Living With Ghosts (55 page)

“Thierry,” said Thiercelin. And then, “Liar.” Gracielis sighed extravagantly. “My heart will surely shatter.”

“I doubt it.”

“Without you . . .” Gracielis stopped and looked away. After a moment he turned back and said, “Thierry?”

“Yes?”

“Something’s happening, something I can’t quite recognize. Something’s out of balance.” Gracielis took his hand away from Thiercelin. “I don’t know if I can do this at all, and now . . .”

“What?” Thiercelin stared. “I’m not following you. I can understand if you’re concerned about Quenfrida . . .”

Gracielis cut him short. “I fear that something has happened to Iareth Yscoithi. There was a . . . a disturbance, something like that. And then Lord Valdarrien rushed out, and since then . . .”

“River bless.” Thiercelin hesitated. “Was she attacked by those mist creatures?”

“I don’t know. It felt different, as if someone was raising power. Not Quenfrida. Kenan.”

Thiercelin forgot himself and sat up. “And if Valdin finds that out . . . He’ll go looking for Kenan.” It was not a question. Thiercelin knew Valdarrien too well to have any doubt on that. “Well, there’s nothing we can do about it now, I suppose.”

Gracielis turned to him. “You aren’t angry?”

“Why should I be?”

“I failed to prevent Lord Valdarrien . . .”

“No one,” said Thiercelin, “has ever been able to stop Valdin, that I recall. It’s one of his least endearing features.” He stopped and looked at Gracielis. “No one except maybe Iareth. He doesn’t change. And neither do our responses to him. If he does kill Kenan, the diplomatic consequences are going to drive Yviane to distraction.” He sighed, shook his head. Yvelliane still had not come.

Gracielis laid a hand on his shoulder. “Diplomacy may not matter.”

“How so?”

“What troubles me . . .” Gracielis halted, and rose. “I should leave this. Your injuries . . .”

“Don’t hedge,” Thiercelin said. Gracielis glanced round, looking resigned. “If you don’t tell me, I promise I’ll lie awake worrying.”

“Blackmail. Very well, then. It is simply that if Kenan dies . . .” Gracielis hesitated, apparently seeking words.

“There were two, who raised this old power against Merafi. To remove one like this is highly dangerous.”

“You said something to that effect yesterday.”

“Yes.” Gracielis came back to the bed, and sat down.

“There’re two reasons why. The first—the simplest—is that the
undarii
are sometimes hard to kill. The second . . .” He began to pleat a corner of the sheet between his fingers. “If you kill the controller without first breaking the powers bound to them, then those powers may go out of control. And Kenan has already done something that tends that way.”

Thiercelin sighed, caught once again by the paradox between the rational and the unnatural. Gracielis looked at him with eyes that were both candid and pleading. “Go on.”

“There’s a further strangeness . . .”

“There would be. All right, Graelis, I believe you.”

“Valdarrien d’Illandre is in some sense a side creation of the forces awoken by Kenan and Quenfrida. That night by the quay . . .” Gracielis hesitated. “I was afraid for you.”

“Well, I still seem to be here,” Thiercelin said. “Along with one or two other people.” Gracielis would not meet his eyes. “Tell me?”

“Lord Valdarrien . . . He wasn’t what I meant to do. I wasn’t
undarios
. That night . . . I had hoped at best to weaken the effects of Quenfrida’s working a little. But when you called out, I was afraid. For you rather than myself.” He shrugged. “A new experience. I used what power was to hand to defend you, and . . . Well, you’ve seen the consequences.”

“Valdin.”

“He was dead. Now he lives, after a fashion.” Gracielis looked at Thiercelin. “To become
undarios
. . . There is a series of rituals, tests, designed to awaken ability. The last, the seventh, involves a death. The acolyte must kill or be killed. I could never face it.” He paused, looked away. “The killing is used as the key to unlock power in the blood. That night on the quay I let the power in the river into me, trying to help you. I meant to kill myself. But Valdarrien d’Illandre was there. He was already bound to that power, since his was the blood shed to awaken it. I went through him and into the forces behind him. It should have finished both of us. It didn’t. I still don’t know why.” Gracielis shook his head. “However, it happened, he’s still in part a creation of the power in that river. For Kenan to die at his hand . . . It’s equivalent, almost, to Kenan being killed by his own power.”

“That doesn’t sound good,” Thiercelin said.

