Living With Ghosts

by Kari Sperring

  Reflective. Talking had left him time to gather what energy remained to him. He blanked his mind as she touched him, emptying so that she should find only herself.

  She filled him. Her touch was bitter. She was chaos, fierce drives, fierce needs, all tangled and demanding. The power of the river ran through her, but it was blind to her desires. She clawed and scratched at it, consuming herself in the attempt to bind it into subservience to her will. She bore down on him, and he was glass. Her hands shook, and he felt himself again begin to crumble. Killing force ran through him; some small remaining conscious part of him recollected Valdarrien. Life from death. Death averted. Death reflected . . .

  Quenfrida cried out. Gracielis twisted from under her grasp and crawled free. She did not seem to see him. Water poured off her, thunderous, continuous. Behind her the river still rose. She was even yet a part of it, and he had done nothing save strain her a little. The bonds were cool in the moons’ light. Only a handful betrayed stress.

  Light bathed them. The water poured down. And behind Quenfrida, the river bore went on sweeping downstream.

  Every step took them deeper into the mist: ankles, knees, waist. At the end of two hundred yards, Joyain could see no farther than the end of his arms. Beside him, Miraude was no more than a hint, a darker patch in the omnipresent gray. He could barely hear their footsteps; his breath was a faint tide within him. The air tasted bitter, filled with blood and dirt. Their torches guttered and flickered, more ghost than flame. His fear wrapped him, prickling through every inch of skin, tensing each fiber.

  They were perhaps a third of the way along the alley when the attack came. A slithering, a slipping, slurping noise and then . . . Something—not human, not fleshy, something rubbery and icy—squelched and oozed against his legs. He leaped aside with a cry and lost hold of Miraude’s hand. He felt fabric tear away where he had been touched. Somewhere—it must be close, yet it came as from a distance—he heard Miraude gasp. He waved his torch around him wildly, yelled in alarm as it struck something solid. A wall, a gate . . . From his left, Miraude said, “Jean?” And then, “Someone?” She sounded terrified.

  He narrowed his eyes, tried to make sense out of the boiling fog while keeping the torch moving. Maybe over there . . . Yes, to his left and a little ahead of him there was a paler patch. He called back, “I’m here. I’m all right.” He reached out to whatever it was he had struck and found it was a wall. Back to it, he inched forward toward her. “I’m coming.” A step, another and another and then there she was, huddled against a doorway. He reached out for her, found her arm and gripped it.

  She said, “What . . . ?”

  “Keep moving.”

  They inched forward into the mist, backs to the wall. Tendrils and tongues of it lapped at them, tearing clothing, grazing skin. Joyain lost track of how far they had come. The alley sloped down toward the streets behind the Flower Market, he remembered that much, although it took several turnings and was intersected by a number of mews. He could not imagine how they would survive once their route widened out. When the wall at his back gave out, he stopped in a gateway shaking. Miraude said, “What is it?”

  “Nothing. I’m just trying to work out where we go next.” But his voice shook, and he knew she heard it. “Once it gets wider, we’ll need to run.”

  Easy to go astray in the mist. Even easier, while running. One or both of them could too easily trip or fall, drop a torch . . .

  She said, “We’re near the Old Temple, I think.” That put them less than halfway down the alley. They must go twelve or fifteen times farther to reach the Island Temple, and in wider streets . . . Something snagged at his arm, and he pulled back. A thin cut traced along it in red. The longer they stood here . . . He said, “We need to find shelter. We can’t last out here.”

  “But . . .” Miraude’s sentence ended in a yelp. Something had hold of her, shaking and tugging. Even as he turned, her hand was dragged from his. She cried out again and dropped her torch.

  Inside Joyain something snapped. He had seen enough death, enough loss. He had been unable to save anyone. Perhaps that was still true. But he would fight back while he might. He dived for her torch, rolled upright, holding both of them before him. Together, their light was enough to push the mist back from him a little farther. The mist creatures still feared fire. Well, fire they should have. The wall might be stone, but the gate was wood. Gripping both torches in his left hand, he tugged his flask of lamp oil out of his pocket and flung it at the gate with all his might. With luck, it gave onto a stableyard, where there would be straw and more wood. The torches seemed to take strength from proximity to one another, flames brightening. He did not have long; he could hear Miraude struggling and gasping. This had to work . . . He thrust the torches against the oiled wood and closed his eyes. River bless, by stone and flame, wind and wave and darkness . . . There was nothing more left to him, to his city. One hand on the wall, one on the torches, he waited and hoped.

