She could not move. The knife stole her in pieces and she had no defense against it, bound by scented smoke. There were tears in her blind eyes, but she would not let them fall. Her hands were wet with her blood, touching memory, seeing at last the contradiction of her nature, half-blood, half-caste, half-committed, in deed and word and vow. By stone and flame, wind and wave and darkness . . . But not by blood, and blood is the last of all bindings.
She could find time, caught in this vague peaceful destruction, to wonder if Urien would forgive her failure. If Valdarrien would comprehend and remember. The knife was at her throat now, and it seared her. She raised her eyes and found that at the last they cleared. Kenan knelt over her and his face was blank. He said, “There is always a cost, dearest Iareth. And for me it is blood. To have what I most want, I require a life.” His free hand reached out to her and stroked her face. “You understand that this is not personal?” She was beyond speech. She could only look, and she knew that her eyes—her green Armenwy eyes—were mute. “A harsh punishment even for your treachery. But you may take comfort in knowing that your death will serve me.”
She had no words. The flow of her blood had taken with it the strength to hate. She was thinking of Valdarrien, who had surrendered his own life to a duelist’s bullet and cheated death to come back to her. She was failing him; she was abandoning him once again. If she could, she would have spoken his name and taken the taste of it with her into oblivion.
She could not. She could only hold to it, last of her memories, as her throat went under the knife.
In the salon of Amalie’s house, all the candles went out. Valdarrien d’Illandre let the glass he held drop to the floor, eyes wide, heart racing, hand already tightening on the grip of his sword.
Kai-rethin,andone.
21
IARETH YSCOITHI. Valdarrien could feel her: she was everywhere in the air. The scent of her clung to the air crowding in on him; the low breeze brushed his skin with her fingers. Everywhere and nowhere, wrapping him in alarm. It was still early; the streets of Merafi were unnaturally quiet. Shops remained shuttered, few carts rattled over the cobbled streets. The market squares were empty. Here and there, a prostitute hovered on a street corner or an anxious underservant scurried to work or a beggar poked through the gutters. It seemed that no one wished to be abroad unless they had no other choice. The city was being surrendered to shadows and unnatural things.
Like him. The light mist coiled toward him, lapped his boots and retreated. He paid it no heed, drawn on by that sense, that calling that told him all was not well. He should have forbidden her from leaving Amalie’s, he should have barred her way and forced her to remain. Her Lunedithin masters had no claim on her, no rights by comparison to his. He should have known danger lay ahead from the moment that word had fallen from her lips.
“I must return at least once to the residence, Valdin kai-reth. It is my duty.”
An ill omen trailed it, that duty of hers. He should have appealed to Urien to repeal it. But Urien had gone out in search of some irrelevance concerned with tides, and Thiercelin was asleep, and Gracielis . . .
Valdarrien had nothing to say to Gracielis. Merafi in peril, Tarnaroqui plots: none of that mattered in the least. She was in danger, his Iareth, and he must find her and win her back from whatever—whoever—it was that dared to threaten her. He climbed the cobbled road up from the low city to the hill, crossing the river at the Dancing Bridge. On higher ground, there were more signs of life. Here lights showed behind casements, there a faint strain of music drifted out. The low beat of bells spoke from the precincts of the Old Temple. The gates to the Lunedithin residence stood open: the guardhouse was lit but its doors were closed. No one challenged him as he entered and crossed the courtyard to the front door. He banged on it with his fist, once, thrice, five times, the sound bouncing round the walls. No one answered; he banged again, louder, and the door swung open. A young maidservant gawped at him as he pushed past her into the hall. “Monsieur . . . monsieur, please . . .” The taste of Iareth was stronger here, stronger and bloodier. Ignoring the girl, Valdarrien strode toward the stairs. Behind him, she called out to the household for help. His hand settled onto the hilt of his sword, cool and comforting. About him, doors slammed and feet hurried over wooden or tiled floors. His eyes narrowed.
A man stood at the head of the stairs, blocking his path. Red hair and a gray uniform, one of the royal kai-rethin. Valdarrien stopped, tightening his grip on the sword. He knew that face from somewhere . . . The man began to draw his own blade, stopped, gasped.
