Living With Ghosts (44 page)

His light was dying. He was burning up too fast; the reaction would, unavoidably, kill him. He did not have enough time. There was movement in the mist: the shadow closing in. His hand tightened on Thiercelin’s shoulder. He forced himself to be still, to be calm. He was unprepared. He was all there was. He looked up. Into half-seen eyes he said, “You shall not have him.”

The air was thick with wings. His voice was unsteady. Beneath his hand Thiercelin shifted and moaned. It was too dark. Gracielis’ palms were damp. He straightened and stared into the shadows. This was not his domain. All about him water tugged and swirled. Into it, into the battering, he spoke the words of dismissal and watched them snatched away. His hair fell into his eyes. He dared not raise a hand to push it back. A dark head tilted, observing him, and there was a gleam of amusement in water-gray eyes. Through dry lips Gracielis whispered, “You should not . . .” and fell silent.

There was a thin smile on the lips of the erstwhile Lord of the Far Blays. Beneath the reddened shreds of his shirt, his shattered breast rose and fell. His right hand was on his sword hilt. The other rested by his side. His black hair hung soaked around his neck. Raising one dark brow, he looked at Gracielis with disdain and said, “I do not need your opinion.”

Thiercelin was fading. Gracielis could feel the blood pooling under his fingers. He said, “You will kill him.”

“I think not.”

“You don’t know. You don’t understand what you’re doing.”

“Indeed?” Sarcasm traced the edge of Valdarrien’s voice. He paused and drew his sword a little way from its sheath. “You question me?” Pale light ran down the sides of the blade.

Gracielis let his hands clench into Thiercelin’s blood and shook his head. “No. I contradict you.”

“Novel.” Valdarrien considered. “You’re nobody, of course.”

“As you will.” Touching charm, Gracielis let his gaze drop briefly. Thiercelin was pale in his arms, and still. Blood drew shadows along his shoulder and throat. “But this one isn’t.”

“Thierry,” Valdarrien said. “Yes, I think you may be right.”

“And you’re harming him.”

“I doubt it.”

“Blood calls to blood. You’ll drink his strength, sustaining yourself.”

“The image isn’t pretty. One might almost feel insulted.”

Thiercelin might die. Gracielis said, “You can’t feel. You’re dead.” Caught himself up, sharp on the end word. Swan wings rose and fell in Valdarrien’s eyes, snatching at Gracielis’ breath. He was trembling, he was cold. He would fail Thiercelin, as he had always failed.
Chaiela,
Quenfrida.

I am yours, Quenfrida. She had no compunction, no compassion. She traded life and death for knowledge. He could not. He was warped under it, too frail to sustain his dual role. Thiercelin’s skin was cooling. Gracielis drew one hand up along his shoulder to his throat, where the faint pulse beat. And let himself finally face his own truth.

Thierry, I love you.

The price was too high. Gracielis put memory away from him and raised his eyes to Valdarrien’s. “No insult,” he said, soft, trembling. “Truth.” And then, too quick for an answer, “Your life is no life, unless sustained and bound by blood.” Valdarrien’s mouth quirked. “I deny you by stone and flame, wind and wave and darkness. You shall not have Thiercelin.” Valdarrien took a step toward him. Gracielis fought panic.

“You will kill him, if you take anything from him.” His hands were wet with Thiercelin’s blood. He wiped them on his thighs and stood. Valdarrien was a full head taller than he. Fear washed through him. He said. “You want a life, Lord Valdarrien?” The gray eyes flickered assent. “So. Take mine.”

