It had never occurred to Gracielis to view the prospect of death with anything other than fear. He had not the required strength to disbelieve it, nor the confidence. He had expected to go down, when his time came, screaming and debased. He had not expected that beneath his fear he would find a level of dulled acceptance. He had not conquered fear, but he had, at the last, come to learn to live—to die—unmastered by it.
He was going to fail: he was not apt for these workings, nor did he possess ability sufficient to undo what Quenfrida had done. But for all that, something—some sense of pride—dictated that it would be better to try than simply to concede.
And he had given his word to Thiercelin. Gracielis still was not quite ready to pursue his own motives on that point. His fine brows drew together under his hat brim, and he turned away.
Familiar streets, for all their emptiness. The ground was damp: the still air muffled his steps. He walked quickly, avoiding looking about him. He was beginning to perspire. Don’t think about death . . . Think of what needs to be done, to shift this death of water, to ease it . . . Blood, to bind, though his own ran chill and thin. It would sear him, pulled in opposition to sky-eyed Quenfrida.
It was going to hurt. Gracielis wrapped his arms around himself. It would rip through him with forest fury and leave him broken. He was going to die . . . He had come after all back around to the magnolia path and the unopened gate. He might, earlier, have chosen otherwise. He might have compounded with Quenfrida and gone into this blessed.
He had elected otherwise. He had chosen death, a death inherent from that first glance in the coffeehouse, and from that raw need he had so wished not to meet in Thiercelin of Sannazar.
It was too late, now. Gracielis inhaled and made himself straighten. He had his grace still: let that stand for him, to mark what he must do as distinctively his, wistful as the memory of a perfume, elegant as silk-wrapped steel, beautiful as . . .
Beautiful as death.
He was well into the west quarter now. To his right, he could see the tip of the River Temple, high above the shroud of mist. Lights burned on the leads, as priests watched over their ailing city. Perhaps they prayed. Perhaps that would help, a little. He came to the end of Silk Street, near the west quarter watch house. Here, there were a few people still out; though only a handful, and those the most desperate. One or two of the whores glanced at him; no one called his street name.
He had never belonged here, anyway. He belonged nowhere. He turned onto the quay and swallowed as mist closed in on him, hazy with half-formed movement. The moons were invisible. Ghost-sight, poison-enhanced, defined the shapes for him. The tang of honeysuckle began to overlay his perfume. The air murmured around him, too soft to be formed into words. Nothing approached, though the mist kept pace with him and his skin was electric with awareness. He withheld from himself too great a recognition of it. Slick gray water-skinned creatures, edged in malice, razor-clawed, sour-toothed. In his veins and theirs a common bond, a likeness which held them from him, barely. Not wholly inhuman. Human enough to bleed. Human enough to care. To feel necessary pain—and it was going to hurt, His right hand rubbed at his left wrist absently, remembering the dragging touch of the knife. A worse pain than that one, or than any of the beatings he had ever endured. He gained nothing, dwelling on it. It was appointed. It would not change. There was a thundering in his head, like water falling . . . That much comfort, at least: Dead Valdarrien would not, now, have him. Now, or ever.
He had almost reached the guard post when he heard the scrape 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 casement and peered out. The main door of the hotel swung shut. A moment later a muffled 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 passed 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 trespassing. 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 pass, 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’ Théâtre. 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 shifted 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 shirt. 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 shifting. 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 bloody 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 reassurance. 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 shirt. 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 shivered.
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 shifted 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 snatched 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 amusement 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 shirt, 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 nobody, 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, snatching 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 compassion. 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 o
ne 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 assent. “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 ownership. 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 space 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.
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