Living With Ghosts (49 page)

“Don’t you ever leave the hill?” Without meaning to, Iareth took a pace forward. Miraude flinched and looked away. “There is plague in Merafi, Miraude Allandur; and you have carried it under your roof.”

Miraude said, “But . . .”

“He spent his last few days in the low city; in the heart of the plague area. He will have contracted it there. And now,” Iareth spread her hands out before her, “he will pass it to you, to your household, and to your friends.”

“No,” Miraude said. “I don’t believe you.” But her voice was uncertain, and her face gave her the lie.

Iareth said, “I wish it were otherwise. You must burn his bedding and the bed also, if he should die.” Miraude made to speak. Iareth held up a hand. “How many people have been in contact with him since you brought him here?”

“I’m not sure. Six. Ten, perhaps.”

“And how many of them have left the house?” Miraude twisted her fingers together. “Most of them, I think.”

Iareth cursed. Then she said, “It is too late, then, maybe. Having brought him here, you should have imposed quarantine. You must try and minimize further contacts. And you must issue a warning to those not of your household who have also been in contact with him. If you write to them, I will undertake the delivery.”

“You,” said Miraude, with a certain satisfaction, “are as much a contact as me, or anyone else here.”

“I,” said Iareth Yscoithi of Alfial, “am a bastard.” Her head came up, proud. “Do you understand clan-blood, Miraude Allandur?” Miraude shook her head.

“We breed within our clans, to keep the lines pure and to ensure transmission of the old shapeshifting gifts, where they still survive.”

“Shapeshifting,” Miraude said, and her eyes were wide. “You mean you . . . ?”

“No Yscoithi has that gift. Our blood has grown too thin.” She had said it. It had taken her half her lifetime to recognize it, but she had faced and said it at last. “I am not pure Yscoithi. I am bred across-clan,
elor-reth
. My blood is mixed. Yscoithi and Armenwy.”

“So?”

“My sire’s Armenwy blood is strong. He has the old abilities, the old defenses. He could not pass to me his shifting power, but he did transmit other things.” Probably. But Iareth had no intention of voicing any doubt. She held her hands out before her and looked at them. Long hands, light, like the rest of her. Too tall for a true Yscoithi. Too fair. “The old clan-blood confers certain protections. In particular, strengths against such plagues as this one. It is improbable that I will either catch or transmit it. But there are too few here in your city who can say that.” Iareth looked up. “So, Miraude Allandur, command me. You may not have long.”

19

T
HE DAY WORE ON, COLD, OVERCAST. No rain fell, though the air was moist and the ground slippery, as though the dew had never quite risen. The low city lay quiescent, wrapped in mist and the scent of honeysuckle. Intermittent fires burned, but their light was pale and they gave off little heat in comparison with the fever that gripped so many. At army HQ, no questions were asked about the whereabouts of one Joyain Lievrier. There were so many others missing. The river ran high and loud: water began to replace feet on the streets of the new dock and the south Artisans’ quarter. In the Rose Palace, Yvelliane d’Illandre fought to make sense of the demands placed on her time and did not look out of the windows. The queen grew worse: there had been an alarm in the night, The doctors spoke only in low voices and rumor hinted at another heamorrhage. Ambassador Sigeris sent up his kindest sympathies: Yvelliane was hard put not to throw that letter into the fire.

Joyain was not aware that he was enjoying her hospitality. Fever-caught, he lay senseless, under the frightened eyes of Miraude d’Iscoigne l’Aborderie. One of the footmen had complained of feeling unwell . . . She was cold with Iareth’s warning and unsure what she should do. No word came for her from Maldurel, trying to convince himself that his pounding head and uneasy stomach were merely the result of a disturbed night.

The west quarter felt too quiet. From Amalie’s windows few people might be seen; and most of those the poorest. The last of her carts was parked outside the door, ready to take her and her possessions out of Merafi before sunset. Returning from his errands, Gracielis confirmed that a steady stream of inhabitants were leaving by the two north gates. He could bring no news of Yvelliane. He had left his missive and taken time to inform Iareth Yscoithi, whom he had encountered in the street outside the Far Blays town house, of Urien’s address. He had hesitated, then told her also of Valdarrien’s untimely rebirth. She had said nothing, only smiled and turned away to pursue errands of her own.