Silence lies on the city, like a hand holding back a pendulum. A stillness, between waking and sleeping. A breath, a waiting, a moment outside. Then time moves on, and the darkness rushes in. To Gracielis, on the quay, it is a soundless thunderclap that knocks him to his knees, opening him to everything. He has no boundaries. He has no control. He feels Thiercelin’s touch, and the bitter weight of Quenfrida’s ownership. Her lips trace the veins in his throat and drink the blood that gathers there in the sweetest of his hollows. His heart beats with the ringing of the bells. The air bears memories, magnolia and amber and musk. Thiercelin’s pain channels through him, then Valdarrien’s, until he is breaking with it, and their needs spin out from him into chaos. He is the channel and the flow. The touch on his skin is soft rain, water spray. He feels Valdarrien’s longings strip through him, and swan wings drive them home. The feel in his hand of living steel. The wicked joy of anger. The still, cool space that is Iareth Yscoithi. Gracielis clutches at it, feeling his solitude unraveling, and need sets the threads spinning anew. Blood binds . . . There is death in him, around him, he can see it coming. He touches stone and realizes that it too is within him, legacy of his inhuman ancestry. Aspected in stone, grounded in stone. Water buffets him and breaks. His hands are tangled in Thiercelin’s hair. Fire flashes down to burn him. He opens before it and feels it move him without destroying. His body remembers the soft comfort that is Amalie. Winds lay hold of him and tear, accented with Quenfrida’s perfume. He puts from him his need for her, and feels the air pour through him. Stolen memory holds him beneath the level grasp of Iareth. He is still, he is stone. He gives no resistance to Valdarrien’s exploration of him and feels that strong soul grow stronger. Gracielis draws the touch closer and tastes water and blood. It neither helps nor hinders; it is without will, without consciousness. He slips, silken-graceful, through chains that bespeak Quenfrida’s weaving, and pulls Valdarrien with him. He can feel his body beginning to change. He is deafened by a thousand silver bells. He draws his last breath and welcomes ending. It embraces him, fills him, and finds its place. He draws his first breath and knows himself whole.

Gracielis
undarios
.

In the Tarnaroqui embassy Quenfrida lets her goblet fall, and clouds dance in her sky-blue eyes. In his rooms, Kenan starts awake and stares into the darkness, heart pounding. In an inn on East Gold Street, Urien Armenwy throws wide a window and dives swan-form into the night.

Gracielis
undarios
.

17

“M
AL, STOP THAT.” Miraude pushed playfully at her companion’s hands.

Maldurel of South Marr looked at her in reproach and leaned back into a corner of the coach. “You’re very proper tonight.”

She dimpled at him. “Don’t rush me.”

“Thought you liked to be rushed.”

“Well, sometimes I do . . .” Her expression grew wicked. “But tonight I feel like keeping something for later.”

“Oh oh!” Maldurel stared at her. “Think I’m not capable, then? Not up to both occasions?” She giggled. He took her hand and kissed the palm. Then the wrist and the inside of her elbow. “Well?”

She stopped giggling long enough to kiss him. Then she pulled away and said primly, “The driver.”

“Paid to keep quiet, like all your people.” He peered at her. “Trying to tell me something, Mimi?” Miraude stroked his hand. He considered her for a moment, then continued, “Don’t tell me you’ve fallen for Prince Kenan. You’ve been seen with him a lot lately.”

She shrugged, “He’s interesting. He knows a lot of history.”

“Don’t call that interesting,” Maldurel said. “Sure you’ve not turning into a scholar, Mimi?”

“Completely.” She smiled at him. One might not trust him with any secret: he had all the discretion of a magpie. Yet she remained fond of him for all that. He had been her first lover; he remained a kind friend. She said,

“Have you seen Thierry? He was at the soirée, but I didn’t really get to talk to him.”

“Not for days. He’s holed himself up somewhere and won’t come out or answer my notes.”

“Yviane’s hardly ever home now, either. She practically lives at the palace. And with Thierry having moved out . . .” She turned to him. “It’s like when Valdin died. Too quiet. And with all this trouble in the low city . . .”

“Won’t touch us here.” Maldurel squeezed her fingers. “Thierry always was stubborn. He’ll come round.”

“I hope so.” Miraude put her head on his shoulder. “Thanks, Mal.”

“Welcome.” He grinned. “I get a reward, then?”

“Oh, you!” She kissed his cheek.

The coach came to a sudden halt, throwing them both forward. Maldurel caught her shoulders and steadied her. She hung onto him, gasping. “What happened?”

“Don’t know. Stay here. I’ll ask.” He opened the door on his side and peered out. “Well?” he called up to the driver.

Miraude opened her window and peered out in turn. By the light of the carriage lamps, she could see the driver standing in the road, bending over something. She could not quite make out what. She called, “What is it?”

The coachman turned and bowed. “I beg your pardon, mademoiselle, monseigneur. There’s been an incident. A person . . .”

“We hit someone?” Miraude opened the door and prepared to climb out. “Are they hurt?”

“I’m not sure, mademoiselle.” The driver was uncomfortable. “We were driving slowly. This person just seemed to fall into our path, and I had trouble stopping.”

Miraude jumped down into the road. The victim was a man of about her own age. He wore a stained and torn cavalry cassock. His face was dirty. He was unconscious. The driver stood to one side, twisting his hands. He said, “I don’t think we hit him.”

