Living With Ghosts (35 page)

“Thank you.” It was too late to recall his manners and kiss her hand. Besides, he feared to touch her. He said, “How did you know?”

“I shall always know him. It’s in the nature of the bond.” She looked at him. Her matter-of-factness was comforting. “It seems to me, however, that you must find your own control, for Thierry has no knowledge of this tongue.”

He had no control; that was not his gift. He began to say so, looking down in shame at his two-colored gloves. Abruptly he remembered Valdarrien’s ghost in the royal aisle, and heard again that distant command.
TellIareth
kai-reth . . . He smiled and looked up. “You were right,” he said to her in Merafien; and then, inside himself, “peace, be still.”

Iareth gestured. “Will you sit? I believe Thierry has business to discuss.”

“It’s Valdin. In part,” Thiercelin said, sitting. He looked down at his crossed ankles. “I’ve seen him—and talked to him—again.”

“I, also.” Iareth said. At Thiercelin’s gesture of surprise, she added, “It was to be expected.”

“I suppose so.” Thiercelin frowned. “Graelis should explain, really. It’s his theory.”

Gracielis had sat down with his back to the window. He looked away, then said, “I’m content to be in your hands.”

Thiercelin glared at him. “He thinks someone is trying to harm Merafi, and that Valdin is somehow involved. It sounds daft put like that, but . . .”

Iareth said, “There are many odd tales regarding the Tarnaroqui and their abilities. And others, of old powers.” She looked at Gracielis without curiosity. “There are those of my people who hold such things unholy.”

“Unholy,” said Gracielis, “is preferable to absurd. It’s less insulting.”

Iareth said, “Tell me.”

Gracielis looked at Thiercelin, who outlined the situation as they knew it. He avoided no part of it, not even the name of Kenan Orcandros. Iareth listened without comment. At the end of the account she was silent a moment; then she turned to Gracielis. “You saw a binding in water?” He nodded. “And you dreamed of Urien Armenwy, called Swanhame?”

“Yes.” Gracielis hesitated. “And of you and someone whom I believe to be Kenan Orcandros.”

She looked at her hands. After a moment, she said, “I wondered what it meant, that Valdin Allandur should tell me I was right. But now I think I understand.” She rose and walked to the window. “There is a place in Lunedith, a waterfall named Saefoss. It is unhealthy. We seldom go there. But six years ago, I traveled there with Valdin and his party, and with Urien. By the side of the fall we were ambushed and several of us injured, including Valdin.” She turned. “Do you know of this place?”

Gracielis smoothed his lace. Then he said, “I can hazard a guess.” The tale was familiar to all of his training. Yestinn Allandur had enforced control on the old powers at one of their places of greatest potency, and then moved his own center to opaque Merafi. He had slain one of his own by treachery, by the side of the living fall. Gracielis said, “It is the place of Yestinn’s compact. Where he shed the blood of his enemy, Gaverne Orcandros.” He considered. “Was Kenan one of the ambushers?”

“Yes,” Iareth said.

“And he was injured there?”

“Yes.” She hesitated. “He had a hand in the wounding of Valdin
kai-reth
.”

Gracielis shivered. An ancient pact, built on Orcandrin blood shed unwillingly at the hands of an Allandur. And now, Allandurin blood shed in the same place, equally unwillingly, by Orcandrin hands. Kenan’s Orcandrin hands now linked in a working with the trained mind and strong gifts of Quenfrida.

Everyone was descended from the old clans except a handful of the Tarnaroqui. A handful whose ancestors had also struck bargains long ago, with old powers. But those bargains had not been for control. At the bidding of those distant priests, parts of the old power had put on human seeming and lain with humans to breed the likes of Quenfrida. The likes of Gracielis, too. The
undarii
, who could see the past and bind the dead and make use of the gifts offered by the awakening of old things. Those ancient powers lacked discrete awareness or individual consciousness, but they were strong and dangerous and they could, at a cost, be manipulated. By those who had the right blood.

Not wholly inhuman.

Kenan and Quenfrida had woken the past. Bound in blood and water and betrayal . . . It was a possibility only half-credited even among the
undarii
. But Gracielis found no trouble in seeing where the temptation lay. It would call loudly to Quenfrida, who had lost much of her human power by choosing his flawed self as acolyte.

She had another now, Lunedithin and Orcandrin, and his touch lay alongside hers in the working that threatened Merafi.

