Yvelliane jumped and looked around. She had not heard the door in the paneling open. Papers were strewn across the desk before her; but she would have been hard-pressed to describe the contents of any of them. Her head ached. Nevertheless, she rose and made herself smile.
Laurens returned her smile and shut the door behind him. “You look busy.”
“There’s trouble in the low city.”
“Quite.” He went to the window and stared out into the darkness. Yvelliane remained standing. He said, “The footman brought your message to me. Fielle sleeps so little these days.”
“Yes.” He looked as tired as she felt, his skin sallow. She doubted he had had any sleep since before the soirée. She suppressed an urge to go to him. There was nothing either of them could say or do that would ease Firomelle’s illness.
Laurens took a final look out at the night and turned.
“Such weather.” He sat. “Sit down, Yviane. I need to talk to you.”
She sat and he drew a chair up to the side of her desk and joined her. He said, “This is difficult . . . Regarding Quenfrida d’Ivrinez . . . I’ve seen the documentation you’ve prepared. It’s very thorough. But we can’t go through with it.”
“What? We agreed . . .”
“Yes, I know that. But now isn’t the time to antagonize the Tarnaroqui. We have enough troubles at home.”
“There are always disputes in the low city or the docks.” She leaned forward. “Please . . .”
“Disease,” he said. “Flooding. A quarter of the watch have deserted, and there are two full patrols missing. Parts of the city are abandoned after dark.”
Gracielis had spoken to her of danger. He had warned of deliberate, determined, malicious attack, fueled by his Tarnaroqui mistress. She had taken steps to remove that mistress, to expose her for what she was. Yvelliane said, “I’m aware of Tarnaroqui complicity in our problems. The public exposure of Quenfrida . . .”
Laurens sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Fielle had another hemorrhage this morning. She isn’t strong enough to deal with a diplomatic incident. She probably doesn’t have much longer.”
No.But she did not say it. Laurens’ face was bleak: he had enough to deal with. She must bear this alone, as she bore the trouble in her marriage. Reaching out, she took his hand. His fingers wrapped about hers tightly. She said, “Is there . . . ?”
He shook his head. “The doctors are just waiting now. There’s nothing left to try. And,” and he released her hand, “that means we must have stability right now. If we offend Tarnaroq, and she dies . . . It’d be just the excuse they’d need to make trouble. They’d see a regency as the ideal opportunity to move in on our borders and interest.”
He was right. That much was undeniable. She had been too slow to act and now it was too late. She longed for Thiercelin, suddenly, calm and kind and always there for her. Always there, until now. She had driven him away with her intransigence. She said, “What can we do, then?”
“I don’t know.” There were tears in his eyes. She looked away. One them must stay calm.
She said “I can keep watching Quenfrida. Kenan, too. If one of them does something overt . . .”
“It won’t save Fielle.”
“It might help Merafi.” She made her voice brisk.
“We have to look after the country for her now.” All her adult life, she had served Firomelle. All her life, she had sought to benefit and protect her country, her city, her people. And it had all come down to this . . . Gracielis would ascribe it to Merafien blindness and arrogance in the face of the irrational, no doubt. Yvelliane did not know what to think. Perhaps there was nothing left to do save wait and hope. Perhaps she should be laying plans to spirit the heir away from Merafi to some distant place of safety. If any such place existed.
Perhaps, if she wrote to him now, at the bottom of her strength, Thiercelin would take pity on her and come.
Perhaps he would not. She said, “I’ll start putting together an emergency strategy.”
“Dear Yviane.” Laurens rested a hand on her shoulder. “We have to support one another now. Firomelle hasn’t the strength any longer.”
There was a long silence. Gracielis sat motionless. Valdarrien looked at the floor, then the window, then, finally, at the newcomer. His expression was something between surprise and outrage. Speaking, his voice held no small amount of indignation. “Is a man of honor simply to take an insult, Urien kai-reth?”
“A man of honor will never be insulted. And even if, through some mischance, insult is forced upon him, he will fight competently, Valdin kai-reth.”
Valdarrien’s gray eyes narrowed. His right hand worked, as if he barely arrested a move to his sword hilt. He said, “An oversight, I grant you.”