He had forced himself to come home via the river. Its dark waters repelled him, but he had made himself study them and refused dominion to the fear which might have seized him. Merafi was sinking. Only around the River Temple did the surface still seem clear. The air tasted to him of Quenfrida. The old city was even quieter than the west quarter, and many of the houses were boarded up. He did not venture farther south. He could smell the death there in the wind, as the pyres grew more common.

He was running out of time. Last night both moons had been close to full. When they met, when they both exerted pull over the river and the estuary . . . He needed Amalie’s help for that, used as she was to working out the movements of the tides. He must find his one moment, when salt and sweet waters both rose, to try to sever Quenfrida’s bindings. There would be no other chance.

He doubted that this one would be enough. At least Amalie would be away from it. And Thiercelin . . . Gracielis had begun to realize that there were, after all, reasons for which he might kill.

In Amalie’s house Thiercelin still slept. Beneath the bandages his wounds healed with a speed that surprised everyone but Urien. The Armenwy kept his own counsel, though his eyes watched Valdarrien, or studied the place where scars should have marred Gracielis’ wrists. Healing was no gift of the
undarii
. But Gracielis had enacted his ritual in disorder and brought life where death should have walked. It was not in Urien’s nature to make too many rules concerning what was, and was not, possible.

Under the same roof, Valdarrien prowled, restless. Somewhere out in the city, under the same sky, was Iareth Yscoithi.

They had parted once, and she had said they would not meet again. He had defied death to prove her wrong. Thiercelin had spoken of years elapsed, but Valdarrien could account for only a handful of months. About him, familiar faces gave memory the lie, for there was gray in Thierry’s hair and new lines in Urien’s face. He paid no heed to that, certain that his fate would return Iareth to him, and soon.

She came with the sunset. He was alone in Amalie’s salon. Gracielis was outside, making his farewells to his mistress, and Urien was with Thiercelin. She closed the door behind her and came to stand in the center of the room. He cursed himself that he had forgotten that her eyes were that precise shade of cool green. She watched him without surprise, and it was everything. Her head tilted, she said, gentle, familiar, “Valdin
kai-reth
.”

He was weeping, he who never wept, Valdarrien the duelist, the killer. He said, “Iareth . . .” and stopped, looking at her, seeing the beauty in her stillness.

Her hand lifted, touched her sword hilt lightly, traveled upward to her heart, passed on, and stretched out toward him, palm up. The Lunedithin salute, given to their prince, and to their guests, and to their kinsmen by blood or vow:
I serve you. I honor you. I am yours.

I am yours.
He said, “You came back.” She was silent. “You said you wouldn’t, but you did.”

Her lips twitched. She said, “I am not alone in that. You have had a longer journey back than I.”

He remembered, after the uncertain fashion of dreams, a conversation in a darkened room; a dance. He said, “I told you.” And then, “Iareth
kai-reth
, can I—may I—touch you?”

“I do not know. You might try.”

Two steps brought him to her. He could feel her warmth. His hands found her shoulders and seized them. His head bowed against her. He closed his eyes. He could feel the soft tide of her breath, hear the murmur that was her heart. He had won her back and he would break in pieces before he lost her again. Her arms came around him, about his waist, and he felt that she did not tremble. Whip-cord and willow; pliant only as it pleased her. Beside her, he was glass. Into her hair, he said, “Not again. Never again.”

Another of her qualities, that she always understood him. She raised her head and looked at him. “We will be together while we may.”

“Always,” he said. “You promised it . . . I shall fight to keep you this time.”

“Valdin
kai-reth
.” She put a hand under his chin and lifted it. “Look at me.” He opened his eyes. “What do you see?”

“You,” Valdarrien said.

“So.” She smiled at that, and he awoke to her anew. “Look closer.” She shook her braid forward over a shoulder. “For you it has been a handful of months only. For me, six years.” She hesitated. “I am no longer the same, Valdin
kai-reth
.”

“You love me.” He was as sure of that as he could be of anything. “We are
kai-rethin
, each to the other. That was our compact. It doesn’t change.”

“No. But . . .” Again, that pause. He watched in fascination as her brows drew together. He had forgotten that, too. She said, “My duty to my clan is also unchanged.”

“So what?” he said. Amusement flickered on her face. “They’ve had most of your life. It’s my turn now.”

“And I have no say in this?”

“No. Not unless you agree with me. Agree with me, Iareth
kai-reth
.”