They had woken the old power of water, and the river was turning. Gracielis looked at Thiercelin and said, softly, “No,” and then, to the floor, “It’s over, then.”

“Oh, Graelis,” Thiercelin said. Iareth was silent. Rising, Gracielis made himself go to a window and look out. They were high here, on the hillside. On a normal day he should have seen all Merafi laid out before him. It was not a normal day. The tripartite course of the river was shrouded in mist. Haze hid the west quarter. Blue smoke drifted from the south, although the angle of the house did not permit him to see that part of the city well. Only the tower of the temple raked upward to affirm the cityscape, and its shape was blurred.

Gracielis rubbed at his shoulder and sighed. He could do nothing. For him there were no more choices. For these others . . . Without turning, he said, “You must leave.”

“Oh, must we?” said Thiercelin.

Gracielis said, “Your river is turning.” And then, “Monseigneur, do you trust me?”

There was a pause. Then Thiercelin said, “I suppose so. I asked you to help with my ghosts. And I haven’t strangled you yet.”

“I’m grateful.” Gracielis paused, looking at the temple. A few short days ago he had stood on its roof with Yvelliane and asked idly about the river. “If you trust me, then you must believe me. The troubles you already experience will worsen.” He turned, looked at Thiercelin. “It’s simple. The world you have known is ending.”

Thiercelin’s brows drew together. “Just like that?”

“Yes.”

“Then we’d better do something about it.” Thiercelin’s voice held all the confidence of aristocracy. He stared at Gracielis, and his expression would brook no contradiction.

Gracielis looked at Iareth for support. Her face was neutral. Gracielis said, “But . . .” Then: “You don’t understand. Monseigneur—Thierry—what you suggest can’t be done.”

“Why not?”

“Well . . .” Gracielis fumbled for words. He looked down at his bandaged wrists. “It isn’t possible. You lack the knowledge and the resources. It’s been too long since the old ways were credited here.”

“Then I’ll get help elsewhere,” Thiercelin said.

“Where from?” Gracielis sat down on the window seat, and realized that he was shaking. “You’d have to find someone both willing and competent to undo what’s been done. A high adept of the
undarii
. There’s no one within three months’ ride of here. Will you go all the way into the heart of Tarnaroq and try to convince them?”

“If I must.”

“They won’t believe you.” Gracielis gestured hopelessly. “It would go against their interests, even granted that Quenfrida has probably acted without their knowledge. And if they did agree to help you, you lack the necessary time. Three months there, and three months back, without calculating how long it might take to convince them. Merafi won’t hold so long. The tidal bore at next moon-double will destroy you. It’s too late. I’m sorry.”

Thiercelin inhaled. “Valdin tried to warn me. I owe it to him to do something.”

“Lord Valdarrien’s ghost is nothing but a side effect of the power that awakens,” Gracielis said. “His blood was shed to arouse it. You’ve already done a great deal, but . . .”

Thiercelin cut him off. “I doubt it. I haven’t even told Yviane most of what I know.”

“There’s nothing she can do.”

“How can you be so sure?” Thiercelin leaned forward and glared. “Do you know everything about us all of a sudden?” Gracielis looked down. “She taught you well, your Quenfrida. Don’t cross her. Don’t question her. Take her every action as irrevocable and infallible.” Behind his curtaining hair, Gracielis closed his eyes. “That’s a counsel of impotence, Graelis. I won’t follow it. I won’t believe it until I’ve tried everything I can think of first. You may be right, but I swear by all your superstitions that I’ll die before I just give in. And if I don’t do any good, at least I’ll have tried. Which is more than I’ll be able to say for you.”

“Forgive me,” Gracielis said, into his hands.

“Help me,” Thiercelin said right back.

Gracielis was still, listening to the pulse beat in his marred wrists. He said, “I can’t.”

“Because it’s forbidden? Or are you simply scared?”

Iareth said, “Do not.”

Thiercelin ignored her. “Well, Graelis?”

Gracielis said, “I’m not capable. I’m not
undarios
.” He met Thiercelin’s eyes. “I lack the knowledge needed.” He paused, then added, “We aren’t adequate to this task.”

Thiercelin looked down. Iareth said, “That may be true only in part. Might not assistance be sought?”

“The distance . . .” Gracielis began.

