Living With Ghosts (47 page)

She opened the wallet and removed the contents, using silver tweezers. No point risking confusion with her own touch. From a drawer, she took a small porcelain bowl and a knife. She set them on the silk, holding the tweezers with her other hand. There was a length of ribbon on the edge of the table. She flicked the end flat and placed the contents of the wallet upon it. Then she closed her eyes, sat motionless, inhaling the scent of her candles.

When she opened them again, their blue had darkened almost to black. A faint light limned her; her face held a complete calm. Dimly, she felt the presence of her compatriots elsewhere in the embassy, distant, feeble, undistinguished. She exhaled slowly and extended herself along the air currents. There was no one near, no one working. The river had begun to subside with approaching dawn. The hour was good.

She lifted the knife with thoughtful fingers. She did not trouble to test it; she knew it was sharp. Her left hand lifted to hover an inch or so over the bowl; she looked at it, briefly, then brought the knife diagonally across her palm.

It did not hurt. She had learned long ago to control her body, so that she felt pain only when it suited her. She watched as the blood dripped into the bowl, long slow drops. After ten, she turned the palm up and stanched it with a cloth. From a compartment within the desk drawer, she drew out a number of small vials, and an eyedropper. She added drops from several to the bowl, careful of the proportions. With the knife tip, she stirred the liquid. It began to take on an oily iridescence. Its mingled odors rose and entwined with the scent of her candles.

She turned back to the item she had removed from the wallet. A long tress of human hair, dark auburn and slightly waved. From it, she drew two strands with the tweezers and placed them on the silk, beside the bowl. The rest, she replaced in the wallet.

She took up one hair, whispered a few words. Old Tarnaroqui, old Lunedithin, mixed into near incomprehensibility; each reinforcing the other by expansion from blindness. She let the strand fall into the bowl and breathed on it.

The candles flickered. She could hear wind gusting in the garden, considering its way about tree limbs, teasing the catch on her shutters. A clock ticked in the room next door. In the hall, someone laughed. Quenfrida waited, spine straight, eyes wide to the dawn. She was no longer breathing.

A faint shimmer began on the surface of the bowl: she felt the answering inner stir of her sympathetic blood. A ghosting, a shadowing, a miasma rising from the mingled liquids, less substantial than smoke. The light around her brightened, white and cold blue. The thread of near-mist held its own colors and they were dark and warm.

A small frown creased the skin between her brows. Within her, discomfort flickered into life, a dis-ease, a reluctance . . . She unwound the cloth from her hand and held the small wound over the flame of the blue candle. Its smoke turned acrid; her palm stung remotely. She held it unmoving for ten heartbeats. Then she withdrew it and thrust it into the misty column rising from the bowl.

The tendons jerked back. Her fingers clawed. Her wrist shook. Her even white teeth bit into her underlip, drawing blood. The taste startled her: she had not felt the pain. Something had changed . . . Last night, someone out there had tried a working, and she would have the details. Something had happened. Something had changed, and the taste upon it had spoken to her of Gracielis.

He had not the right . . . She had cautioned him and compelled him and forced him ever to her will. Even his last insubordination, with the lieutenant’s ghost, should have served only to bind him closer to her, trapped in the web of fear which she had created for him.

He should be of no account.

And yet . . . A whisper of jasmine; a coolness aspected in stone . . . The steam rising from the bowl seared her, clogging her veins, and she gasped. She could feel him, out there, somewhere in the city, sleeping. The familiar touch of him, silken, uncertain, edged now with some other, sharper thing. His blood bright, clean within him. A sense from him of—almost—contentment. And a touch which was neither her own nor yet the water-thunder of the river. He had drawn himself into that; she could feel it. But there was something more . . . The weight of water falling and the texture of stone and a sound. A regular and solid sound, like wings beating . . .