She waved him into silence. “We can’t leave him here.” She called, “Mal, come here, will you?” Maldurel, grumbling, climbed down from the carriage. “We’ll take him home.”

“Can’t do that,” Maldurel said reasonably. “Don’t know his address.”

“Home with
us
, stupid,” Miraude said. Maldurel looked affronted. “You’ll have to help lift him into the coach. We can fetch a doctor later.”

Maldurel and the driver exchanged glances. “Now, Mimi, wait a moment,” Maldurel said. “That might not be for the best. After all, the fellow’s a stranger. Could be anyone. Could be drunk. An inn, that’s the answer.”

“Oh, Mal! It may be our fault he’s hurt.” Maldurel looked unconvinced. She went on, “Yviane would. So would Thierry.”

“Valdin wouldn’t.”

“Valdin had no manners. Everyone says so.”

He shook his head, then sighed. “Yours to command. As usual.”

“Thank you.” Miraude hesitated, then stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “You’re very dear, Mal.”

“No, I’m not. I’m soft, that’s what. Well, let’s do it.” Maldurel pulled on his gloves and leaned over to lift the shoulders of the injured man. “River bless!”

“What is it?”

“I know this fellow. That lantern; bring it here.” The driver brought it. “Yes, I thought so. Cavalry chap. Thierry wanted to fight him. Can’t remember why.” Maldurel hauled at the unconscious figure. “Your house, you said?” Miraude took the lamp from the driver and the latter lifted the man’s feet.

She said, “Do you remember his name?”

“Not sure.” Maldurel panted as he helped with the carrying. “It’ll . . . come back to me.” They hoisted the limp form into the coach and settled it on a seat. “Fellow’s a mess. Best not get too close.” “Is he injured?”

Maldurel peered. “Don’t think so. But he
is
drunk. Take him to barracks.”

“Oh, but . . .” She hesitated. “I still think a doctor . . .”

“Army has doctors, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, but . . .”

The man stirred, and his eyes flickered open. He looked at Maldurel without recognition and said, indistinctly, “Iareth?”

“What?” Maldurel said.

Miraude frowned. Then she motioned the driver back to his box and climbed into the coach. Maldurel was right, the man was a mess. His clothing was filthy, and he smelled of ale and vomit. But the expression in his deep-set eyes was pleading. Maldurel opened his mouth. She held up a hand to silence him and said, “We’re taking him home. Drive on.”

He had black hair to his shoulders and well-shaped gray eyes. His bones were good, but he wore a beard and mustache along the straight jaw and round the thin lips. His skin tone was the warm honey common to Merafiens. He stood medium tall, with a fencer’s long muscles beneath the shredded remains of his shirt. A gold stud pierced his left ear. Attractive, in the feral mode.

He was holding his left hand in front of his face and looking at it, turning it slowly, flexing the fingers. Then he put it to his heart. The bloodied shirt parted, but the chest below was whole. His straight black brows lifted, questioning. He was Valdarrien d’Illandre, once Lord of the Far Blays, and he was dead.

Had been dead. Gracielis, on his knees before him, looked up and pushed his soaking hair back. His own hands were filthy with blood and earth; his clothing was ruined. Thiercelin lay between them; the wound torn in his side was no longer bleeding. His breathing was slow and regular. Gracielis felt for a pulse. It was steady. Gracielis whispered thanks into the night. Then he stood and looked again at Valdarrien. There was no weakness in him, no backlash. He could feel his blood pumping clean through him. The long cuts in his abused wrists were healed, marked out only by fading scars. He had never known such a sense of certainty.

He felt like laughing. Mist yet clung to their perimeters. Thiercelin needed help. Gracielis drew in a breath, savoring the movement, and smiled to see Valdarrien doing likewise. Then he said, “This isn’t possible.”

Valdarrien’s straight brows lifted anew. “I have not,” said his former lordship, “made any great study of superstitions.”

One of them should be dead. Gracielis had passed through his final gate and faced the seventh test through necessity rather than desire. Faced and survived; but the price should have been a life taken, not a life given. At their feet, Thiercelin groaned, and Gracielis put the mystery from him. The fog had thinned a little. He could see the houses along the quay and on the corner of Silk Street. “Thierry needs help,” he said. “I have a friend who lives nearby.” Pray Amalie was at home tonight. “But I can’t carry him alone.”