Living With Ghosts

by Kari Sperring

  “No,” Urien said. Yvelliane shut her eyes. “But he is unwell. He has asked for you.”

  “If it’s the plague, I can’t come.” She spoke harshly. She could not afford to think about this. “Given Firomelle’s current condition, the possibility of infection . . .”

  “It is not the plague.” In spite of herself, Yvelliane gasped. Urien continued. “He has been injured in an attack.”

  She had to retain her self-control. “Is it bad?” She made herself open her eyes and look up.

  “Moderately. Gracielis undarios believes your presence would help.”

  “What happened?”

  Urien said, “He was attacked. Fey things walk by night here.”

  Monsters in the mist . . . If she had been kinder, if she had been more careful, Thiercelin would never have been in the lower part of the city. He would have been at the town house, with Miraude and the plague. She rose and went to the window. She said, “Where is he?”

  “At the house of Madame Viron, a spice merchant known to Gracielis.”

  Gracielis . . . She could not feel jealousy through her fear. He was Tarnaroqui, he was perhaps undarios. He might have skills, knowledge that could save Thiercelin. She turned. “Let me get my cloak. We can take one of the palace carraiges.” She could bring him back here: he did not have the sickness. He would be safe here, and she could watch over him. Gracielis could help her . . . She was losing Firomelle, she had almost lost Thiercelin. If she acted now . . .

  Urien said, “Wait.” His voice was solemn. Looking at him, she felt her hopes grow chill. He said. “Thierry will doubtless be pleased to see you. But there is a thing I must ask you first.”

  “Can’t we talk on the way?”

  “No.”

  She sat, watching him. His face was kind, but there was sorrow underlying the kindness. Very quietly, he said, “Yviane Allandur, I must ask you a thing. Just how far would you go to ensure the safety of your city?”

  The Lunedithin residence was quiet when Iareth returned. A handful of the staff were busy in the kitchens, but no one else was in evidence. Iareth checked the salon for Tafarin, then went upstairs. It was early afternoon: it was likely that most of the residents were out at various engagements. She was doubtless meant to be with them somewhere. She did not heed that, quiet in her inner jubilation. She had all in one moment gone back upon her choice of six years past and cleaved to the impossibility that was reborn Valdarrien.

  Her blood was not pure. She had given twenty-eight years to the half of her that was Yscoithi; at last Armenwy patience had won through. It is one thing to be loved by a dashing stranger. Another entirely, when the same stranger loves you enough to defy death itself to claim you. She had against all likelihood been granted the chance to remake her choice.

  She was not foolish enough to risk loss a second time. She finished changing. The house was too quiet. Someone should be about by now. She went out into the hall and listened. Distantly, she heard the voices of the staff on the ground floor. A door closing. Footsteps. She was jumping at shadows. She shook her head and ran downstairs to see if anyone had left her a message. The library was empty; so, too, was the office that had once been Joyain’s. Paperwork was piled high on the desk. That might perhaps bear investigation, given Urien’s concern over the state of the city. Her hand lingered on the chair back. If Joyain’s sense of duty had not led him to transfer to the low city, he might well have been here now, frowning over his accounts. Here, and not as she had last seen him, fever-wracked in the Far Blays town house. The city is drowning . . . She shivered as memory cast a shadow over her. Joyain had done nothing to merit his suffering, and she could offer no help.

  They had shared a little comfort, a little kindness. It was no fault of hers that had led him to expose himself to the sickness. Another woman might have looked for guilt, for symmetry in the injuries endured by her lovers, but Iareth did not rate her own importance so highly.

  Except to Valdarrien, who was no longer outside her reach.

  There were no messages for her. Shrugging, she went back upstairs and knocked on Kenan’s door. There was a faint, sweet smell on the landing outside. Familiar, although she could not quite place it. She began to feel uncomfortable. There was a long silence then Kenan’s voice called, in Lunedithin, “Enter.”

  She went in. The room was dark, casements closed. It was stiflingly hot; the air was heavily scented. She forced herself to ignore it. She said briskly, “Good even, Kenan kai-reth.”

