Living With Ghosts

by Kari Sperring

  Now, she said, “Ah, yes. The heir to Lunedith. You’ve met him, haven’t you, Yviane? Remind me about him.”

  “That was six years ago.” Yvelliane propped her elbows on the table. “He was only fourteen, he may have changed.” A spoiled boy with too much opinion of himself and too little experience to know he could ever be wrong. She had spent a few handfuls of weeks only in Lunedith, as Firomelle’s special envoy, accompanied by restless, troublesome Valdarrien. She remembered the chill of stone walls, rooms that stood half empty, furnished only with benches and chests or an old-fashioned, closed-sided bed and lit only by sparse, thin slits of windows or the gutter of rush torches. Valdarrien had at first pronounced the Lunedithin to be as grim as their granite buildings, but Yvelliane had found Prince Keris, Kenan’s grandfather, to be both warm and kind, and Urien Armenwy, his First Councillor, to have a political mind as sharp as her own. Kenan had attended a few of their meetings, thin face set in an expression of disapproval and distrust. He had drawn his circle from the most conservative of the clan-heads and their kin; his comments had hinted at views that were both anti-Merafien and isolationist. She would not have taken him seriously at all had it not been for one anomaly in his behavior. Prejudiced as he was, he had nevertheless shown a surprising friendship for one of the Tarnaroqui envoys also present, the seductive Quenfrida d’Ivrinez. Perhaps it had been no more than a boy’s attraction to an older woman. Yvelliane had never gained proof that it was more than that. Yet she and Valdarrien had been ambushed on their way home with the new treaty, and she had long suspected that both Kenan and Quenfrida had had a hand in that.

  Six months ago, Quenfrida had arrived in Merafi to become an aide to the ambassador from Tarnaroq. And now Kenan had come. He was twenty: by law, he had to swear allegiance to Firomelle. But that Quenfrida should also be present . . . It was a coincidence that had had Yvelliane concerned for months. She rested her chin on her hands, and said, “He didn’t like Merafiens back then. But he’s a lot older. He may understand more of the politics.” She was not sure she believed it. She had to give him at least the benefit of the doubt. “He aligned himself with the ultra-traditionalists.”

  “The clans who believe in going back as far as possible to their oldest customs,” Firomelle said. “Minimal contact with outsiders and independence from Gran’ Romagne.”

  “Is that technically possible?” Laurens asked. “The Gran’ Romagnol dynasty began in Lunedith. They’d have to declare themselves a separate state in law.”

  “According to our ambassador there, the technicalities don’t worry them. They just want to cut themselves off,” Yvelliane said.

  “In his last few dispatches, he’s said very little about Kenan,” said Firomelle.

  “Dispatches aren’t necessarily secure,” Laurens said.

  “The usual security arrangements are in place,” Yvelliane said. “But we have to give him the benefit of the doubt.” She glanced over at the queen, who returned the gaze levelly. “We don’t want to provoke an incident, I know.”

  “But you don’t trust him.” Firomelle paused and coughed. The other two exchanged glances. “Ask that clever sister-in-law of yours to keep an eye on him, Yviane. Six years ago, you suggested he may have a weakness for a pretty woman.”

  “It troubles me that Quenfrida is here too,” Yvelliane admitted.

  “So far, she’s behaved impeccably.”

  “I know, but . . .”

  Firomelle held up a hand. Blue veins showed in it, as if her flesh grew transparent. “You don’t trust the Tarnaroqui, I know. Everyone knows. But we must maintain peace with them. I can’t leave a legacy of war to my son when he comes to the throne as a minor.”