“Quite so.”
Gracielis coughed, and two pairs of eyes turned to look at him. He rose and said, “Good evening.”
“And to you also.” The newcomer had level green eyes like those of Iareth Yscoithi. He had great dignity despite his nakedness. He studied Gracielis for long moments. “I know what you are, I’m certain of that. But as to who . . . ?”
Swan wings. Swan wings across the sky . . . Gracielis bowed. “I am known as Gracielis de Varnaq. And you are Urien Armenwy, called Urien Swanhame, leader of the guard of Prince Keris Orcandros.”
Urien smiled. “You are well informed.”
“I’m clear-sighted.”
“That isn’t a unique ability.” The level gaze lay weighty on Gracielis. He stood firm beneath it. Hours before, it would have made him shiver. Urien said, “Chai ela, Gracielis undarios istin-shae Quenfrida.” He glanced at Valdarrien. “Your doing, I think?”
Swan wings and a binding. A promise, it seemed, to live. Gracielis smiled and said, “Not solely mine.” And then, in Lunedithin, “He is what he seems to be. More or less.”
“So I had surmised.” Urien said, in the same tongue. Valdarrien frowned. To him, Urien continued, “I have come in good time, I see. There is a great disturbance in this city.”
“Too great,” said Gracielis, thinking of Thiercelin.
Defensively Valdarrien said, “It’s nothing to do with me.” And then, “She’s here, also. My Iareth kai-reth.”
“It was Iareth Yscoithi summoned me.” Urien stared him down. To Gracielis he said, “I beg your pardon, but have you anything in which I might clothe myself?”
“I’ll see.” Gracielis bowed and let himself out of the kitchen. The house was dark. He made his way upstairs for clothing, and paused to check on Thiercelin. Herlève met him in the door. She said, “He’s asleep.”
“I’m glad.” He hesitated. “There’s someone here who may be able to treat him further.”
“Another of your street friends?”
“No.” Gracielis looked down. “I can’t explain all this.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
“Madame Herlève . . .” He drew in a long breath and looked up. “I’m at your mercy.”
“It won’t wash, Gracieux.” She met his eyes. He would have preferred to face down Kenan.
He said, “I beg you . . .”
“Madame doesn’t need the trouble you cause.”
“I know. But . . .”
In the corridor a door opened. Then Amalie’s voice, misty with sleep, called, “Herlève?”
“Coming, madame.” Herlève shot Gracielis another poisoned glance and bustled out.
Thiercelin moved a little and groaned. Gracielis turned and went to the bed. He lifted one of the pale hands carefully. He said in Tarnaroqui, “Oh, my dear one.” And then, “Forgive me.”
There was no response. Gracielis rested his brow on the back of Thiercelin’s hand. He could no longer afford to rely on others. He was alone, he must act. He dropped a kiss on the hand, and raised his head. He could hear Amalie’s voice, and Herlève’s. Rising, he went out into the corridor and knocked.
He did not wait for an answer. Both women turned to look at him, Amalie in surprise, Herlè
ve in disapproval. He bowed and said, “Madame, I need your help.”
“You,” said Herlève, “need to recall your famous manners.”
“Forgive me, madame.” Gracielis did not look at her.
“Ladyheart, I’ve brought you an injured man and two strangers in addition to myself. We need shelter. I throw myself on your protection because I have no one else to trust and nowhere else to go.” He hesitated. “Madame Herlève says you’re leaving Merafi tomorrow. I don’t want to delay you. But I crave your leave to remain here in your absence.”
“Well!” Herlève said.
Amalie shushed her, sitting down on the end of her bed and frowning. “You’re in trouble.” It was not a question. Gracielis said nothing.
She picked at the bedcover. “Joyain sent me a warning today. The unrest is spreading . . . Is it that?”
There was only so much he could tell her. He hesitated, then said, “Yes . . . We were set on. Lord Thiercelin is hurt.”
“Herlève told me.” Amalie rose and came to stand in front of him. She wore only her nightgown, and her hair was loose. He could see the gray in it. She said, “You know you’re always welcome here, love. I’ll do whatever I can to help you.” Her hand sketched the contours of his face. “I owe you, after all.”