Quenfrida’s eyes narrowed. That aura she had touched before. Not here in Merafi, but years before in Lunedith. It had laid deep, there, mingled into the things that lay tangled and quiescent under the old stones of the north. She had realized even then the power inherent in those forces and worked with the young Kenan to unlock them, culminating in the blood spilled unwillingly alongside the great waterfall; Allandurin blood, and Orcandrin . . . But not only those two. It was in the nature of ambushes that many were hurt. The half-blood renegade Iareth Yscoithi. A handful of clansmen from disparate clans. And another, whose touch even then had made her wary.

Urien Armenwy. Full blood, throwback, shapeshifter, and manipulator of forces no less old than those over which Quenfrida sought dominion. His blood had mingled with the waters, with Valdarrien’s and Kenan’s, in the midst of that careful initiatory awakening.

His touch lay now on Gracielis, who should belong to herself and no other. Urien must, therefore, be somewhere in Merafi. And Gracielis . . . Quenfrida closed her eyes and made one last attempt to read him, to discover just what he had tried to do last night.

She was windborne, domained in air. She could breathe herself inside of him, and fill him wholly. She was
undaria
and dominatrix and mistress of his physical dreams. He had no strength with which he might withstand her. She smiled to herself and reached out to him. Gracielis
arin-shae
Quenfrida.

He was mantled in stone. He was still, he was closed: she could find no way by which she might enter and walk through him.

It should be easy. He should have no defenses. Gracielis-acolyte, possession, of Quenfrida.

Her eyes snapped open, and she stared into the bowl. He had stepped away from her and done what he had once feared to do. Without her presence, without her permission, he had essayed and overcome the seventh test.

He was no longer of no account. Alone in her room, Quenfrida shook her head and began, very softly, to laugh.

There was a room with painted panels and a green-hung bed. Two large long windows overlooked a garden. Overstuffed chairs, a chest, a commode, a heavy armoire. Several silk rugs on the polished wooden floor. In the hearth a small fire burned. Beside it, on the chest top, stood a stoneware jug and ewer filled with fresh warm water. Even the towels looked new. Beside them lay a folded pile of clothing.

Joyain swayed and admitted to himself that he had no idea where he was. His head ached. His mouth tasted foul. Black spots danced before his eyes. His balance was giving him problems. He felt feverish. Washing and dressing in small stages, he listened to the tides of heat which ran through him, and struggled for control. He remembered an inn and too much ale. The backs of his hands were bruised and grazed. The clothes laid out for him were not his own. He’d been looking for someone, something to do with the warnings he’d received. Looking for someone who could help . . . He wasn’t sure. Memory, uncoiling backward, presented him with the image of mutilated Leladrien. His stomach lurched. Luckily for his unknown host’s rugs, it seemed to be empty.

There was a mirror on top of a dresser, near a window. A quick glance in it assured him that he looked as bad as he felt. He used one of the brushes provided to put his hair in order and decided that he could not, under any circumstances, face trying to shave. He would have to do.

He was lost and he was abominably late. Always assuming that a warrant wasn’t out for him, after yesterday. He straightened, cursed his light-headedness, and let himself out of the room.

A long corridor, lit at both ends by large windows and with a wide stair halfway along it. He could hear distant footsteps; then a door opened and he caught a snatch of voices. Downstairs then. He could make it. He’d had worse hangovers. He arrived at the head of the stairs by dint of pausing frequently and leaning on walls. He was breathless, perspiring. His eyes kept blurring. He gulped and set a foot on the first step.

His surroundings swayed. He made a frantic grab for the banister and clung to it. After five more steps he had to sit down and try to recover his breath. Sweat slicked his palms. His head pounded.

A door opened in the hall below. Joyain gained a blurred impression of a figure in dark red. Then a female voice exclaimed, “Oh!”

Footsteps, light on the stairs. A tentative hand on his shoulder. “Monsieur?”

He looked up. He struggled to rise, said, “Forgive me, mademoiselle.”

She helped him. She was tiny, standing barely to his shoulder. She said, “You’re ill, monsieur.”

“No, I . . .” He was uneasily aware of a rising wave of nausea. He stopped and swallowed.

