Living With Ghosts Part 35

He had almost reached the guard post when he heard the sc.r.a.pe of steel on stone, heard the voice that cried out in the night, desperate, and bitterly familiar.

He turned and ran back along the quay into the mist's heart.

Thiercelin waited until he heard Gracielis going downstairs, then buckled on his sword belt. He opened the cas.e.m.e.nt and peered out. The main door of the hotel swung shut. A moment later a m.u.f.fled figure appeared in the street below and began to walk uphill. He pulled a cloak from the armoire. Boots . . . He could see one under his bed. Finding the other lost him precious moments, before it came to light in a corner. He fastened the cloak; then, boots in hand, he climbed out of the window.

Gracielis had strictly forbidden him to follow. Thiercelin had conceded outwardly, while determining to do the exact opposite. Merafi's streets were no longer safe at night, and Gracielis went everywhere unarmed. It was asking for trouble.

He dropped neatly onto the tiles of the stable roof, and paused to establish balance. Edging to the front, he threw his boots into the road and jumped down after them. It was quiet. He tugged them on and set off uphill.

It was also very dark. Overcast, neither moon gave any light. Thiercelin was not too troubled by that. He knew this part of the city extremely well. And, anyway, there were only two routes from here to the west quarter, and both of them pa.s.sed the square around the King Melian IV pillar. At the top of the street Thiercelin set off on an oblique route under the angle of the house belonging to the queen's Third Councillor. Gracielis would be using the roads. Thiercelin smiled to himself and vaulted over the low wall to the back of the property. Now for some creative trespa.s.sing. How long since he'd last done this? Six years or more. Before Valdarrien's death, certainly, and probably before the illstarred affaire with Iareth.

From the Third Councillor's garden he cut west through two more gardens, then dropped into a jog along the aisle that a fourth cousin of his wife's had built in the last reign to please a fickle mistress. Emerging from the aisle, he heard the distant sweet sound of a clock chiming the quarter hour. He looked right and left, dashed across the road, and climbed the tall wall into the private orchard of the Verledon family. The pillar lay on the avenue that bordered its west side. Thiercelin jogged through it, hoping that none of the family's collection of dogs was about, and scaled the far wall. He could hear footsteps. He froze, and a figure wrapped in a cloak appeared from his right. Gracielis.

Thiercelin waited for him to pa.s.s, then dropped into the street and began to follow. Gracielis led him in a slow loop down into the west quarter, keeping wide of the river, across two squares, and behind the Gran' Theatre. It was cool and damp. As they finally turned down toward the north channel, it began to grow noticeably foggy. Thiercelin put a hand to his sword hilt. They came to the quay. It was getting harder to follow Gracielis without becoming conspicuous. Thiercelin forced himself to hold a steady pace and tried not to notice how alone he was.

The air smelled strange, a near-familiar sweetness. The fog was oily on his skin. He could see no more than five yards in front of him. He slowed, anxious that he would lose his way even in this familiar territory. He could not see Gracielis at all. They had to be almost there by now. There were no lights. He could be anywhere.

Thiercelin stopped dead. It was too quiet. He might be the only person for miles. He could not even hear the lapping of the river. This mist clung to him, faintly unclean. He rubbed a palm and took a step forward.

The ground was wet. He could not see. Another step. Sweat ran chill down his spine, loosening his grip on his sword. Where was he? Another step. Another. It could not be much farther now. Another step. He'd walked this quay a hundred times. More, perhaps. It was simply a still, dark night. Another step. The air wound round him, sensuous with horror. Another step. The cobbles were still there underfoot. He was not displaced. He was not alone. Another step. Gracielis was somewhere ahead of him. The mist would thin once he was farther from the river. Another step. He'd been in worse situations than this. Remember that time when Valdin . . .

Remember Valdin. The late Lord of the Far Blays would have laughed himself sick at the sight of Thiercelin panicked by a little fog. Another step, then; and another, with his head high and a hand on his sword.

Something struck him hard on the right shoulder. Knocked off-balance, Thiercelin staggered and tripped. He caught himself on his hands, sword wrenched out of his grip. Pain lanced through his side and his right arm buckled under him. He could smell dirty water and some other thing. Honeysuckle? It was cold.

He rolled, reaching for his sword. His right arm refused to obey. Water whipped into his eyes. Sound thundered in his ears. His left hand closed on the sword hilt. He clutched it, gasping. The ground felt rough beneath him, more like rock than cobbles. He shook water from his eyes and tried to rise.

Another blow sent him sprawling forward. He landed badly, hitting his head. The sword was trapped under him. Breathing hurt. Pain made him dizzy. Air beat around him, wing-driven, buffeting. He had to get up. He could still see nothing.

