down on a table, and drew in a long breath. Her companion said, “Your sister-in-law gets lovelier every time I see her.”

  Yvelliane permitted herself to look round. Miraude glittered in the doorway, dramatic in crimson and black, Thiercelin and Gracielis flanking her. Yvelliane said, “You should tell her. I’d say she’s wearing half the annual military budget in rubies.”

  “At least.”