He’d dreamed about Lelien, bitter-colored dreams. He didn’t want to think about that or about the realities preceding them. He tried to sit up and discovered that he could do so without anything beyond a mild dizziness. He was very thirsty. The pitcher by the bed contained a liquid he identified as watered milk. He drank, pulling a face at the taste. Then he looked around him. It was day. Light filtered through the half-closed casements. The fire in the grate had gone out. There were no candles. The house was quiet. He hesitated, then decided to risk getting out of bed.
The process proved slow, but far less distressing than the last occasion. He couldn’t find a robe. He wrapped a sheet around himself and, in careful stages, went out into the corridor.
The house was in semidarkness. It smelled musty, un-tended, and beneath that there was the sour stench of illness, the bitterness of ash. How contagious was this plague? Joyain pushed the thought away. Kindness deserved a better reparation than this. He wondered how many days had elapsed since he first woke up here. Room after room was deserted. The hearths were cold. None of the clocks seemed to be running. Several of the beds had been used, but all were empty now.
At the bottom of the back stairs he finally heard a sound. He hesitated, then climbed in cautious stages. His breath caught. He needed to use both hands on the banister. At the head he stopped and listened again. Then he called out, “Hello?”
There was a gasp, a silence. From a room to his right he heard a chair scrape over floorboards. He hesitated again, then tapped lightly on the door, and went in.
A small room under the eaves. The casement was shut tight, the fire was out. The air smelled vile. A still form lay in the bed, another stood in the middle of the room, blinking in the low light from the hall. The beautiful Miraude d’Iscoigne l’Aborderie. Her skin was gray with fatigue, her hair uncombed and lifeless. Her bright gown was torn and stained. She looked at Joyain with dulled eyes and swayed as she stood. She was silent.
He said awkwardly, “Mademoiselle?”
She gulped, not really looking at him. Then she said, “She’s dead. Coralie. And the others have died or run away.”
Joyain remembered what he had seen in the cellar of Leladrien’s garrison. He did not want to look too closely at the woman on the bed. He could smell gathering decomposition. To Miraude he said, “You should come downstairs,” and then, when she did not move, “Here.”
He held out his arm. She rubbed her eyes, then looked at him properly. She said, “I thought you were dead, too.” Her voice was uncertain. He could hear panic awakening within it. “You can’t be alive . . . you brought it here.”
“I’m sorry,” Joyain said, and stopped.
A little unsteadily she said, “This is too absurd.” Her hand knotted in her disordered hair. “You’re apologizing for living?” He was silent. She began to laugh unevenly. After a moment, this turned into sobbing.
“Oh, don’t,” Joyain said, horrified. He felt so tired. He wasn’t up to this. She stood there with her hand pressed to her mouth. He had to do something. She couldn’t stay here. “Please don’t.” She didn’t seem to hear him. He took hold of her arm and led her out of the room. The one next to it was clean and empty. He virtually pulled her into it. There was a chair and an unmade bed. He sank onto the latter, exhausted, and looked at her. She stood a moment, shivering, then she sat down beside him. She was still crying. He hesitated, then put an arm about her. She turned her head into his shoulder. He said again, “I’m sorry.”
“Not . . . your fault,” she said. She paused, then seemed to gather her energy, lifting her head and wiping her eyes. “I don’t know what to do. I’ve tried to keep a quarantine, but . . .”
He said, “How long have I been here?”
“Three days . . . People got ill so quickly. Iareth told me to shut the house and wait till the plague burned itself out, but I don’t know how long that is . . .” She seemed to be fighting further tears. Joyain tightened his hold on her. He felt horribly guilty.
He said, “How do you feel?”
“Oh, I’m fine.” Miraude was bitter. “Everyone else was taken ill, but I’m just tired . . . The doctor took the bodies yesterday, but today he didn’t come, and Coralie . . .”
“Don’t think about it,” Joyain said.
She said, “You recovered.”
“Yes.” He couldn’t explain that. He said, “It’ll be all right,” unsure whether or not he believed it. And then: “Iareth told you?”
“You asked for her.”