  “It won’t come to that,” Yvelliane said to the tabletop. Laurens reached across and patted her hand. She went on, “You can’t say ‘when.’ ”

  “I must.” There was a silence. About the table, the shadows had lengthened as the sun set outside. Yvelliane stared at her papers. She could hear Firomelle’s breathing, rough and uncomfortable. For so many months, she had hoped that this would pass, that her cousin would regain her health and strength. But with each of those months, Firomelle had grown weaker, her body thinning, the cough becoming more frequent, more painful. Last month, she had begun to cough up blood, and the solemn doctors had begun to frown. The crown prince was twelve: Laurens would have to hold the kingdom firm and fast for something on the order of eight years, in the face of an aristocracy always hungry for advancement, and neighbors who were always ready to take advantage. Prince Keris in Lunedith was loyal, but he was an old man and also in poor health. The city states would follow whichever path brought them the greatest advantage. And to the southeast, the vast empire of Tarnaroqui waited and watched, ruled by its cloistered emperor and his network of undarii, assassin-priests, who were forbidden by ancient law from setting foot in Gran’ Romagne. Yvelliane did not trust the Tarnaroqui, had never been able to trust them, but Firomelle was right: now, above all, they must have peace with Tarnaroq. Laurens had been cultivating the Tarnaroqui ambassador, Sigeris, for most of a year, trying to lay the ground for what must be their future relations. Yvelliane sighed and raised a hand to rub her eyes.

  Laurens said, “Sigeris and his entourage will expect to call on Kenan. We’ll raise the level of monitoring, but we can’t do more. There’s no proof that Quenfrida is anything more than she seems. One of my people in their embassy reports on her regularly, and the most he’s found is that she’s carrying on a flirtation with the Vicomte de Guares.” He patted her had again, and Yvelliane looked up. “I’m keeping my eyes on them, Yviane. Stop worrying.”

  If only she could . . . Yvelliane made herself smile at him. He was a good man, a kind one, and she trusted him. And he was right: there was little they could do at present except keep a careful watch on their troublesome foreign guests. Firomelle coughed again, this time for longer, and Laurens rose and went to her. Firomelle pressed a hand to her side, fighting to regain her breath.

  Yvelliane rose also. “Fielle? Shall I call someone?” She made to move toward the bellrope.

  “No,” Firomelle said through a cough. Laurens poured cordial into a glass from the carafe that stood on a side table and handed it to her. She sipped it slowly while they watched. Yvelliane found her hands clenching and put them behind her back. As far back as she could remember, Firomelle had been her closest friend and comforter, dearer to her than anyone in the world save Valdarrien. When she and Valdarrien had lost their parents, Firomelle had brought them to court and raised them almost as younger siblings. After Valdarrien’s death, they had grown even closer. The resemblance between the two women was marked; both were tall and slender and dark-eyed, even though Firomelle’s face was hollow these days and there were gray streaks in her soft brown hair. If she were to die . . . Yvelliane did not want to think of that. She made herself unclench her hands and straighten her spine. Think about the policies, about now,not the future.Think about what we have to donow . . . She was very tired suddenly. Despite herself, she frowned.

  Firomelle said, “Come here, Yviane.”

  The coughing fit was over: the queen held out a hand. Laurens stood beside her, his hand on the back of her chair. Yvelliane sank to the rug at her feet, and Firomelle stroked her hair. Yvelliane caught the hand. “Fielle . . .”

  “Hush.”

  Yvelliane leaned back. “Listen,” Firomelle said, “you’re tired. You should go home.”

  “I still have work . . .”

  “You have a husband who wants to see you. He’s a good man. Don’t neglect him.” Yvelliane looked down, hiding her face. Firomelle went on. “He could help you a lot, if you let him. He’s intelligent and he adores you.”

  “Politics don’t interest him. He likes to ride and play cards and . . .”

  “He’s not Valdin,” Laurens said. “And he’s over thirty.”

  “I don’t . . .” Yvelliane said, and stopped. She liked to think of Thiercelin at home, remo
ved and protected from the grind of government work. Unlike Miraude, he had never shown any interest in it. He had been Valdarrien’s friend; he did not belong in her world of papers and gray intrigues. She did not think she wanted him to belong. She had not been able to keep danger away from Valdarrien, and now death reached out for Firomelle. She wanted Thiercelin to be safe. He was her haven: always there, always calm and loving and ready to smile at her. Except that he, too, lately seemed to be hiding something from her . . .

