Living With Ghosts (46 page)

Swan wings and a binding. A promise, it seemed, to live. Gracielis smiled and said, “Not solely mine.” And then, in Lunedithin, “He is what he seems to be. More or less.”

“So I had surmised.” Urien said, in the same tongue. Valdarrien frowned. To him, Urien continued, “I have come in good time, I see. There is a great disturbance in this city.”

“Too great,” said Gracielis, thinking of Thiercelin.

Defensively Valdarrien said, “It’s nothing to do with me.” And then, “She’s here, also. My Iareth
kai-reth
.”

“It was Iareth Yscoithi summoned me.” Urien stared him down. To Gracielis he said, “I beg your pardon, but have you anything in which I might clothe myself?”

“I’ll see.” Gracielis bowed and let himself out of the kitchen. The house was dark. He made his way upstairs for clothing, and paused to check on Thiercelin. Herlève met him in the door. She said, “He’s asleep.”

“I’m glad.” He hesitated. “There’s someone here who may be able to treat him further.”

“Another of your street friends?”

“No.” Gracielis looked down. “I can’t explain all this.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

“Madame Herlève . . .” He drew in a long breath and looked up. “I’m at your mercy.”

“It won’t wash, Gracieux.” She met his eyes. He would have preferred to face down Kenan.

He said, “I beg you . . .”

“Madame doesn’t need the trouble you cause.”

“I know. But . . .”

In the corridor a door opened. Then Amalie’s voice, misty with sleep, called, “Herlève?”

“Coming, madame.” Herlève shot Gracielis another poisoned glance and bustled out.

Thiercelin moved a little and groaned. Gracielis turned and went to the bed. He lifted one of the pale hands carefully. He said in Tarnaroqui, “Oh, my dear one.” And then, “Forgive me.”

There was no response. Gracielis rested his brow on the back of Thiercelin’s hand. He could no longer afford to rely on others. He was alone, he must act. He dropped a kiss on the hand, and raised his head. He could hear Amalie’s voice, and Herlève’s. Rising, he went out into the corridor and knocked.

He did not wait for an answer. Both women turned to look at him, Amalie in surprise, Herlève in disapproval. He bowed and said, “Madame, I need your help.”

“You,” said Herlève, “need to recall your famous manners.”

“Forgive me, madame.” Gracielis did not look at her.

“Ladyheart, I’ve brought you an injured man and two strangers in addition to myself. We need shelter. I throw myself on your protection because I have no one else to trust and nowhere else to go.” He hesitated. “Madame Herlève says you’re leaving Merafi tomorrow. I don’t want to delay you. But I crave your leave to remain here in your absence.”

“Well!” Herlève said.

Amalie shushed her, sitting down on the end of her bed and frowning. “You’re in trouble.” It was not a question. Gracielis said nothing.

She picked at the bedcover. “Joyain sent me a warning today. The unrest is spreading . . . Is it that?”

There was only so much he could tell her. He hesitated, then said, “Yes . . . We were set on. Lord Thiercelin is hurt.”

“Herlève told me.” Amalie rose and came to stand in front of him. She wore only her nightgown, and her hair was loose. He could see the gray in it. She said, “You know you’re always welcome here, love. I’ll do whatever I can to help you.” Her hand sketched the contours of his face. “I owe you, after all.”

He caught the hand and kissed it, back and palm. Then he said, “It is I that owe you. But you must leave as planned tomorrow.”

“Come with me?”

“I can’t.”

She studied him. “You mean that, don’t you?”

“Yes. Forgive me?”

“Anything, love.”

“Thank you,” Gracielis said, and meant it.

Thiercelin was woken by the sound of a clock chiming. His head felt heavy. There was a nagging pain in his side. He could not quite move; the attempt hurt. From somewhere beside him a soft voice said, “Monseigneur?”

Thiercelin opened his eyes. Gracielis was leaning over him, looking concerned. Thiercelin smiled at him and remembered.

Mist and violence and a form that could not be Valdarrien . . . He said faintly, “Graelis?”

“Here, monseigneur. How are you?”

“Terrible,” Thiercelin said, and gasped, because speaking was painful. He struggled to sit up and the world went awry. Somewhere in the midst of it, hands came to help him. He clung to them and hung there. He felt reassuring warmth behind him and smelled jasmine. He said, “Debt paid, Graelis.” And then, “What time is it?”