  Sparks spluttered as Kenan struck a flint and lit a candle. She was aware of the beginnings of a headache. She rubbed her temple and turned to him. He stood next to a high-backed chair between the hearth and the door. He wore Tarnaroqui-style robes. There was something odd about his face. He said, “Sit, Iareth kai-reth. I would speak with you.”

  The nearest chair would put him between her and the door. For some reason that worried her. Her hand went to her belt and she realized that she was unarmed. She inhaled, counting her heartbeats. This was foolish. One did not need to go armed in the presence of one’s kai-rethin .

  She schooled herself to composure and said, “Certainly. I will return when you are dressed.”

  “You will remain here.” Kenan went to a dresser and lit further candles. The movement took him closer to the door. Iareth refused to let herself frown. He passed between her and the door, and set a final candle upon a side table. Then he halted and smiled, “You did not return here last night.”

  “No.”

  “You did not think that your absence might provoke concern?”

  “No. It has not been our custom to be overly involved in each other’s business.”

  “Indeed not.” Kenan moved so that he stood directly in front of the door. “Sit, Iareth.”

  She remained standing.

  He looked amused. He said, “Given the current trouble that our hosts are experiencing, do you not concede it possible that I might have been concerned?”

  No. But one did not say that to the heir to Lunedith. Not even when he was known to be involved in treachery. Quietly Iareth said, “An oversight. I ask your pardon, Kenan kai-reth.”

  “Granted, of course.”

  It was far too warm. Iareth began to feel breathless. She made herself ignore it and said, “I thank you.”

  “You are welcome.”

  There was silence. Iareth refused to lower her gaze. Kenan leaned back against the door. Softly, he said, “You are disloyal.”

  She raised her brows. “Because I spent a night away from this house?”

  “That is a symptom.” Kenan folded his arms. There was a cloth knotted about his right hand. “But the canker lies deeper. You’re conspiring against me, my Iareth.”

  She was not his. The sweet smoke wound about her. She summoned calm and said, “I think not. I am here at your grandsire’s request. I have performed the duties laid out for me by him. You are mistaken, Kenan kai-reth .”

  “I am not your kai-reth.” Kenan said. “Where did you pass last night?”

  “In the city.” She swallowed, trying not to cough. Her hands felt slick.

  He said, “Indubitably. But the answer lacks precision.”

  “Mayhap.”

  “What connection have you with a Tarnaroqui called Gracielis de Varnaq?”

  Iareth put her hands behind her, to prevent herself from knotting them. She must be calm. The Orcandrin rages were renowned. She had only to weather this. If only it were cooler in here. She said, “Who?”

  There was a silence. Then Kenan nodded to himself and said, “And you also do not know Yviane Allandur, I take it?”

  “Yviane Allandur is the queen’s First Councillor.”

  “And you intrigue with her.”

  Despite her growing discomfort, Iareth smiled. “No, Kenan kai-reth. She will have no truck with me. There is the matter of her brother’s death between us.”

  He laughed, and she could not repress a shiver. The air was thick with perfume. He said,
“Yviane Allandur corresponds with Urien Armenwy. And Urien corresponds with you.”

  “Urien is my . . .” Iareth began and stopped, there on the brink. A trap, and she had come readily within its confines. The smoke was making her careless. Everyone knew, no doubt, that Urien had sired her; but among her countrymen such things were not spoken of. To speak of it now would be to admit to Kenan that her blood was impure. She looked down.

  “Urien is your . . . ?” Kenan prompted. “There is that which I should know?” She was silent. “You invited Urien Armenwy here to Merafi specifically to interfere with my embassy.”

  “No.”

  “The Armenwy persuaded my grandsire to place you in my guard. His sole purpose in so doing was to provide himself with a spy.”

  She had looked down, and now she could not raise her eyes. The candle smoke clogged her thoughts. She could think of no easy answer. She said, again, “No,” and knew it to be insufficient.

  She had laid herself open to this. Distracted by her concern over Valdarrien, she had underestimated Kenan. He was between her and the door. She was unarmed. She could feel his eyes on her. She had yet enough control to stand firm under that.

  He said, “Look at me.”

  Despite herself, she obeyed. She looked up. He smiled, watching her. He held another paper in his hand.