“Valdin Allandur?” The voice was light and accented, the thin face edgy and afraid. Valdarrien stared at him. The man—Tafarin Morwenedd, that was it—swallowed, said quietly, “Not possible . . .”
“Iareth Yscoithi,” Valdarrien said. “Where is she?”
“I . . . No one’s seen her today. She went out . . .”
“She came here. I can feel her.”
Tafarin fell back a step. “I don’t know . . . maybe Kenan . . .”
“I will find her.” Valdarrien closed the distance between them.
“Of course.” Tafarin dropped back another pace. “I mean, if you want to look . . .”
“I do not require your permission.”
“No . . .” Tafarin’s voice was faint. Valdarrien considered him in silence for a long moment. Then Tafarin stepped aside to let him pass. I areth Yscoithi...She was here, he was certain of it, and yet . . . Her scent tugged at him, drew him on down the hallway. He heard Tafarin behind him issue orders that he was to be left alone.
There were, it seemed, certain advantages to being dead, after all.
Her calling, that sense of her, drew him up another flight of stairs, along several passages and, at the last, to a door in the west wing of the residence. It stood ajar. At his touch, it swung open before him. The room beyond was gloomy, shaded from the weak light by a dense row of pines outside its windows. The casements stood open, framing those dour trees. The air tasted sour, spiced with iron and blood. The remains of several candles stood on various tables. A number of them had overflowed, trailing wax across the polished wood. There was a dirty-looking stain on one rug. The feel of Iareth Yscoithi was everywhere.
It was not her room. A pair of men’s gloves lay atop a chair; on the largest table a scatter of letters with aristocratic seals tangled with the candle wax. A line of invitation cards studded the mantelpiece. His Lordship requests the pleasure of the company of PrinceKenan Orcandros.
Kenan Orcandros. The sneering boy of fourteen who thought himself fit to rule an independent Lunedith and who had ambushed Valdarrien at Saefoss. Who had laid hands, now, upon Valdarrien’s Iareth. He could see her, now, on the fringes of his sight, straight and slim and trembling. Here, her hand had rested; here, where the floorboards were scuffed, she had struggled. Strands of her fine light hair were caught in the wood of the door, dusted the weave of the rugs. He was walking through her, lapped and drawn by her fear and her devotion. Entwined, entranced, he followed her from the salon to the bedroom beyond. Flakes of blood, flakes of skin shifted about him. Kenan’s spoor overlaid her, bitter, cruel. She had redeemed Valdarrien’s life at Saefoss from this same Kenan. Yet now . . .
Now . . . On the bed lay a blanket-wrapped bundle, dark and seeping. Valdarrien’s hand dropped from his sword. Blood on that blanket, on the floor about him, in the air . . . He reached out and pulled the blanket aside. Her face was as still as marble, calm and cool as he had always known her. Her throat was a bloody wreck. His fingers tightened on her shoulders, dug in, clutched at her, and she gave him no response. He dropped to his knees, brow resting against hers, each now as cold as the other. Nothing he did, it seemed, could hold her. He had fought back to her, and she had fled him once again.
Kenan would not escape. Her limp hand in his, her blood on his lips, Valdarrien swore it and lifted his head. The room was cold. Somewhere, out in the city, in the mist, Kenan still lived.
&
nbsp; He would not live for much longer.
The river stirred, shifted, thickened. Across Merafi, windows were being locked, fires built up as fear pressed in. The mist lay dense and heavy over the low city, reaching its killing hands upslope toward the homes of the rich and the privileged and blanking out the thin autumn daylight. In her rooms at the Tarnaroqui embassy, Quenfrida shivered. Changes in the air, a wrongness, a sourness that should not be there. Something had been added, something had been done, scratching and straining at the fine bonds of her working. Kenan. He was a fool, always wanting too much, wanting more. If he overreached himself now . . .
Deeper into the city, Gracielis paced the length of Amalie’s kitchen. His feet were bare: under them, the flagstones spoke of old power, of enmity, of a violence without boundaries. Something building, something shifting out of kilter. He could not find it, could not sense if it was for good or for ill. Frown lines traced themselves across his brow. Urien had yet to return from the Rose Palace. There was no one else he could ask.