“Oh.” He didn’t remember. He said, “You’ve been very kind to me . . . I’ve repaid you poorly.”
She ignored that. Instead she said, “But what do we do now?”
“I don’t know.” Joyain looked at her. “We wait, I suppose.”
“I heard voices,” Thiercelin said. “Is Urien back?”
“Not yet.” Gracielis finished rearranging the pillows and began to fidget with the objects on the occasional table. “Do you have any pain?”
“I don’t think so.” Thiercelin leaned back and tried to analyze his physical condition. His side ached but his head was clear. “I think it’s healing.”
“So Urien says.”
“Yes. I owe him for that. And you, Graelis.” Gracielis glanced at him sidelong. “I am, of course, wholly at your service.”
“Of course.” Thiercelin pulled a face. To his surprise, Gracielis neither smiled nor played up to him. “Is something wrong?”
“What would be wrong?”
“Plenty, on current progress. Has the river risen?”
“Probably.”
Gracielis turned his back and went to the fireplace. Thiercelin said, “Talk to me, Graelis. Is it Yviane?”
“No.” Gracielis stared into the mirror over the mantelpiece. The angle was too steep to permit Thiercelin to see his reflection. “Urien went to see her. You’ll have news of her later.”
“There’s something to look forward to.” Thiercelin said. Gracielis turned to look at him. Thiercelin hesitated, then raised a cautious hand. “Come over here.”
“If you wish.” Gracielis came and sat on the bed.
Thiercelin possessed himself of one of his companion’s hands and turned it palm up. The wrists were unmarked. Thiercelin ran a finger along the line of a tendon. “Even the scar has gone.”
“Yes. The undarii heal quickly.”
“So, how’s the plan for world domination?”
Gracielis looked startled. “Urien’s or Quenfrida’s?” “Urien’s, of course.”
Gracielis started to play with the ends of his hair. “We should be able to act shortly . . .”
“I’m sorry,” Thiercelin said. “You don’t need me to remind you of that.”
Gracielis looked up. “I shall always need you, monseigneur. Even in that capacity.”
“Thierry,” said Thiercelin. And then, “Liar.” Gracielis sighed extravagantly. “My heart will surely shatter.”
“I doubt it.”
“Without you . . .” Gracielis stopped and looked away. After a moment he turned back and said, “Thierry?”
“Yes?”
“Something’s happening, something I can’t quite recognize. Something’s out of balance.” Gracielis took his hand away from Thiercelin. “I don’t know if I can do this at all, and now . . .”
“What?” Thiercelin stared. “I’m not following you. I can understand if you’re concerned about Quenfrida . . .”
Gracielis cut him short. “I fear that something has happened to Iareth Yscoithi. There was a . . . a disturbance, something like that. And then Lord Valdarrien rushed out, and since then . . .”
“River bless.” Thiercelin hesitated. “Was she attacked by those mist creatures?”
“I don’t know. It felt different, as if someone was raising power. Not Quenfrida. Kenan.”
Thiercelin forgot himself and sat up. “And if Valdin finds that out . . . He’ll go looking for Kenan.” It was not a question. Thiercelin knew Val
darrien too well to have any doubt on that. “Well, there’s nothing we can do about it now, I suppose.”
Gracielis turned to him. “You aren’t angry?”
“Why should I be?”
“I failed to prevent Lord Valdarrien . . .”
“No one,” said Thiercelin, “has ever been able to stop Valdin, that I recall. It’s one of his least endearing features.” He stopped and looked at Gracielis. “No one except maybe Iareth. He doesn’t change. And neither do our responses to him. If he does kill Kenan, the diplomatic consequences are going to drive Yviane to distraction.” He sighed, shook his head. Yvelliane still had not come.
Gracielis laid a hand on his shoulder. “Diplomacy may not matter.”
“How so?”
“What troubles me . . .” Gracielis halted, and rose. “I should leave this. Your injuries . . .”
“Don’t hedge,” Thiercelin said. Gracielis glanced round, looking resigned. “If you don’t tell me, I promise I’ll lie awake worrying.”
“Blackmail. Very well, then. It is simply that if Kenan dies . . .” Gracielis hesitated, apparently seeking words.