“A little after midnight. We’re staying with Madame Viron. Quite safe.”

“Good,” Thiercelin said. Gracielis’ presence was comforting, but he wanted Yvelliane. He must have spoken her name, for Gracielis said, “Soon, monseigneur,” and his voice was worried.

“She won’t come,” Thiercelin said.

“She will. But we must wait for dawn. You should rest. The Armenwy advises it.”

“The Armenwy?” Thiercelin was finding it hard to think. They must have drugged him with something.

“Urien Swanhame, of whom Iareth spoke. He’s here.” Gracielis shifted slightly. “Are you thirsty?”

“A little.” The liquid raised to his lips tasted bitter. He swallowed some of it and dropped his head.

Gracielis said, “It’ll ease the pain. But you should sleep.”

“Not yet . . . Are you all right, Graelis?”

“Of course.” Thiercelin could picture the smile that accompanied that remark, beautiful and faintly mocking. Gracielis added, “Why shouldn’t I be?”

“I remember what happened. I was attacked . . . You didn’t get to do what you intended . . .” There was no answer. Thiercelin finished, “And I saw Valdin, again. I think he saved me.”

“Yes,” Gracielis said. And then, “I saw him also. He’s here.” Another pause. “Do you want to see him?”

Not possible . . . But Thiercelin was losing his sense of the rational. He said, “Yes,” and waited while Gracielis settled him against a pillow, and went to open the door. Voices, and then . . .

Dark brows that lifted over gray eyes. A half-smile edging thin, bearded lips, Thiercelin said unsurely, “Valdarrien.” And then, “Oh, Valdin.”

Valdarrien drew up a chair and sat down astride it, resting his arms along the back. “In person,” he said. “Good evening, Thierry.”

“Good evening?” Thiercelin forgot his pain in outrage. “You come back from the dead, and all you can do is say, ‘Good evening’?”

“Certainly not.” Valdarrien sounded offended. “I have the most distinct recollection of coming between you and a very nasty attack earlier tonight, and I can’t say that I’m impressed by the depths of your gratitude. Such as they are.”

Gracielis had sat down on the edge of the bed. Thiercelin looked at him, but his face was shuttered, unhelpful. He looked back at Valdarrien and said, “You’re real.”

“Evidently.”

“But . . .” Thiercelin hesitated. “It’s confusing.”

“For you, anyway,” said Valdarrien. “Will you never learn to keep your guard up?”

“A marksman doesn’t need to,” Thiercelin said, stung.

“Can’t block a lunge with an empty pistol,” Valdarrien said. But his face was concerned, and after a moment he said, “It hurts?”

“Diabolically.”

“Poor Thierry. The fruits of indolence.”

Thiercelin glared. “Indolence? Who was it who spent three months flat on his back for underestimating an out-of-towner?”

Valdarrien shrugged. “I concede I may have been a little overconfident once or twice, but that incident happened when I was all of eighteen!”

“Twenty-one.”

“Eighteen.” Thiercelin refused to be stared down. Valdarrien sighed. “Maybe twenty. But . . .”

It was very tiring. Thiercelin managed to find a smile for his old friend, but his eyes were closing and he could no longer concentrate. He said, “My thanks, Valdin,” and felt a familiar hand grip his arm briefly.

Valdarrien said, “What else would I do?”

That was reassuring. Thiercelin murmured, “Do the same for you . . . some time . . .” and let himself settle back against the pillows.

From a long way away he heard Gracielis say “Let him be, now.” A hand came to take his, known in its strength, in the line of callus across the palm. A swords-man’s hand . . . Thiercelin returned the pressure and let himself slide away into warm darkness.

Leaving Valdarrien with Thiercelin, Gracielis found Amalie awaiting him. He closed the door quietly and smiled at her. She said, “Well?”

“He’s sleeping. Lord Val . . . His friend will sit with him.”

“I recognize Valdarrien d’Illandre.” Amalie looked at him. “No questions, love.”

He was grateful for that. He was tired. Urien and Herlève had retired. Thiercelin was weak but not in danger. There was nothing more that needed to be done, this night . . . He sighed and rubbed his eyes, trying not to think about the retribution that surely awaited him at Quenfrida’s hands. Amalie touched his arm and said, “Come to bed. You’re worn out.”

“I’m imposing.”

“No.” She drew him into her room and shut the door.

“I mean sleep only, love. I know you’ve had a strange night.”