  Kenan and Quenfrida in the city. Firomelle dying. Thiercelin perhaps drawing away from her. Yvelliane turned her face into the queen’s skirts and tried not to be afraid.

  Gracielis was trying to enjoy himself. The rain had finally stopped, and the night’s chill had yet to penetrate Thiercelin’s carriage. It was drawn up in the shadows at the road’s edge, and showing no lights. Clouds covered both moons. Music rang from the bright windows of the nearby Rose Palace. Gracielis could see the shadowy forms of the upper classes at play. It was all most edifying. He said as much to his companion, voice amused in the darkness.

  “Watch the road,” was all Thiercelin said.

  It was Gracielis’ private opinion that it mattered little where they kept their vigil. It appeared that Valdarrien’s ghost was drawn to Thiercelin in any place. But Thiercelin was set upon waiting here in the royal aisle. He had wanted to do so on foot, unshielded from the damp and cold. Gracielis had objected. He had no wish to risk his livelihood by an untimely bout of pneumonia. Thiercelin had frowned, muttered, and conceded the point. “Although,” he said, “I see little point in your presence if you’re too wrapped up in blankets to do anything.”

  “I can see clearly,” Gracielis said. “And I’ll ensure I have freedom of movement. It will be well.”

  “I suppose I have to believe that.”

  Wisely, Gracielis was silent. It was very dark. Little of the moons’ light penetrated the cloud cover or filtered through the thick overhang of trees. The lieutenant’s ghost was a spiteful blur. The night felt still, as if Merafi, having stirred in its long indolence, had again subsided. He wondered what she made of it, sky-eyed Quenfrida, out somewhere beneath these same clouds. Once he might have dared to ask her and sat at her feet for her reply.

  Once is not always.

  In self-defense he pulled away from the thought and looked instead at Thiercelin. A man who loved his wife; one might go to the guillotine for that truth. Yet he had chosen not to share this new burden with her. One might wonder why. Yvelliane d’Illandre was not a woman to require protection. Gracielis, who knew her better than he would ever let Thiercelin know, was sure of that. There was some trouble here. It was said on the streets that Prince Laurens was much seen with the Tarnaroqui ambassador these days. It was also rumored that not all of the royal council were content with that, readying themselves for the struggle for influence which must surely follow the death of the queen. And Quenfrida had set him this task, which touched upon Yvelliane, the First Councillor.

  He gazed at the shadowy form of Thiercelin, whose trust was bought and sold, and no longer wanted even to try to enjoy himself.

  Thiercelin was not looking at him, but peering into the darkness outside. His face was set. Palely, he said, “Look . . .”

  They were no longer alone in the aisle. Silent over the hard road, a horseman came cantering. His head was high. His cloak stirred with a wind that was not blowing. He was hatless; the hair that streamed behind him was longer than fashion required. His clothing was dark; he had neither braid nor bright buttons. The faint moons’ light glinted off the pommel of his sword. His face was in shadow. There was a careless defiance to him, lined in posture, in the very angle of that bare head.

  Into the silence, Gracielis heard Thiercelin whisper, “Oh, Valdin.”

  Gracielis leaned forward in the gloom. He said, “I see him.”

  “What do we do?”

  “We wait.”

  Mothmoon broke through the clouds, illuminating the road. The rider cast no shadow. He had more substance than the lieutenant’s ghost, drawn in contrasts rather than pastels. He was closer now. In a few moments he would pass by them or perhaps through them, as though they were the creatures of mist and memory.

  His face was unmistakable. A little drawn, a little malcontent. High cheekbones, dark brows. He was bearded, like the most typical street bravo. The hooves of his mount did not quite touch the ground.

  There was no more time. Gracielis opened the carriage door and stepped down into the road. He was straight in the path of the rider. For once, the lieutenant’s ghost did not follow him. He inhaled and sought control. Remembered the words, the ritual from the Second Book of Marcellan. There were three chains, three paths which could bind the dead: love and death and the force beneath the world. Three bindings that he must seek, trace, perhaps break. He looked into the eyes of the late Valdarrien of the Far Blays, and spoke the word which compelled a halt.