It did not taste like Quenfrida, not this time. This was both older and less controlled, as if the city itself was beginning to awaken, to remember. Stone memory is the oldest. That was written in the First Book of Marcellan. Stone memory and the blood of beginnings.
The river and the city were pulling apart.
Cold hands had hold of Valdarrien, drawing him through the streets. His face was dark. No one who looked on it once looked again. No one remained for long in his path. His hand was clenched and sore about the hilt of his sword. He had died in her name and transcended death to find her again.
For this. To be cheated of her by Kenan Orcandros. He had never known he could burn so deeply. He let it lead him, feeling Kenan ahead of him, like a candle, a pale bright point amid the shadows populating Merafi. Kenan had bound power into him, along with the river. Kenan would learn to regret that. Valdarrien’s path took him across the river, heedless of the poor state of the bridges, of the refuse and decay in the streets; then down through the old city into the deserted area around the old docks, past husked-out buildings. Perhaps there were bodies in the alleys and covered passages. He did not choose to notice them, any more than he registered shuttered windows and sealed doors, the odor of burning and sickness. He was drawn, he was certain . . . Through the old docks, to the remains of the bridge that had once led to the submerged shantytown. The river lay vast and swollen, sluggish with filth and debris. It smelled foul. The floating dock was gone. Away to the east flames burned over the estuary. Valdarrien stopped on the very edge of the river and spoke a name.
“Kenan Orcandros.”
No reply. He waited, then spoke it again. He seemed to be wholly alone in this rotted part of the city; even the garrison had withdrawn. He hesitated and spoke the name a third time. This time there was a response. Below him the waters stirred and shivered, beginning to mist. From behind him came a footfall.
Valdarrien turned. Kenan, clad in bloody clothing, stood some twenty feet away, on the steps of what had once been a sugar merchant’s store. His face showed no surprise. He was older than Valdarrien remembered, taller, broader. That did not matter in the slightest. He said, “Valdin Allandur. Ill met.”
Valdarrien bowed. “For you, perhaps.”
“I thank you. You have some cause for troubling me?”
“You know that I do.” Valdarrien took a step toward him. The blood on that tunic might be hers. He longed to strike Kenan down with a word.
He longed to kill him by slow inches and make mockery of his pleas for mercy. He drew his sword and said, shaking, “I shall kill you.”
“For Iareth elor-reth? I doubt it.” Kenan stood motionless, hands on his hips. “You are illusion, Valdin Allandur. You have no power over me. Not now. Neither you nor the Armenwy can harm me. I have taken her blood to ensure that.”
“Don’t bet on it.” Valdarrien took another step. “Defend yourself.”
Kenan shrugged. “As you wish.” His voice was amused. He gestured at the river and spoke a word in some foreign tongue.
Mist rose. Valdarrien felt it as a chill in his veins. Water thundered in his ears. He drew before him the image of Iareth and took another step forward. Kenan spoke again. Another step. Perplexity began to show on Kenan’s face. Valdarrien smiled and quickened his pace. The mist was all about him. He moved through it and felt it slide in turn through him. No longer quite human, no longer quite real. Gracielis de Varnaq had diagnosed him and shivered. Now Kenan shivered in his turn, and Valdarrien laughed. Creature of water, he could take no harm from the water Kenan sought to use against him.
He came to the foot of the steps. He looked up at Kenan, and said, “Engarde.”
Kenan drew.
They were much of a height, although the steps gave Kenan an advantage. Valdarrien studied him in silence for a few moments. A little broader than himself, perhaps overconfident. To stack against that, Kenan was armed Lunedithin style, hand-and-a-half sword, weighted to cut and slash, slower than Valdarrien’s rapier, but heavier, heavier. Then, too, Kenan had known a lifetime of drill under the calm eye and expert counsel of Urien Armenwy. Not easy. Not very easy.
Valdarrien lunged, aiming for the thigh. Kenan’s blade shifted sideways from his low guard, deflecting. Valdarrien stepped back and waited.
Kenan smiled, holding position. His eyes were measuring. He could simply go on standing there. Valdarrien exhaled and attacked again; a beat, a beat, then a disengage under Kenan’s blade, striking upward.