“It isn’t. It’s virtually a guarantee of full loss of control over the old power. It probably means an almost immediate deterioration in the state of Merafi. The only positive side effect is that Quenfrida may have to overextend herself.”

Thiercelin said, “I see.” It was, he recognized, an inadequate response, but it was the best he could come up with.

Gracielis said, “I’m sorry.”

There was a silence. Thiercelin frowned. Then he said, “Poor Valdin.” Another remark without apparent relevance. He added, “Even now, I don’t know quite how to react to him. I suppose I must have grown more used to his having died than I thought.” Gracielis said nothing. “But to lose Iareth again . . .” Thiercelin paused and shivered. “You can’t know what he was like when she left him Even Yviane could do nothing with him. And I’m stuck here, worse than useless.”

“Above all else,” Gracielis said, “you are not responsible for what’s just happened.”

“I’m not? If I hadn’t asked you to go looking for him in the first place . . . If I’d told Yvelliane, instead of trying to do everything myself . . .”

“Things would probably have turned out much the same. And,” and Gracielis looked wicked, “you wouldn’t have had the privilege and experience of my company.” He looked at Thiercelin sidelong.

Thiercelin was not going to be provoked. He raised his brows. “Oh, now that would’ve been a real tragedy.”

“Naturally.” But the amusement was already gone from Gracielis’ face. He put out a hand and said, “Thierry, I . . .”

There was a brisk tap on the door. Gracielis broke off, and went to answer it.

It was Yvelliane.

There is a stillness in the air, a quality of waiting that is, in some oblique way, new. The rain holds back, uncertain, immanent. Deep down, below the river, through the water table, west to the great lake, north through the arterial tributaries, something is awakening.

It has no memory. How can it, lacking any sense of self? It has no consciousness. It does not notice the hiatus in its existence, since it can feel nothing, neither imprisonment nor cessation. It can simply be and move and grow.

The city of Merafi, built at the mingling of two waters, salt and sweet, lies like a weight upon it, half felt, half ignored. It is blind to the remaining life within that city, aware only of the compression wrought by stone and brick and timber. Two moons tug at it, subtly out of alignment, hinting at force to come. High in the distant lake a head begins to build.

The river is rising. Thick, dirty water laves the edges of the old docks, the remains of the city wall, the fringes of the central city. To the south the water runs insistent, dominating its surroundings. The canalized north channel chafes at its bindings, beginning to test its boundaries, tugging on the pylons of the bridges, washing debris from the face of the lower cliff. Water tastes the high wall along the west quarter quayside.

Yvelliane hovered in the doorway, eyes on Thiercelin. They were dark-circled, and the lines of worry had settled even more deeply into her face. He longed to go to her, gather her to him. He could do no more than hold out his hands. “Yviane . . .” He was used to her being tired, but this was something more, something darker. He said, “The queen . . . She hasn’t . . . I mean, she isn’t . . . ?”

“Firomelle is no worse.”

“I’m glad.”

There was a silence. Into it, Gracielis said, “I have things I should be doing.” He bowed. “If you would excuse me, madame.”

Yvelliane was still staring at Thiercelin. She said, “Of course,” and stepped aside as he passed her.

She would not come closer. Thiercelin dropped his hands. He said, “And you? How are you? You look tired.”

“As ever.” Something—not a smile—tugged at the corners of her mouth. She moved a little closer, came to a halt just before the foot of his bed. She said, “You were hurt . . . How are you?”

“Recovering.” He smiled at her. Was she worrying over him? Hope awoke within him, faint, enduring. He said, “It’s not as bad as it looks. Urien’s a good doctor.”

“I’m glad.” But her face was not glad. She fidgeted with the edge of her cloak. “I’m sorry, Thierry. I’m such a bad wife to you.”

“What?” He started toward her, came up short with an exclamation of pain. She dropped her cloak to the floor and came round the bed to support him. Her hands were cold, her fingers tight on his forearm.

She said, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” Her voice shook. “I must try not to do that.” He put his free hand over hers. “It’s all right, I’m all right, Yviane.”

“Yes, but . . .” She would not look at him. “This is all my fault. I ignored you and hurt you and pushed you away, and now . . .”

“It’s not your fault. It was an accident. Sort of. Or it was my fault, for trying to do something that was too difficult for me.”