“There were two, who raised this old power against Merafi. To remove one like this is highly dangerous.”
“You said something to that effect yesterday.”
“Yes.” Gracielis came back to the bed, and sat down.
“There’re two reasons why. The first—the simplest—is that the undarii are sometimes hard to kill. The second . . .” He began to pleat a corner of the sheet between his fingers. “If you kill the controller without first breaking the powers bound to them, then those powers may go out of control. And Kenan has already done something that tends that way.”
Thiercelin sighed, caught once again by the paradox between the rational and the unnatural. Gracielis looked at him with eyes that were both candid and pleading. “Go on.”
“There’s a further strangeness . . .”
“There would be. All right, Graelis, I believe you.”
“Valdarrien d’Illandre is in some sense a side creation of the forces awoken by Kenan and Quenfrida. That night by the quay . . .” Gracielis hesitated. “I was afraid for you.”
“Well, I still seem to be here,” Thiercelin said. “Along with one or two other people.” Gracielis would not meet his eyes. “Tell me?”
“Lord Valdarrien . . . He wasn’t what I meant to do. I wasn’t undarios. That night . . . I had hoped at best to weaken the effects of Quenfrida’s working a little. But when you called out, I was afraid. For you rather than myself.” He shrugged. “A new experience. I used what power was to hand to defend you, and . . . Well, you’ve seen the consequences.”
“Valdin.”
“He was dead. Now he lives, after a fashion.” Gracielis looked at Thiercelin. “To become undarios . . . There is a series of rituals, tests, designed to awaken ability. The last, the seventh, involves a death. The acolyte must kill or be killed. I could never face it.” He paused, looked away. “The killing is used as the key to unlock power in the blood. That night on the quay I let the power in the river into me, trying to help you. I meant to kill myself. But Valdarrien d’Illandre was there. He was already bound to that power, since his was the blood shed to awaken it. I went through him and into the forces behind him. It should have finished both of us. It didn’t. I still don’t know why.” Gracielis shook his head. “However, it happened, he’s still in part a creation of the power in that river. For Kenan to die at his hand . . . It’s equivalent, almost, to Kenan being killed by his own power.”
“That doesn’t sound good,” Thiercelin said.
“It isn’t. It’s virtually a guarantee of full loss of control over the old power. It probably means an almost immediate deterioration in the state of Merafi. The only positive side effect is that Quenfrida may have to overextend herself.”
Thiercelin said, “I see.” It was, he recognized, an inadequate response, but it was the best he could come up with.
Gracielis said, “I’m sorry.”
There was a silence. Thiercelin frowned. Then he said, “Poor Valdin.” Another remark without apparent relevance. He added, “Even now, I don’t know quite how to react to him. I suppose I must have grown more used to his having died than I thought.” Gracielis said nothing. “But to lose Iareth again . . .” Thiercelin paused and shivered. “You can’t know what he was like when she left him Even Yviane could do nothing with him. And I’m stuck here, worse than useless.”
“Above all else,” Gracielis said, “you are not responsible for what’s just happened.”
“I’m not? If I hadn’t asked you to go looking for him in the first place . . . If I’d told Yvelliane, instead of trying to do everything myself . . .”
“Things would probably have turned out much the same. And,” and Gracielis looked wicked, “you wouldn’t have had the privilege and experience of my company.” He looked at Thiercelin sidelong.
Thiercelin was not going to be provoked. He raised his brows. “Oh, now that would’ve been a real tragedy.”
“Naturally.” But the amusement was already gone from Gracielis’ face. He put out a hand and said, “Thierry, I . . .”
There was a brisk tap on the door. Gracielis broke off, and went to answer it.
It was Yvelliane.
There is a stillness in the air, a quality of waiting that is, in some oblique way, new. The rain holds back, uncertain, immanent. Deep down, below the river, through the water table, west to the great lake, north through the arterial tributaries, something is awakening.
It has no memory. How can it, lacking any sense of self? It has no consciousness. It does not notice the hiatus in its existence, since it can feel nothing, neither imprisonment nor cessation. It can simply be and move and grow.