  Valdarrien could see him; that was certain. There was a grimness on his face; a flash of defiance which set the horse to a gallop. Gracielis raised a hand and made himself reach out with his ghost-sight.

  There was a roaring in his ears and veins and mind, like thunder, driving out thought. He was falling into it, or through it, soaked in its force. Pain lanced through his right shoulder. Swan wings beat across his vision, through an iron curtain of water. He gasped for breath, fighting to hold his gaze locked onto eyes that were filled with the violence of the water.

  It was the key. He fought vertigo and found his voice. Into the thunder, he spoke, softly, carefully. “Water comes to rest. Douses flame, cools heat, lays dust.” The language he used was not Merafien, but Valdarrien seemed to understand. Gracielis held on through the words, beneath the insubstantial, flailing hooves of the horse. He was drowning in the fragments of another’s memory. Disordered images flapped about him. Swan wings, and the hint of the scent of lemon, and eyes that were green and cool as jade, cool as “The river,” said Gracielis and found it there in another man’s last, lost hunger. In the memory of a green-eyed stillness that was a woman named Iareth Yscoithi.

  All around him the thunder and the violence calmed, slowed, died away. He was Gracielis arin-shae Quenfrida, called Gracieux on the streets and in the salons of Merafi. He stood in the aisle that led to Merafi’s Rose Palace and faced down the past. He felt ready to fall. Instead, he looked at Valdarrien and said, as reasonably as he might, “Monseigneur, you must give some explanation for this. You are frightening Lord Thiercelin.”

  The lieutenant’s ghost had never spoken to him, never made any sound of any kind. Valdarrien of the Far Blays looked back at him, then beyond at Thiercelin. His expression was sardonic, a little disdainful. His voice, when finally he spoke, was quite clear, only very remote, as if he must talk from some immense distance. “Tell my Iareth kai-reth,” he said, “that she was right.” And then, more gently, “Thierry, forgive.” Raising a hand in valediction, he turned his horse’s head about and rode away down the aisle.

  Gracielis made it to the edge of the road before he passed out.

  “How do you feel?” Thiercelin asked.

  Lying on the bed, Gracielis opened one extremely cautious eye and looked at the ceiling. “Mostly dead,” he said. “Some small token would be appreciated at the funeral. Flowers. But not yellow. Yellow doesn’t suit my coloring at all.”

  “That,” said Thiercelin, “is somewhat debatable.”

  “Please don’t,” Gracielis said. And then, “I trust I haven’t been too irritating?”

  “No.”

  “Good.” Gracielis had closed the eye again. “My sincerest regrets . . . for the trouble.”

  “It would have made considerably more trouble if I’d left you in the road. Why didn’t you tell me it would do this to you?”

  “It doesn’t, always,” Gracielis said. “My apologies.”

  “Your apologies?” Thiercelin was mildly appalled. “No wonder you refused me.”

 
“It doesn’t matter,” Gracielis said. “You might consider it a hazard of the job.”

  “But . . .” Thiercelin said, then shut up. There was a silence. This had not, after all, been a job, but a favor. Thiercelin had once been taught a little about Tarnaroqui ways, and his mind was busy disinterring those lessons. Gracielis de Varnaq saw ghosts. It was so like Yvelliane to possess herself of such information and to release it in fragments, unexplained. Honesty forced him to admit that it was equally like himself not to have asked.

  It was too late to ask now without having to involve himself in turn in explanations.

  He did not know. He did not remember. The Tarnaroqui worship their dead, said the voice of one of his brothers, long ago. But no—only death itself, said another voice in answer. They shape themselves to see mysteries, and phantasms, and ghosts. There were tales woven into that drawn from the Books of Marcellanand elsewhere, tales of ritual suicide and other darker things. Not the kind of stories to which a sophisticated man, a rational man, should lend credence: tales with no more value than the folklore of men turning into animals, of rocks turning into men.