“You couldn’t trust me.” There were tears in Yvelliane’s voice. “Urien told me what you’ve been doing, you and Gracielis. I made you afraid to tell me.”

“No.” He did not know what to say. He could barely recall the last time he had seen her this visibly distressed, this close to broken. Those first days after Valdarrien died, perhaps. He inhaled, slowly and said, “Sit down.” She sat on the edge of the bed. He tightened his grip on her hand. “I wanted to help. You’re always so overworked, and it sounded crazy.”

“And you thought I wouldn’t listen.” Finally, she looked at him. “You’d have been right. I don’t listen.”

“It doesn’t matter. You’re here now.”

“Yes.” But her eyes evaded his.

He said, “What’s wrong?”

She sat without speaking for several moments. Then she lifted her head and smiled at him. It was a little crooked and her eyes were damp, but for all that it was real. She said, “I do love you, Thierry.”

She had never said it, not once in the six years of their marriage. His breath had gone awry. He knew he was clutching her hand too tightly. She said, “I wanted you to know . . . to be sure.” He swallowed, mouth dry. She went on, “And I realized . . . You could have died. Everything’s out of control, in the city, at home. And now . . .” She stopped, rested her face against his shoulder. “The sickness has reached our house. I’ve been living at the palace.”

“Is Mimi all right?”

“I had a letter this morning. I think so. But your friend Maldurel . . . I’m sorry, Thierry.”

He had not seen Maldurel since the aborted duel. Now, it seemed, he never would again. It had not been much of a good-bye. The Merafi he had known for so long was changing, and he was complicit in that. He said, “It’ll get better. Urien and Gracielis . . .”

“Urien told me,” Yvelliane said. “I tried to have Quenfrida sent away, but the council blocked me. While you . . .” She kissed his cheek. “You did the right thing straight away. And I suspected you for it.”

He had waited so long for this, for her to trust him. He was not sure he wanted it at this price, for Yvelliane to be so broken. He said, “That doesn’t matter.”

“It ought to.” She raised her head. “Thierry, I . . .”

“But it doesn’t, not so long as you love me.” He could not find the words. “That’s the important bit. The rest is just trappings. I love you. That’s what it comes down to.”

“I don’t deserve you.” There was something in her face he did not understand. She kissed him again, this time on the lips, and then stood. “I have to go. It’s nearly dusk. I’m sorry. There’s so much I have to do by tomorrow evening.”

“You will come back?”

“Of course I will.” But this time, her smile did not reach her eyes. “Sleep well, love.” And, gathering her cloak from the floor, she was gone.

He stared after her for long, quiet minutes, caught between joy and fear. Something was wrong, and he had no way at all of discovering what.

“Your city will fall,” Urien had said, calm eyes on her. “We may be able to protect it somewhat, but the forces you must deflect are not trivial. And protection is not cure.” She had held silent, watching him. His expression had given nothing away; he had too long studied pragmatic control.

That should have been something they held in common. But Yvelliane had begun finally to question her own pragmatism. There are other fanaticisms than those of flame and thunder.

“Gracielis de Varnaq,” Urien had said, “is no match for the woman Quenfrida. And she has the additional aid of Prince Kenan. It is likely that in a trial between them, Gracielis
undarios
will go under.”

“So he’s told me.” Yvelliane had sighed. “I tried to have her removed, but the times aren’t right. To offer such an insult to Tarnaroq . . .”

“Peace.” Urien had raised a hand. “Granted our present strengths, no gain will be made by expelling her from Merafi. The time for that is long past.” Yvelliane had looked down. “Her working must be undone, Yviane Allandur, and the old bonds remade.”

Her mouth had been dry, asking, “How?” His answer had been to repeat to her the old tale of Yestinn Allandur, who had enacted a sacrifice to bind the old powers. Orcandrin blood to seal Allandurin rule; and the overthrow of the old clan ways had followed. He had moved his capital from remote Skarholm, too close to the places of greatest power, and come south to found Merafi. The great city built where the old powers were weakest, where stone met wave, where two waters, salt and fresh, mingled. And the old power had slept, until ambitious Kenan disturbed it and found in Quenfrida a tutor to learn to use it.

Kenan, of course, had probably wanted no more than to free Lunedith from dependence upon Gran’ Romagne. It would be Quenfrida who had initiated the attempt to destroy Gran’ Romagne’s heart-city totally.