He fought nausea and forced himself to his knees. Gray mist swirled around him. He seemed to be alone. He waited, letting the pain subside, then climbed to his feet. He still had his sword. He had never troubled to learn the trick of fighting with his off hand. Here went nothing, then. He drew, then looked right and left. "Who's there?" No answer. He s.h.i.+fted the sword into a better grip. "I'm armed, you know." Silence. He had lost his orientation, and the mist gave nothing away. Still the taste of honeysuckle and water. He counted to ten and took a tentative step forward.

There was a movement in the mist away to his right. Thiercelin turned and brought up his guard. An indistinct form, bulky, slow-moving. He waited. It did not approach him. He took another step, and something cannoned into him from behind.

This time he had no chance to break his fall. He landed hard, and the sword flew out of his hand. His shoulder was white agony. His face pressed to the ground, abrading. He could not turn over. Fighting panic, he tried to move his head enough to look behind him. There was a weight on him like hands pressing him down. Water poured over him. He could not move. He was choking.

Something laid hold of him, and he shuddered. Not hands. He could feel that through the drenched fabric of his s.h.i.+rt. Still he could not move. He could not reach his sword. Something holding on, closing in . . . something biting . . .

Teeth tore into his flank. Pain far worse than that in his shoulder . . . he could feel his flesh ripping away from the bone. He could not struggle. He tasted blood and coughed, cried out with the pain of it. He was being pulled apart. His sight began to blur with water and fear.

Light cut through the mist like a whip-cut. That same sense of wing beats . . . There was a new smell in the air too, alongside rotting honeysuckle-ozone? Suddenly the weight was gone. He could move. Blood pooled under him. His one functional hand was slippery with it. He managed to drag himself a few feet and looked up into the light. Two, maybe three figures, but their outlines kept s.h.i.+fting. Something misshapen and heavy, armed with too many scything teeth . . . They were everywhere, ending limbs, opening abruptly from the body. The other form was scarcely clearer, moving behind the light that ran and dripped from it. Thiercelin had the confused impression of a blade trailing flame as it weaved and leaped. A tall, slim man in black, who smiled as he dealt violence.

Not possible. He was seeing things. Through cracked lips, Thiercelin said, "Valdin?" And then, as the mist broke around them, "Valdin, no!"

Fog rose up about the figures. Thiercelin called out his friend's name a third time, raw-edged. Then something hit him on the back of the head, and the lights went out.

Gracielis ran into the darkness, and the mist parted before him. Sour water and honeysuckle out of season. He should have been defeated by his own frailties, but he was not. No time for that, now; for he had heard Thiercelin's voice cry out.

Thierry, I...Gracielis owed willing allegiance to no one. Possession, victim, it was not allowed him. It was a defiance of all he had been shaped to be, but he arrogated it nevertheless to himself. He was burning up, turning in on all his qualities, and for no better reason than a cry in the dark.

The mist fringed his vision, unwilling or unable to come closer. He slowed, and the light that shattered from him grew steady. He found Thiercelin lying by the river's edge, unmoving. Gracielis dropped to his knees beside him and put back the untidy brown hair. Thiercelin's eyes were shut. Blood ran from his lips and shoulder. His right arm was folded beneath him at an impossible angle. Lower . . . Gracielis made himself lift the torn and soiled cloak. Lower down, Thiercelin's side was a b.l.o.o.d.y mess. Something had laid bare part of his rib cage and worried the vulnerable flesh. Gracielis made himself think. Thiercelin still lived. No artery had been severed. Healing was no undarios gift. It ran counter to their nature. He must do something, nevertheless. Thiercelin stirred and moaned. Gracielis touched his good shoulder and murmured rea.s.surance. He was wasting time. He used his own cloak to staunch the large wound. He needed to summon help somehow. Thiercelin, left alone, would be too easy a prey for whatever lay hidden in the covering mist. They could be no more than a few hundred yards from the nearest building. Gracielis undid his doublet and began to tear strips from his s.h.i.+rt. He might just be able to drag Thiercelin to the nearest shelter, although his abused wrists would protest. Thiercelin groaned again and Gracielis paused to lay a hand on his face, whispering love words.

He could hear water falling somewhere. Water and the slow beat of wings. Under his hands Thiercelin cried out, and Gracielis s.h.i.+vered.

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 s.h.i.+fted 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 amus.e.m.e.nt 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 s.h.i.+rt, 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 n.o.body, 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, s.n.a.t.c.hing 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 compa.s.sion. 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 a.s.sent. "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 owners.h.i.+p. 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 s.p.a.ce 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 emba.s.sy 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.

"MAL, 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 soiree, 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 ca.s.sock. 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.