Living With Ghosts

by Kari Sperring

  He was weeping, he who never wept, Valdarrien the duelist, the killer. He said, “Iareth . . .” and stopped, looking at her, seeing the beauty in her stillness.

  Her hand lifted, touched her sword hilt lightly, traveled upward to her heart, passed on, and stretched out toward him, palm up. The Lunedithin salute, given to their prince, and to their guests, and to their kinsmen by blood or vow: I serve you. I honor you. I am yours.

  I am yours.He said, “You came back.” She was silent. “You said you wouldn’t, but you did.”

  Her lips twitched. She said, “I am not alone in that. You have had a longer journey back than I.”

  He remembered, after the uncertain fashion of dreams, a conversation in a darkened room; a dance. He said, “I told you.” And then, “Iareth kai-reth, can I—may I—touch you?”

  “I do not know. You might try.”

  Two steps brought him to her. He could feel her warmth. His hands found her shoulders and seized them. His head bowed against her. He closed his eyes. He could feel the soft tide of her breath, hear the murmur that was her heart. He had won her back and he would break in pieces before he lost her again. Her arms came around him, about his waist, and he felt that she did not tremble. Whip-cord and willow; pliant only as it pleased her. Beside her, he was glass. Into her hair, he said, “Not again. Never again.”

  Another of her qualities, that she always understood him. She raised her head and looked at him. “We will be together while we may.”

  “Always,” he said. “You promised it . . . I shall fight to keep you this time.”

  “Valdin kai-reth.” She put a hand under his chin and lifted it. “Look at me.” He opened his eyes. “What do you see?”

  “You,” Valdarrien said.

  “So.” She smiled at that, and he awoke to her anew. “Look closer.” She shook her braid forward over a shoulder. “For you it has been a handful of months only. For me, six years.” She hesitated. “I am no longer the same, Valdin kai-reth.”

  “You love me.” He was as sure of that as he could be of anything. “We are kai-rethin, each to the other. That was our compact. It doesn’t change.”

  “No. But . . .” Again, that pause. He watched in fascination as her brows drew together. He had forgotten that, too. She said, “My duty to my clan is also unchanged.”

  “So what?” he said. Amusement flickered on her face. “They’ve had most of your life. It’s my turn now.”

  “And I have no say in this?”

  “No. Not unless you agree with me. Agree with me, Iareth kai-reth.”

  She smiled. Then she laughed. Her head dropped to his shoulder. “You do not change.”

  “No.”

  “Kenan . . .” She paused and shook her head. “There are troubles of which you know nothing.” He shrugged. She said, “By rights, this is impossible.”

  “I do not,” said Valdarrien, “see any reason to conform to ‘rights’. All that matters is that I’m here. Say yes.”

  Iareth gasped. Voice uneven, she said, “You are imperious. As ever.”

  “Yes.” He stood back, and looked into her eyes.

  “You’re all I want. Agree, my Iareth.”

  Her hand traced the side of his face. She said, “Real . . .” And then, “There are matters to which I must attend for Urien and others. Your wife . . .”

  “Whatever you do, I’ll do as well.”

  “So simple? I wonder . . .” She drew in a long breath. “I do not understand, Valdin kai-reth.”

  “Nor do I,” he said. “Urien—and that Tarnaroqui, Gracielis—have notions . . . I understand that I need you, Iareth kai-reth. The rest can drown.”

  She looked up at him and shook her head. Amused despite herself, she said, “Merafien!”

  “Say yes. I won’t stop asking until you do.”

  She looked down. Her left hand twisted in her braid. Her right still touched him. She said, “This does not happen.”

  “Only to us.”

  “Valdin Allandur kai-reth,” Her tone was formal. He caught at her hand, fighting sudden chill. “We are kin by oath. The bond cannot be broken. You know your answer.”

  “No. Say it.”

  “To you?” He nodded. She said, “Urien has ever said I chose wrongly.” He waited, trembling. She looked straight at him. “To you, yes. Always and always yes.” Her hand knotted in his. “By stone and flame, wind and wave and darkness, I swear it. Always, Valdin kai-reth.”

  He kissed her, then.

  “Don’t refuse me, love.” Amalie closed the lid of the final chest and turned. “I don’t understand what you’re doing, but I trust you. And I want to help.” She had taken a cloth bag out of the chest. Now she held it out. “You almost never let me give you things.”

  Gracielis looked at the floor. He said, “You know what I am.”

  “Yes.” She was brisk. “But I also know you.”

  “I’m not . . .” Gracielis stopped, fidgeted with his hair. The shop was bare. He said, “Amalie. Ladyheart. I’m a whore.”

  “You’re my lover.” In turn she hesitated. “And you’ve dealt fairly with me, where others of your profession might not.”

  He said, “You can’t know that.”

  “Can’t I? Look at me, love.” He looked up. Her face was calm and serious. “I’m a woman alone, that’s true. I have no family here, apart from Jean. But I’m not a court beauty or a sheltered treasure; I’m a guildswoman. I live by commerce. I learned long ago to recognize a good deal.” She looked down. “I always knew I couldn’t buy your heart.” He made to speak at that, but she held up a hand. “You’re dear to me and you’ve been good to me. If it wasn’t me that you thought of in bed, then the deception was graceful and well done. I know you’ve always thought you took from me; but the truth is, you only ever took money. The rest was giving.”

  He said, “Forgive me.”

  “For what? For kindness?”

  “You deserve better.”

  “And I’ve had it.” Amalie put the bag down on the chest, then crossed the room and took his hands. “Are we friends, Gracielis?”

  He made himself look up, and banished all artifice. He said, “I’m not good at loving . . . If I were, I would’ve loved you, Ladyheart.”

  She kissed his cheek. “Listen, love. I want to help, but I’m not sure how. Except . . . What I do have is money, and you can’t live on air. Please don’t be too proud.”

  “It isn’t pride.” He lifted her hand. “Forgive me.”

  “Always, love.”

  “It wasn’t contempt, I swear. It’s simply that I . . .” He could not say it. He could not name Quenfrida to her. “I had a duty to someone at home. I’m ashamed.”

  “Don’t.” Amalie squeezed his hand. “We’ve been good to each other, you and I. Let’s leave it at that.” There was an odd note of finality in her voice. She smiled at him again and released his hands. She said, “You’ll need money, prices are rising. This,” and she passed him the bag, “should cover you and your friends for a month or so. Beyond that, I’ve left instructions with my guild master that you may draw on my funds.” Gracielis reached out to her. “I’ve left details of my forwarding address upstairs in the office. I don’t expect you to transact business for me, but I’d be grateful if you could forward any messages. Write to me, if you have time.” She stopped and looked down. “Goodbye, love.”

  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-full 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. Thi
ercelin 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.”