She shook her head. “I have already written to Urien Armenwy. He is wise in many things.” She hesitated. “He is not of your
undarii
. But he has the old clan gifts.” She looked at Gracielis. “He has the knowledge you speak of. And he will come; I am sure of it.”

“When?” Thiercelin said.

“Soon.”

Thiercelin nodded. Then he turned back to Gracielis. “You feed information to Yviane. Am I so different?”

“No.”

“Then help me.”

There was a long silence. Gracielis looked away, toward the window and the mist. He wanted no part of this. He was inadequate. He had lost her already, sky-eyed Quenfrida. His death was written. He had no need to court another.

If he refused, it would be graceless. If he accepted . . . Quenfrida could only kill him once. He was not safe, whatever he did. There was no sanctuary deep enough to guard him from waterborne death and Valdarrien.

He glanced at Iareth. She sat motionless, watching the floor. The long line of her, curved through head and spine, bespoke serenity. Merafi was no more her city than it was his.

He would not let himself think about that. He would permit himself nothing regarding her, for she was no part of him.

Dead Valdarrien had come back. To warn or to take or to try again to possess Iareth Yscoithi. If Gracielis refused, he would place no obstacles in the path Valdarrien sought importunately through his own dreams and flaws. Yet, if he helped Thiercelin . . . There were no guarantees. He doubted there was anyone within a thousand miles with the power to force Quenfrida to give up what she had gained.

He twisted his lovelock round a finger, and said, “I’ll do what you want. I’ll help you. But it won’t work. I lack the strengths you need.”

“We’ll see,” said Thiercelin.

Dusk was falling as Thiercelin and Gracielis made their way back to the Phoenix Inn, where Thiercelin had taken rooms for them both. It was raining again, and cold. Thiercelin at first tried to keep up a conversation, but he received only monosyllabic replies. Gracielis had withdrawn, swathed in a cloak. He walked quickly. To his surprise, Thiercelin had to lengthen his stride to keep up. When they reached the inn, Gracielis excused himself and vanished into his own rooms. His presence prickled at the edges of Thiercelin’s awareness, like the first hint of a storm. Thiercelin changed for dinner and snapped at his unfortunate valet. He had hoped, despite himself, for some word, some sign that Yvelliane missed him. There was nothing. Well, he would prove himself to her anyway. He would face this nightmare that Gracielis saw and fight it and show her that he was not Valdarrien. He would help her even if she did not seek it of him. Perhaps he would never be able to make her love him, but at least she might see him as he was and not as simply her brother’s shadow.

He had to send a message in to remind Gracielis to come and eat. On his arrival, Gracielis looked absently at the meal laid out in Thiercelin’s private parlor and said, “I don’t think I . . .”

“Sit down,” Thiercelin said. Gracielis obeyed. “When did you last eat?”

“Yesterday. But . . .”

“But nothing. I don’t want you fading out on me.” Gracielis pulled a small face, then inclined his head in graceful resignation. He raised a hand to push his hair back. The bandage on his arm looked bulky. Thiercelin studied him, then said, “Won’t work. I don’t have time to feel sympathetic.”

“Or cause, I think.”

“Quite.” Thiercelin began to serve himself. “Moreover, I’ve as much reason to feel sorry for myself as you, and I’m not indulging in self-starvation.”

“No.” Gracielis picked up a piece of bread and looked at it. “I’ll eat. To please you.” He spoke softly. His outrageous eyes held Thiercelin’s. It was a deadly beauty. Thiercelin looked away and added unnecessary beans to his plate.

They ate in silence, Gracielis sparingly. Thiercelin caught himself watching the movements of the bandaged hands and had to force his attention away. He was married to Yvelliane, however little she might want him. This was a foolishness only, a product of loneliness and confusion and the artifice of painted eyes.

He had asked and been refused. Better to remember the wisdom in that refusal and think of something else. How Valdarrien would laugh. Would have laughed, callous as ever before another’s difficulty.

He could hear the rain pounding down outside. Gracielis’ fair skin was golden in the candlelight. He would taste of honey.
Think of Yvelliane, think only of Yvelliane...
In four days he would see her again. Thiercelin poured himself wine and drank it off in one draught. This was folly. Gracielis reached for the wine, and his perfume enveloped Thiercelin like a veil. His eyes met Thiercelin’s. He arrested the motion.

Despite the wine, Thiercelin’s mouth was dry. He said, “Well?”