  “This letter carries the seal of the house of the Far Blays. Do you still deny your connection to that line?”

  That, at least, was solid ground. She said, “I do,” and kept her head high.

  “Visits to the Allandurin. Letters to the Armenwy. Investigations of my rooms—that, you need not trouble to deny, my Iareth, for I have observed your attempts to follow me and spy upon me.” He hesitated. Iareth was losing the courage to hold his gaze. He said, “You displease me, Iareth called Yscoithi.”

  “So I gather.” Iareth tried to think. If she could only get out of this heat . . . He was one man, and she was easily his better in a trial of arms.

  She was unarmed. Kenan watched her with satisfied eyes, and she knew he understood what was on her mind. He turned and she heard the lock of the door snap shut. He held up the key and said, “Tell me where in Merafi I may find Urien Armenwy, and I will release you.”

  She lifted her chin, though her head swam, and said, “I will not.” Her hands knotted at her sides. She was alone. She had nothing beyond her old, stern loyalty. But that would not desert her, however much she feared.

  And she was afraid, although her bastard Yscoithi pride would hide it. Kenan smiled again and said, “Be wise.”

  “No,” she said, and licked dry lips. For dead Valdarrien, she was come to this, and she would fail neither him nor Urien. Kenan, for all his dealings with Tarnaroqui witcheries, was still only a man. He could only hurt her.

  “So,” he said. He stepped away from the door and lifted a saddlebag from the dresser. “Do you recall this, my Iareth? I’m certain you have encountered it while snooping through my property.” She was silent, watching his hands unraveling the knots. He removed the contents slowly one by one, laying them atop the dresser. His Orcandrin clan-brooch. His ring. A small blue box. A leather bottle. A scarf. A deck of cards. A knife, small, and wickedly sharp, sheathed in padded silk and hafted in ivory. Kenan stopped, holding the latter, and looked at her. Then he unwrapped the cloth from his right hand and closed his fingers about the blade. Blood ran between them, dripped on the floor. Against all her desire, she shivered. He raised his brows and said, quietly

  “Blood binds, Iareth called Yscoithi. Before and after death, strongest of all bonds.”

  She had sworn to Valdarrien in five domains, five domains ruled by sun and moons. Neither by her clan-blood, nor by the the hybrid power in Tarnaroqui blood. They had fought side by side at the ancient waterfall, and Valdarrien’s blood had been shed. Hers also, each protecting the other. Blood binds. Fighting alongside each other had surely been sufficient, needing no further vow. She watched Kenan’s blood spread on the floor and fought nausea. Kenan too had bled in that place of old power, where the Allandurin kings had enforced peace on the old ways by binding them with human blood. Clan-blood.

  Orcandrin blood.

  She took a step back and said, “No.” Urien—she was bound in her blood to Urien—had spoken of Kenan’s meddling with those old powers, and set her as a guard. She had witnessed the effects of that meddling upon Merafi. Yet she had somehow always thought herself to be safe. She took another step and found herself somehow backed against the casement.

  Smoke wove from the blood on the floor, mixing with the candles. Iron and foxglove and something other.

  Honeysuckle. She remembered now where she had smelled it before. Clinging to the streets, the night she and Joyain fought the mist creatures. She was afraid, and her composure was beginning to desert her.

  Kenan smiled. He walked across the room and took her face in his hands, smearing it with his blood. She could not raise her hands to prevent him; her lungs were choked with perfumed smoke. He said, “I need a life, Iareth.” His palms were warm; his eyes dark, pupils dilated. “The law of our homeland forbids me to shed clan-blood.” She watched him, impotent. “Who sired you, Iareth called Yscoithi?”

  She was silent. He stared at her for long moments. Then he said, “Shall I tell you? I can see it, Iareth. I can look into your eyes and read your parentage. Your blood is not pure.”

  “Your grandsire adjudged me Yscoithi.” Iareth somehow found she might yet speak, although her voice was faint. Her hands hung useless at her sides. “My Yscoithi kai-rethin have never questioned it.”

  He shrugged. “The Armenwy sired you. The Yscoithi raised you. But you belong to neither. You are out-clan, Iareth. You are elor-reth.”