  The gate rocked, rattled, and caught light, a slight fringe at first, growing and winding upward, outward, warming and brightening and reigniting the torches. With a yell, Joyain charged, swinging the torch about him in a great arc. Mist reached for him from behind, and he cursed and kept running. Teeth rasped one ankle; he felt his boot begin to give. Clinging onto the torches, he cannoned into Miraude, knocking them both to the ground. She clutched at him, sobbing. He said, “All right?”

  “They bit me . . .” She gulped, wound her fingers into his jacket. He pulled himself to his knees. In the renewed light, her face was dirty. She bled from a jagged gap in her left shoulder. Her cloak was gone and her outer garments shredded to rags. He handed her one torch as she climbed to her feet. He said, “We have to get indoors.” The gate was solidly ablaze, its glow clearing a substantial arc through the fog. Miraude leaned against him as he looked around. Perhaps they could take refuge in a stable somewhere . . .

  She said, “The Old Temple!”

  “What?” He looked at her. She pointed toward the wall opposite.

  “It’s the back of the Old Temple, where the excavation is.” Her words made no sense at all to him. She pulled at him. “There’s a tunnel, it goes down to the river. We can use that.”

  Yvelliane stood on the roof of the temple tower, and looked west. All about her, the priests went about their ritual. Her companions moved amongst them, baffled, resentful. By the light of the two moons, Merafi looked peaceful; more a lake now than a city. She looked up and glimpsed wings high overhead. She felt very calm.

  There was little mist. She could see a long way upriver, to the old wall and beyond. The three channels braided the plain, spreading toward each other. There was movement in the silvered distance. She watched it, and almost smiled.

  A priest summoned her back to the rite. She followed obediently for the prayer, and the first of the prescribed bathings of hands. Then she withdrew again to her vantage point. Two figures stood below her on the Dancing Bridge. She watched them, feeling the wind on her face.

  Two cloaked forms made their way across the roof toward her, one leaning on the other. She frowned a little, unwilling to be disturbed. She had fielded enough questions from the courtiers. She needed these last few minutes alone. The figures halted a few feet away and one sank down, back against the parapet. She could hear his breathing even over the chanting.

  After a few minutes he pushed back his hood and looked up at her. Thiercelin. There was a lump in her throat, closing it, impeding her breathing. She had thought . . . She had expected that his injury would keep him safely away. She should have known better. She should have expected this. She wound her hands in the folds of her cloak. She could not bear this, not now . . .

  He said, “Yviane.”

  “Thierry,” she said. “Why are you here? You should be resting.”

  “I wanted to come.”

  She wanted to bury her face in his shoulder and have him banish all her pain and fear. She wanted to run away. She could a
fford to do neither. She said, softly, “Oh, Thierry . . .” and felt tears form in her eyes.

  “What’s wrong?” He held out a hand to her, wincing as it pulled at his injury. “It’s all right. Gracielis and Urien . . .”

  He did not know. She had begged that of Urien. If she had only known she would meet him here and now . . . She said, “I’m tired, I . . .”

  “You’re lying.” He frowned. “Something’s going to happen. What is it?”

  “It’s all right.”

  She watched fear and puzzlement battle each other across his face. He said, “Is it Graelis? Will he . . .”

  “What he’s doing is dangerous.” Perhaps this was her way out, his concern for his friend. She felt no jealousy, she was beyond that. Perhaps, if Gracielis survived, he could bring Thiercelin some measure of comfort. She said, “You’re fond of him, aren’t you?”

  “Not like that,” Thiercelin said. “I love you, Yviane. He’s a friend, that’s all.”

  She reached out and touched his shoulder. “I’m glad.” “What?” Fear was winning out in Thiercelin’s face. “What is it? Tell me?”