He could not help smiling. He sat down on the bed and began to undress. He said, “Have I thanked you yet?”

“Several times.”

“Insufficient.” Amalie had taken off her robe and climbed into the bed. She reached out to close the hangings on her side. He stripped to his shirt and said, “I will always be your debtor.”

He slid into bed beside her, and she extinguished the candle with a snuffer. Lying on his back, hands behind his head, he stared at the canopy and listened to her breathing. She said, “Your wrists are healed.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t want to know what happened to you tonight. Merafi is growing strange.”

“Yes. I’m glad you’re going. I shall like to know that you are safe somewhere.”

“I’ll come back, you know.”

“Not soon, I beg you.” Gracielis rolled on to his side and looked at her indistinct form. “Go safely, Ladyheart.”

“And you, love.” She reached out and stroked his cheek. “I’m afraid for you, sometimes.”

He kissed her fingers. “Don’t be.” Her touch was soft and oddly pleasant. He leaned into it. “I have my own protections.”

“Yes.” Amalie sounded sad. He drew her against him. He could feel her warmth, the soft motions of her breath. He closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation, letting his hand slide over her shoulders. After a moment he bent and kissed her. She pressed close to him, returning it. He shivered, and his hands moved to the lacing on her gown. She helped him, shifting so that he could slip it away and undid his shirt. He lay still, savoring the feeling of her hands on him. There was no urgency to it; he awakened to her gently, kindly. She leaned across him, trailing kisses along his jaw, down his throat. Her lips reached the hollow of his collarbone. He gasped, and something ignited.

This should not be happening . . . He lay in Amalie’s arms, letting her explore and arouse him, and he was responding not to memory, but to reality. Not to some ghost-Quenfrida, but to the woman beside him. Amalie’s hands stroked down his flank. Need blazed within him. He kissed her with unfamiliar hunger, and heard her gasp.

He was remade in one night. He had been property, spirit and body; and now he was not. He opened his eyes and looked up at Amalie. She smiled. He remembered how it was she liked to be touched and let his hands move. She pressed closer to him, and he felt her pleasure like a wave. His own need was almost too intense to be supported. He arched against her, and she opened for him. That was even better. He heard his breath sob as he moved and moved and moved, closer and closer. Amalie shuddered and called his name. He held her tighter, feeling her climax, unable even to pause. There was a roaring within him, a desperate pressured inward intensity; he would fall in pieces, he would break apart . . . Flame lanced through him, sudden and violent, as his head fell back and he rose against her and lost his fears in unguessed pleasure.

He wept afterward, and she held him close and asked no questions.

18

Q
UENFRIDA UNLOCKED THE ROSEWOOD casket with a smooth click. The box was old, dark with polish and candle smoke, the inlaid geometric pattern almost indistinguishable. It was Lunedithin-made, worked by a craftsman through whose veins the old clan-blood had run thick and strong. Under her fingertips, she could just about hear the remote murmur of his thoughts. She had had Gracielis read the box for her, long ago in Tarnaroq, as an exercise for his ghost-sight. Even now, she remembered his narrow hand lying on the lid, the intent cast to his face, the serious light in his beautiful eyes. Her own abilities did not lie in that direction; no trace of him remained to her sensing, although he had used power over it. Frail even then: she had been more than half-ready for him to faint as the color left his skin. But at the last, he had turned to her and smiled. “His name was Kierian Penedar,” he had said. “A true changer: I can feel the second shape of him, made for running . . . He was thinking of someone, a woman of his clan . . . It’s a long way back, Quena.”

A long way. Old things were better, for some purposes. Their locked-in memories served to shield more recent contents and events from casual detection by others. She returned the key to the locket around her neck and opened the casket.

It held a number of small parchment wallets, layered and sealed, but otherwise undifferentiated. Quenfrida saw no sense in leaving clues to assist her rivals. Besides, she was perfectly acquainted with the contents of each and would not be confused by any casual disordering. She took out the third from the bottom and shut the box. Then she crossed to her small lacquered escritoire.

She had covered the top with a square of raw, undyed silk, cut rough from the bale and neither hemmed nor embroidered. Candles burned to either side of it, one red, one blue, both scented in her own tones, musk and amber and bitter orange. Without turning, she commanded the room’s other candles into darkness: she had to look at the fire to extinguish it, but after a moment, it, too, obeyed her.