The city of Merafi, built at the mingling of two waters, salt and sweet, lies like a weight upon it, half felt, half ignored. It is blind to the remaining life within that city, aware only of the compression wrought by stone and brick and timber. Two moons tug at it, subtly out of alignment, hinting at force to come. High in the distant lake a head begins to build.
The river is rising. Thick, dirty water laves the edges of the old docks, the remains of the city wall, the fringes of the central city. To the south the water runs insistent, dominating its surroundings. The canalized north channel chafes at its bindings, beginning to test its boundaries, tugging on the pylons of the bridges, washing debris from the face of the lower cliff. Water tastes the high wall along the west quarter quayside.
Yvelliane hovered in the doorway, eyes on Thiercelin. They were dark-circled, and the lines of worry had settled even more deeply into her face. He longed to go to her, gather her to him. He could do no more than hold out his hands. “Yviane . . .” He was used to her being tired, but this was something more, something darker. He said, “The queen . . . She hasn’t . . . I mean, she isn’t . . . ?”
“Firomelle is no worse.”
“I’m glad.”
There was a silence. Into it, Gracielis said, “I have things I should be doing.” He bowed. “If you would excuse me, madame.”
Yvelliane was still staring at Thiercelin. She said, “Of course,” and stepped aside as he passed her.
She would not come closer. Thiercelin dropped his hands. He said, “And you? How are you? You look tired.”
“As ever.” Something—not a smile—tugged at the corners of her mouth. She moved a little closer, came to a halt just before the foot of his bed. She said, “You were hurt . . . How are you?”
“Recovering.” He smiled at her. Was she worrying over him? Hope awoke within him, faint, enduring. He said, “It’s not as bad as it looks. Urien’s a good doctor.”
“I’m glad.” But her face was not glad. She fidgeted with the edge of her cloak. “I’m sorry, Thierry. I’m such a bad wife to you.”
“What?” He started toward her, came up short with an exclamation of pain. She dropped her cloak to the floor and came round th
e bed to support him. Her hands were cold, her fingers tight on his forearm.
She said, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” Her voice shook. “I must try not to do that.” He put his free hand over hers. “It’s all right, I’m all right, Yviane.”
“Yes, but . . .” She would not look at him. “This is all my fault. I ignored you and hurt you and pushed you away, and now . . .”
“It’s not your fault. It was an accident. Sort of. Or it was my fault, for trying to do something that was too difficult for me.”
“You couldn’t trust me.” There were tears in Yvelliane’s voice. “Urien told me what you’ve been doing, you and Gracielis. I made you afraid to tell me.”
“No.” He did not know what to say. He could barely recall the last time he had seen her this visibly distressed, this close to broken. Those first days after Valdarrien died, perhaps. He inhaled, slowly and said, “Sit down.” She sat on the edge of the bed. He tightened his grip on her hand. “I wanted to help. You’re always so overworked, and it sounded crazy.”
“And you thought I wouldn’t listen.” Finally, she looked at him. “You’d have been right. I don’t listen.”
“It doesn’t matter. You’re here now.”
“Yes.” But her eyes evaded his.
He said, “What’s wrong?”
She sat without speaking for several moments. Then she lifted her head and smiled at him. It was a little crooked and her eyes were damp, but for all that it was real. She said, “I do love you, Thierry.”
She had never said it, not once in the six years of their marriage. His breath had gone awry. He knew he was clutching her hand too tightly. She said, “I wanted you to know . . . to be sure.” He swallowed, mouth dry. She went on, “And I realized . . . You could have died. Everything’s out of control, in the city, at home. And now . . .” She stopped, rested her face against his shoulder. “The sickness has reached our house. I’ve been living at the palace.”
“Is Mimi all right?”
“I had a letter this morning. I think so. But your friend Maldurel . . . I’m sorry, Thierry.”
He had not seen Maldurel since the aborted duel. Now, it seemed, he never would again. It had not been much of a good-bye. The Merafi he had known for so long was changing, and he was complicit in that. He said, “It’ll get better. Urien and Gracielis . . .”
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