  She could not. It would break her and, with that, condemn Merafi. Standing on tiptoe, she kissed him once, gently, on the mouth. “It’s all right, Thierry. Everything’s going to be all right.”

  There was a silence. She had to escape, or she would give way. She said, “I have to go. I’m so sorry, Thierry,” and walked away along the parapet, to the gate onto the leads, moving quickly lest he suspect her weakness.

  A hand touched her arm. She turned, expecting Urien. Another robed figure . . . His hood was back, and his face was dearly familiar. He said, softly, “Hello, Yviane.”

  “Valdin . . .” Her hand reached out to him. His skin was cool. It did not seem so strange to her to meet him here now. She clutched at him. Perhaps she was already dead. Perhaps the boundary between the living and the dead was breaking, welcoming her in. “Oh, Valdin.” As his arms drew her to him, for a moment she allowed herself to feel the terror of what she must do. He was warm against her, breast moving with the slow tide of breath. She made herself look up. “Did Urien send you?”

  “Yes.” There was a glitter in his spare hand, light on a blade. He said, “She’s dead, my Iareth kai-reth. Did you know?”

  So are you . . . But that had no meaning now. She said, “No. I’m sorry.”

  “I just go on losing her . . .” He stopped. They clung together for another long moment, her face against his shoulder, his buried in her hair. She was safe at long last, she was safe, and it was over save for one last little step.

  She said, “Is it time?”

  “Yes . . . I’m coming with you. I thought I wanted to live, but . . .”

  “Hush,” Yvelliane said, reaching out to him. “We’ll go together, love. I’m ready.”

  His blade flashed up between them. He said, “There must be blood shed, then the river. It will hurt. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. Then she took her arm from his hand and walked to the very edge of the roof. “Will this do?”

  “Yes.” Valdarrien came to her, his dark face gentle in the moons’ light. The sword tip touched the base of her throat, cool, forgiving. With his spare hand he reached out and took a firm grasp on one of hers. She could hear the river thundering a hundred or more feet below. “For Merafi,” he said, “blood binds.”

  He was right. There was pain for one bitter moment, and fear, too, and the sour taste of blood. Then the darkness flashed about her and her head fell back, and her body with it, all the way down to the water.

  His hand was still tangled in hers. The weight of her falling dragged him unresisting after her.

  Alone, Thiercelin sat with his back to the parapet and tried not to close his eyes. His side pounded. Pressing a hand to it, he found the bandages damp. He should not be here; he had barely the strength to stand. Valdarrien had virtually dragged him up the long flights of stairs to the tower. He had no idea how he was going to get back down.

  It didn’t matter, anyway.

  He was a little to one side of the ritual area, near the priests. He had only a partial view of the ceremony, but that did not trouble him. He had little interest in the proceedings. Craning his neck, he could just about make out Yvelliane and Valdarrien on the leads. Yvelliane’s face was serious. Valdarrien looked tired, if the dead could tire.

  The latter had spent a long time closeted with Urien, and had been unwontedly quiet ever since. Thiercelin, long accustomed to his moods, had asked no questions. But he was troubled. Both Valdarrien and Gracielis had been unusually gentle toward him. As if they protected him from something. Even Urien had shown signs of it. High on the tower, Thiercelin watched his wife and shivered.

  There was something hidden. Something wrong. He could hear the river roaring even through the priests’ chanting, and he looked up at the moons. Swan wings lifted and circled. Whatever happened, Thiercelin was sure to lose tonight. He looked again at Yvelliane and felt cold. She should not be here. It was too dangerous.

  Wind gusted, setting the pennants flying, making the torches gutter. He wrapped his cloak more closely and looked back at the priests. They were moving into the second part of the rite. The congregation had drawn back. The wind was definitely growing stronger.

  The torches went out. Wind clutched and tugged, hats went flying, robes flapped. Thiercelin crouched against his sheltering wall. One priest cried out as water from the bowl he held blew out over his hands and arms, burning.