He caught the hand and kissed it, back and palm. Then he said, “It is I that owe you. But you must leave as planned tomorrow.”
“Come with me?”
“I can’t.”
She studied him. “You mean that, don’t you?”
“Yes. Forgive me?”
“Anything, love.”
“Thank you,” Gracielis said, and meant it.
Thiercelin was woken by the sound of a clock chiming. His head felt heavy. There was a nagging pain in his side. He could not quite move; the attempt hurt. From somewhere beside him a soft voice said, “Monseigneur?”
Thiercelin opened his eyes. Gracielis was leaning over him, looking concerned. Thiercelin smiled at him and remembered.
Mist and violence and a form that could not be Valdarrien . . . He said faintly, “Graelis?”
“Here, monseigneur. How are you?”
“Terrible,” Thiercelin said, and gasped, because speaking was painful. He struggled to sit up and the world went awry. Somewhere in the midst of it, hands came to help him. He clung to them and hung there. He felt reassuring warmth behind him and smelled jasmine. He said, “Debt paid, Graelis.” And then, “What time is it?”
“A little after midnight. We’re staying with Madame Viron. Quite safe.”
“Good,” Thiercelin said. Gracielis’ presence was comforting, but he wanted Yvelliane. He must have spoken her name, for Gracielis said, “Soon, monseigneur,” and his voice was worried.
“She won’t come,” Thiercelin said.
“She will. But we must wait for dawn. You should rest. The Armenwy advises it.”
“The Armenwy?” Thiercelin was finding it hard to think. They must have drugged him with something.
“Urien Swanhame, of whom Iareth spoke. He’s here.” Gracielis shifted slightly. “Are you thirsty?”
“A little.” The liquid raised to his lips tasted bitter. He swallowed some of it and dropped his head.
Gracielis said, “It’ll ease the pain. But you should sleep.”
“Not yet . . . Are you all right, Graelis?”
“Of course.” Thiercelin could picture the smile that accompanied that remark, beautiful and faintly mocking. Gracielis added, “Why shouldn’t I be?”
“I remember what happened. I was attacked . . . You didn’t get to do what you intended . . .” There was no answer. Thiercelin finished, “And I saw Valdin, again. I think he saved me.”
“Yes,” Gracielis said. And then, “I saw him also. He’s here.” Another pause. “Do you want to see him?”
Not possible . . . But Thiercelin was losing his sense of the rational. He said, “Yes,” and waited while Gracielis settled him against a pillow, and went to open the door. Voices, and then . . .
Dark brows that lifted over gray eyes. A half-smile edging thin, bearded lips, Thiercelin said unsurely, “Valdarrien.” And then, “Oh, Valdin.”
Valdarrien drew up a chair and sat down astride it, resting his arms along the back. “In person,” he said. “Good evening, Thierry.”
“Good evening?” Thiercelin forgot his pain in outrage. “You come back from the dead, and all you can do is say, ‘Good evening’?”
“Certainly not.” Valdarrien sounded offended. “I have the most distinct recollection of coming between you and a very nasty attack earlier tonight, and I can’t say that I’m impressed by the depths of your gratitude. Such as they are.”
Gracielis had sat down on the edge of the bed. Thiercelin looked at him, but his face was shuttered, unhelpful. He looked back at Valdarrien and said, “You’re real.”
“Evidently.”
“But . . .” Thiercelin hesitated. “It’s confusing.”
“For you, anyway,” said Valdarrien. “Will you never learn to keep your guard up?”
“A marksman doesn’t need to,” Thiercelin said, stung.
“Can’t block a lunge with an empty pistol,” Valdarrien said. But his face was concerned, and after a moment he said, “It hurts?”
“Diabolically.”
“Poor Thierry. The fruits of indolence.”
Thiercelin glared. “Indolence? Who was it who spent three months flat on his back for underestimating an out-of-towner?”
Valdarrien shrugged. “I concede I may have been a little overconfident once or twice, but that incident happened when I was all of eighteen!”