  She forced herself to be proud. “You have no right to make that judgment, Kenan kai-reth.”

  His bloody right hand coiled itself about her throat, knotting in her collar. His left hand came up to hold the knife before her face. “Elor-reth,” he repeated. “And elor-rethin have no protection in law. There is no penalty for slaying them.” The knife drifted closer, too close. She could not breathe. The scented air was emptying from her lungs. She looked at the knife and saw Kenan’s blood still staining it.

  He had not the right. Urien would uphold her. From somewhere, her old calm determination rose up and she twisted in his grip. She drove her right hand in under his ribs. With the left, she snatched at the knife.

  He doubled up, gasping, and the force of it knocked her to her knees. His grasp slackened. She used her elbows to hold him from her, and sank her teeth into his imprisoning arm. He let go. She did not try to rise. Ducking out from under him, she grabbed again at the knife. He started to straighten up. She stamped on his bare foot and watched him curl. She had to relieve him of knife and key and incapacitate him enough to let her escape. His grip on the knife was tenacious, and his other hand was still free. She hooked her left arm around his neck and wrapped her right hand about his left wrist. She was still behind him. A short jerk raised his head and trapped him against her, her forearm cutting across his windpipe.

  She said, “Drop it.” He struggled. She tightened her grip and repeated the command.

  He coughed and tugged at her arm. She resisted. “I said drop it.”

  He dropped it. Iareth hesitated, then released his wrist and picked up the knife. The handle felt unpleasantly warm. She tucked the tip under his ribs. “Now the key.” Again he was still. She dug the knife in and heard him moan as she drew blood. His unwounded hand clawed at a pocket and the key fell out onto the floor.

  She brought the knife to rest at the fragile point where his spine joined his skull, then cautiously released the neck-lock. He fell forward, panting. She snatched up the key and ran for the door. The smoke was sickening.

  Her hand shook. She fumbled with the lock. It was stiff. She could spare only half her attention for it, needing to watch Kenan. He lay still, face averted, cursing softly. The air tasted bad.

  S
he had mishandled it somehow. That was her only clear thought, apart from the driving need to escape. The key would not turn. Smoke choked her. She coughed and found her vision beginning to blur. Her head hurt so . . . the perfume confused everything . . . She raised a hand to rub her eyes, and the key dropped from her damp fingers.

  Smoke wrapped about her, clinging as river-mist. She could not see. The door was her only reference, solid, impassable. She coughed and pain doubled her to her knees. Nerveless, her hands brushed the floor. Somewhere she could hear Kenan speaking. The words made no sense. She could see nothing. His knife was still in one hand. The handle seared her. There were creatures somewhere in this mist, and she had no fire with which to banish them. They would find her, misbegotten creatures, and trap and tear and rend. She had lost Joyain in the cloying fog and she must—she must—find him. She must act.

  Hands laid hold of her and dragged her upright. She fell into them, limbs too drugged to resist. Warm flesh against hers, and a touch on her face, quiet, possessive. She coughed again and said, “Valdin kai-reth?” That was wrong, she knew it as soon as she spoke, but she had forgotten the correct name. The hands drew her ungently from the door and dropped her in some boundless, misted limbo. Her hair was in her face; she could not make her hands move to push it back.

  “Iareth elor-reth,” a voice said out of the mist. Fingers seized her chin so that her head fell back. His form was only barely distinct; pale eyes in a pale face beside her. He bent over her, and his breath carried that same cling of honeysuckle. He said, “Valdin Allandur’s whore. No fit companion for a clansman, I think.” She could not think; she could not speak. A point of red heat ran across her cheek, and she realized that it was the tip of a knife. Her blood, running down her face, felt cool, cold as her public persona. She could see herself flowing out with it, fragments of Iareth Yscoithi. Her eyes were filled with feathers, her ears with the sound of water falling. The knife touched her again, drawn along the outside of her right forearm. The fabric of her tunic dropped before it. No more kai-rethin uniform. The edges that defined her were breaking, pouring away with the dripping of her blood. There was no pain. There was only the knowledge of her dissolution.