She smiled. Then she laughed. Her head dropped to his shoulder. “You do not change.”

“No.”

“Kenan . . .” She paused and shook her head. “There are troubles of which you know nothing.” He shrugged. She said, “By rights, this is impossible.”

“I do not,” said Valdarrien, “see any reason to conform to ‘rights’. All that matters is that I’m here. Say yes.”

Iareth gasped. Voice uneven, she said, “You are imperious. As ever.”

“Yes.” He stood back, and looked into her eyes.

“You’re all I want. Agree, my Iareth.”

Her hand traced the side of his face. She said, “Real . . .” And then, “There are matters to which I must attend for Urien and others. Your wife . . .”

“Whatever you do, I’ll do as well.”

“So simple? I wonder . . .” She drew in a long breath. “I do not understand, Valdin
kai-reth
.”

“Nor do I,” he said. “Urien—and that Tarnaroqui, Gracielis—have notions . . . I understand that I need you, Iareth
kai-reth
. The rest can drown.”

She looked up at him and shook her head. Amused despite herself, she said, “Merafien!”

“Say yes. I won’t stop asking until you do.”

She looked down. Her left hand twisted in her braid. Her right still touched him. She said, “This does not happen.”

“Only to us.”

“Valdin Allandur
kai-reth
,” Her tone was formal. He caught at her hand, fighting sudden chill. “We are kin by oath. The bond cannot be broken. You know your answer.”

“No. Say it.”

“To you?” He nodded. She said, “Urien has ever said I chose wrongly.” He waited, trembling. She looked straight at him. “To you, yes. Always and always yes.” Her hand knotted in his. “By stone and flame, wind and wave and darkness, I swear it. Always, Valdin
kai-reth
.”

He kissed her, then.

“Don’t refuse me, love.” Amalie closed the lid of the final chest and turned. “I don’t understand what you’re doing, but I trust you. And I want to help.” She had taken a cloth bag out of the chest. Now she held it out. “You almost never let me give you things.”

Gracielis looked at the floor. He said, “You know what I am.”

“Yes.” She was brisk. “But I also know you.”

“I’m not . . .” Gracielis stopped, fidgeted with his hair. The shop was bare. He said, “Amalie. Ladyheart. I’m a whore.”

“You’re my lover.” In turn she hesitated. “And you’ve dealt fairly with me, where others of your profession might not.”

He said, “You can’t know that.”

“Can’t I? Look at me, love.” He looked up. Her face was calm and serious. “I’m a woman alone, that’s true. I have no family here, apart from Jean. But I’m not a court beauty or a sheltered treasure; I’m a guildswoman. I live by commerce. I learned long ago to recognize a good deal.” She looked down. “I always knew I couldn’t buy your heart.” He made to speak at that, but she held up a hand. “You’re dear to me and you’ve been good to me. If it wasn’t me that you thought of in bed, then the deception was graceful and well done. I know you’ve always thought you took from me; but the truth is, you only ever took money. The rest was giving.”

He said, “Forgive me.”

“For what? For kindness?”

“You deserve better.”

“And I’ve had it.” Amalie put the bag down on the chest, then crossed the room and took his hands. “Are we friends, Gracielis?”

He made himself look up, and banished all artifice. He said, “I’m not good at loving . . . If I were, I would’ve loved you, Ladyheart.”

She kissed his cheek. “Listen, love. I want to help, but I’m not sure how. Except . . . What I do have is money, and you can’t live on air. Please don’t be too proud.”

“It isn’t pride.” He lifted her hand. “Forgive me.”

“Always, love.”

“It wasn’t contempt, I swear. It’s simply that I . . .” He could not say it. He could not name Quenfrida to her. “I had a duty to someone at home. I’m ashamed.”

“Don’t.” Amalie squeezed his hand. “We’ve been good to each other, you and I. Let’s leave it at that.” There was an odd note of finality in her voice. She smiled at him again and released his hands. She said, “You’ll need money, prices are rising. This,” and she passed him the bag, “should cover you and your friends for a month or so. Beyond that, I’ve left instructions with my guild master that you may draw on my funds.” Gracielis reached out to her. “I’ve left details of my forwarding address upstairs in the office. I don’t expect you to transact business for me, but I’d be grateful if you could forward any messages. Write to me, if you have time.” She stopped and looked down. “Goodbye, love.”