“Twenty-one.”
“Eighteen.” Thiercelin refused to be stared down. Valdarrien sighed. “Maybe twenty. But . . .”
It was very tiring. Thiercelin managed to find a smile for his old friend, but his eyes were closing and he could no longer concentrate. He said, “My thanks, Valdin,” and felt a familiar hand grip his arm briefly.
Valdarrien said, “What else would I do?”
That was reassuring. Thiercelin murmured, “Do the same for you . . . some time . . .” and let himself settle back against the pillows.
From a long way away he heard Gracielis say “Let him be, now.” A hand came to take his, known in its strength, in the line of callus across the palm. A swords-man’s hand . . . Thiercelin returned the pressure and let himself slide away into warm darkness.
Leaving Valdarrien with Thiercelin, Gracielis found Amalie awaiting him. He closed the door quietly and smiled at her. She said, “Well?”
“He’s sleeping. Lord Val . . . His friend will sit with him.”
“I recognize Valdarrien d’Illandre.” Amalie looked at him. “No questions, love.”
He was grateful for that. He was tired. Urien and Herlève had retired. Thiercelin was weak but not in danger. There was nothing more that needed to be done, this night . . . He sighed and rubbed his eyes, trying not to think about the retribution that surely awaited him at Quenfrida’s hands. Amalie touched his arm and said, “Come to bed. You’re worn out.”
“I’m imposing.”
“No.” She drew him into her room and shut the door.
“I mean sleep only, love. I know you’ve had a strange night.”
He could not help smiling. He sat down on the bed and began to undress. He said, “Have I thanked you yet?”
“Several times.”
“Insufficient.” Amalie had taken off her robe and climbed into the bed. She reached out to close the hangings on her side. He stripped to his shirt and said, “I will always be your debtor.”
He slid into bed beside her, and she extinguished the candle with a snuffer. Lying on his back, hands behind his head, he stared at the canopy and listened to her breathing. She said, “Your wrists are healed.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t want to know what happened to you tonight. Merafi is growing strange.”
“Yes. I’m glad you’re goi
ng. I shall like to know that you are safe somewhere.”
“I’ll come back, you know.”
“Not soon, I beg you.” Gracielis rolled on to his side and looked at her indistinct form. “Go safely, Ladyheart.”
“And you, love.” She reached out and stroked his cheek. “I’m afraid for you, sometimes.”
He kissed her fingers. “Don’t be.” Her touch was soft and oddly pleasant. He leaned into it. “I have my own protections.”
“Yes.” Amalie sounded sad. He drew her against him. He could feel her warmth, the soft motions of her breath. He closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation, letting his hand slide over her shoulders. After a moment he bent and kissed her. She pressed close to him, returning it. He shivered, and his hands moved to the lacing on her gown. She helped him, shifting so that he could slip it away and undid his shirt. He lay still, savoring the feeling of her hands on him. There was no urgency to it; he awakened to her gently, kindly. She leaned across him, trailing kisses along his jaw, down his throat. Her lips reached the hollow of his collarbone. He gasped, and something ignited.
This should not be happening . . . He lay in Amalie’s arms, letting her explore and arouse him, and he was responding not to memory, but to reality. Not to some ghost-Quenfrida, but to the woman beside him. Amalie’s hands stroked down his flank. Need blazed within him. He kissed her with unfamiliar hunger, and heard her gasp.
He was remade in one night. He had been property, spirit and body; and now he was not. He opened his eyes and looked up at Amalie. She smiled. He remembered how it was she liked to be touched and let his hands move. She pressed closer to him, and he felt her pleasure like a wave. His own need was almost too intense to be supported. He arched against her, and she opened for him. That was even better. He heard his breath sob as he moved and moved and moved, closer and closer. Amalie shuddered and called his name. He held her tighter, feeling her climax, unable even to pause. There was a roaring within him, a desperate pressured inward intensity; he would fall in pieces, he would break apart . . . Flame lanced through him, sudden and violent, as his head fell back and he rose against her and lost his fears in unguessed pleasure.
He wept afterward, and she held him close and asked no questions.
Living With Ghosts Page 36