Cloth tore. Kenan twisted and jumped off the step, landing on the other side. He still smiled. Valdarrien circled toward him, and Kenan switched guard, using both hands. Mist drifted and swirled between them.
Broader, and probably slower . . . The long pauses were a feint, that was all, designed to wear down Valdarrien’s nerves and play upon his frustrated anger. Valdarrien continued to circle, hand tight on his sword hilt, courting calm. Don’t think about I areth, now; don’t dwell on the loss of her. Think now only of the moment, of the man before him.
Kenan cut at him in quarte. Valdarrien remembered in time not to block the blow and ducked away from it, coming up a little to one side. The tip of his blade circled under Kenan’s arm, probing for the flank. Kenan had to step back to avoid it. Valdarrien pursued the advantage, feinting right, then flicking in under Kenan’s guard. Kenan drew back with a curse. Blood dripped from his forearm. This time, Valdarrien smiled.
That proved to be a mistake. Kenan broke rhythm and cut to his side. Valdarrien, wasting time gloating, tried to twist away and had to step back, losing ground. He cursed and struck back.
Kenan parried, struck in turn, was parried. His face was intent, passionless. His breathing was quite regular. Valdarrien caught himself starting to hyperventilate; controlled it. So Kenan was good. So what. Valdarrien had fought better and won. He risked a head cut, trying to get Kenan to raise his guard, and succeeded in tearing another hole in his opponent’s tunic with the follow-through. Kenan dropped back and looked at him.
“I was wondering, Valdin Allandur,” he said pleasantly, “if we play or fight?”
“Iareth Yscoithi,” Valdarrien said.
Kenan shrugged. “I regret I do not see the cause. By the law of my people there is no vengeance due for her kind.”
“I’m not subject to your laws.”
“Indeed? Nor to those of your homeland, I think. Is it not forbidden to fight in the public street in Merafi?”
“I’m dead,” Valdarrien said and enjoyed it. “Dead men have no laws.” He looked at Kenan. “You’ll no doubt discover that when I’ve killed you.”
“If,”said Kenan, reprovingly. “I dislike finding myself dismissed so certainly.”
“My heart bleeds.”
“Pray that you do not have the gift of prophecy.”
Valdarrien attacked in seconde, evaded Kenan’s block, and slashed upward. Kenan twisted free and struck. Valdarrien longed for an off-hand weapon, as he parried and sidesteppe
d. The air was still and a little sticky; the mist wrapped them in the odors of burning and decay. Perhaps it troubled Kenan. Valdarrien paid it no heed.
He feinted, drew back, feinted again on the other side, and succeeded in wrong-footing Kenan. The mistake left his opponent off-balance and with his right side open. Valdarrien lunged straight into the gap and felt the impact jar down his arm as his sword tip met bone. Kenan gasped and pulled away. Valdarrien pressed the advantage, driving blows against the other’s guard. That cut on the forearm must be beginning to tell on Kenan by now. Valdarrien dropped his own guard momentarily, then leaped aside and used Kenan’s attempt at a hit to bring in a blow to the same forearm.
Kenan shifted his sword to a single-hand grip. He was beginning to pant a little, and his look of concentration was sliding. His injured arm hung by his side. Valdarrien paused to check his own footing, then advanced and struck.
A high blow, a flêche, blade snake-sudden. Kenan was still recovering. His guard was not solid. He tried to parry, fumbling, and left himself open. The tip of Valdarrien’s sword slid past his wavering blade and came in at the base of his throat between the bones, where the veins lay. Kenan looked up into Valdarrien’s eyes, and his face spoke disbelief.
The late Lord of the Far Blays smiled at him, and drove the sword home.
22
HIS HEAD DIDN’T HURT. This was so unexpected that it took Joyain a minute or so to register the fact. He opened a very cautious eye, swallowed (his mouth tasted foul), and waited for reaction to set in. Nothing. He felt weak, yes, and tired, but beyond that . . . no headache, no nausea, and blessedly no fever. He was alone in a wide bed in a room he dimly remembered as belonging to the young noblewoman with the pretty smile. Miraude, that was it. The one Leladrien had called the famous widow.
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