  There was a pounding all around, like wings, like water falling. The senior priest stepped back as the air before him filled with feathers. Over the sanctuary came a thunder of wings. White feathers shredded and fell. For a moment it seemed that the moons fell, swan-wise. Then the form coalesced to hang over the sanctuary, neither bird nor man, feral eyes, strong bones, great white wings.

  The Armenwy. Thiercelin struggled to his feet, clutching at his side. His blood trickled through his fingers and splashed onto the stone of the parapet. Some of the priests had fallen to their knees. Beyond them the prince consort stood, looking upward.

  Urien spoke. The tongue was one Thiercelin had never heard, smooth cadences like wings rising over a wind. There was something permanent to it, solid as the stone under his hand. The water went quiet. From somewhere below, light flashed. Urien threw back his head and cried out to the moons. The tower began, very slightly, to shake. Urien hung silver in the moons’ light, mist rising about him, deep, luminescent. The great wings beat and struggled, and bonds sought to form about them. Forgetful of his own weakness, Thiercelin took a step forward, reaching for a sword he was not carrying. Urien spoke again, and the mist crouched back. The top of the tower went silent save for the beating of wings.

  Thiercelin looked at the consort and saw he was not watching Urien. Thiercelin turned his own head and bit back a cry. Yvelliane stood on the very edge of the roof, head flung up to the night. Valdarrien was beside her, dark, forbidding. To her throat, he held a sword.

  Blood binds . . . Gracielis had told him and Urien over and over again that old tale of Yestinn Allandur, and a sacrifice. Thiercelin stumbled forward, almost blind, unable to call out. Light ran like oil down Valdarrien’s blade as it twisted and turned black under his hands. Yvelliane’s neck turned dark, and her body jerked backward. Thiercelin was too far away even to hear if she cried out. He reached out to her anyway, and fell to his knees on the stone, jarring the breath from him. Behind him Urien’s voice rose again.

  There was a crack like thunder. Suddenly all the torches sprang back to life.

  The precincts of the Old Temple were silent. From within the buildings came the low glow of candlelight, the susurration of voices at prayer. In this holy space, the mist lay thinner, yet its fronds still swirled and licked at lintels and sills. Miraude hurried them across the courtyard and along a cloister to a door behind the main temple. She tried the handle, found it locked. From b
ehind her, Joyain said, “Maybe we should just go into the shrine. The priests would shelter us.”

  Kenan had come here, and it had been in some way important to him. She was certain of that. Kenan was involved, somehow, in the disasters that threatened her city. Miraude said, firmly, “We have to go on.”

  “But a tunnel . . .” Joyain sounded uncertain. “It could easily be damp, after all this rain. It could be as dangerous as the streets.”

  “But narrower. Hold my torch for a moment.” Miraude tried the door again. Its frame was old and soft. If she leaned a little and lifted . . . There. Wood creaked and splintered close to the edge of the lock. She lifted up on the lock itself and pushed: the tongue eased free of its socket and the door swung open. Valdarrien had shown her the trick years ago, during one of his rare visits to her during their engagement. She had been a child, back then, no more than ten and not strong enough, but she had remembered. “It only works on old locks, mind you,” he had said, tugging on one of her plaits, “but it’s good for stables and old gates and suchlike.” She took her torch back from Joyain.

  He said, “Should we . . . ?”

  “Yes. Come on.” She thought she could retrace the route down to the undercroft. It was cold, in here. Somewhere, she could hear water running. Their footsteps were loud in the darkness. The air tasted acrid. She led them through corridors, into the cellars, picking her way between wine racks and rice vats into the broken undercroft. The stairs down into the oldest remains were slippery. The closer they came to the clan hall, the older and sourer the air became. The torches were once again growing blue. Joyain coughed, making her jump. The darkness clung to them, sticky and hindering.

  A chill pinkish light played around the entrance to the clan hall: the water sound was thunderous. She had been right: this place mattered. Joyain’s hand closed on her arm. She looked up at him. His face was gray. She said, “We have to . . . Kenan came here.” His fingers tightened for an instant, and then he released her. She inhaled slowly and stepped through. She had to see this through. She had been complicit, after all, in bringing Kenan here in the first place.