She said, “You should be in bed. Come; I’ll help you.” She was expensively dressed. It couldn’t possibly be her place to look after him.

Joyain said, “No, please . . .” and gasped as dizziness swept him. He heard her call names, then a pair of strong male arms were supporting him. He made no protest as he was more or less carried back to his room and lifted onto the bed. The pillows were blessedly cool. Careful hands removed his boots and undid his cassock. He lay still, eyes closed. After a while, the dizziness subsided.

He opened his eyes. The young woman sat next to the bed. She said, “How are you?”

“I’m not sure.” Joyain licked dry lips. “Where am I?”

“In my family’s townhouse, in the hill quarter.” The aristocrats’ quarter. He couldn’t recall how he might have come to be here. He said, “You’re kind.”

“My friend and I found you last night. You couldn’t tell us your name, so I brought you here to recover.”

“Jean,” Joyain said. Then, “No, I mean Joyain. Lieutenant Joyain Lievrier.”

“I’m Mimi. Miraude d’Iscoigne l’Aborderie.”

The sister-in-law of the queen’s First Councillor. The famous widow, Lelien had called her. He was in the house of Yvelliane d’Illandre. He said, “I must go . . . my duty . . .” She frowned, and he tried to sit up and explain.

That proved disastrous. He retched uncontrollably, humiliatingly, and painfully. He felt rather like crying. Miraude said, “River bless.” And then, “You need a doctor.”

He needed to tell her that he should go home. He had duties. He had to find Gracielis de Varnaq and shake out of him what the Tarnaroqui had done to Merafi. But his body was recalcitrant and all he managed to say was, weakly, “But . . .”

Her hands were cool and gentle. She stroked his damp hair back from his brow and said, “Let me worry. Do you have a family I should send for?”

Only Amalie. And he had warned her to leave. This kindly Miraude should leave too, for her own safety. He had not the time for illness, he had to get help, he had to act . . . He said, “No,” and then, “Iareth . . .”

Iareth, who spied on her own leader, and who was together with him witness to the dangers in Merafi. Iareth would help him. Miraude said, “Iareth Yscoithi? You mentioned her name last night.” He didn’t remember that. “Are you related to her?”

“No.” Joyain was finding it hard to think coherently. He said, “A friend.”

Miraude had been frowning. At that, her face cleared. “Do you want her? I can send a message. Although . . .” and her brows drew together, “she might not want to come here . . . Well, I can find out.”

He said, “Please.” And then, “Sorry—so much trouble.” “No.” Miraude smiled at him. “You’re my guest until you’re well again. I’ll have the doctor see you, and I’ll send for Iareth.”

She was so kind. He succeeded in raising a hand to her, although it shook. He said, “Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.” She patted his hand. Her fingers were cold. She said, “Now, lie still, and I’ll sort it out.” She rose. “Don’t worry. Sleep, if you can. I’ll have my maid come and sit with you in case you need anything.” She hesitated. “Sleep,” she repeated.

Joyain closed his eyes.

Tafarin Morwenedd was talking to someone in the yard, under Kenan’s window. His voice disturbed Kenan’s concentration, as he tried to force sense from the cards patterned before him. He had cut short the life of his rival; he had twice paid the blood-price necessary for
undarios
power. He should be able to bend it to his will utterly . . . He stared down at the spread and saw nothing. Painted pictures.

It should be easy. An exercise, a task within the ability of any acolyte. It was Tafarin’s fault, distracting him. Kenan passed a hand over the cards, disarraying them. New conjunctions formed, silently. Illustrated eyes met. Kenan muttered an imprecation and rose.

He would deal with Tafarin. And then . . . Then, he would see.

He went downstairs and out through the hall. Tafarin stood in the gateway, talking to someone in the street. Kenan could not see who. A guardsman or a street vendor, no doubt. Tafarin had no sense of what was right. No sense of the dignity due to a prince. Merafi had taught Kenan that much, at least. He paused at the foot of the outside steps and called, crossly, “Tafarin
kai-reth
!”