Living With Ghosts

by Kari Sperring

  Viewed from the west quarter, Merafi was a sunken city, drowned in mist. Only the cliff and the tower of the island temple pierced it. The air was heavy with death and fire and decay. Distorted shapes poked and pulled at shutters, shredding the resolve of those who cowered within. Few dared to walk the streets, and fewer returned with a description.

  The river was everywhere. No place was secure from the sound of it, run thick and whispering into every corner. Its voice bespoke triumph. On the hill Miraude woke weeping. Joyain held her hands but found no words to comfort her. He should return to his unit in the low city. If he had a unit left at all. He did not know what to do, did not want to leave her alone her in this house of death.

  The fires were going out, the air too damp finally to sustain them. Gracielis threw open the windows of the top story of Amalie’s house and reached out into the mist. After a moment he said, “She has overreached. Can you feel her?”

  “Quenfrida?” said Thiercelin, sitting grimly in a chair and pretending to feel better than he did. “No. Not even slightly.”

  Gracielis turned and smiled. His eyes were unusually bright, but the fair skin was cool and pale. His movements were remote, as though through water. Thiercelin knew him to have fasted both this day and the one prior. Gracielis closed the window again and said, “The Tarnaroqui embassy sustains her, I think.” Thiercelin looked inquiring. “They haven’t let the river affect them. That strengthens her. But she’s withdrawn into herself.”

  “Hmmm,” Thiercelin said. “It’s a pity we can’t contaminate it somehow. Open its windows. Not that I’m much use as part of a ‘we’ right now.” He shook his head. “If I hadn’t been stupid enough to follow you, I could be some use to someone.” He fell silent, aware that Gracielis appeared to be repressing laughter. “All right, so that’s funny, Graelis. But . . .”

  “Peace.” Gracielis held up a hand in Urien’s fashion. “Dear monseigneur—dear Thierry—you are more use than you imagine, and I’m blind. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” Thiercelin said. And then, “What have I done, exactly?”

  “Contamination. Bringing the river to Quenfrida’s sanctuary.” For the first time in days there was real joy in Gracielis’ smile. “It’s simple, too. All I have to do is get them to admit Valdarrien d’Illandre. In a certain sense, he’s part of the river.” Gracielis paused, leaned down, and kissed Thiercelin. “Thank you, my heart. And the very best of it is that he’s an embodiment of the power over which Kenan lost control . . . Have you your signet, monseigneur?”

  “What?” Thiercelin was starting to feel rather lost. “Which one, Sannazar or the Far Blays?”

  “The latter.”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “May I borrow it? It should provide the passport to Ambassador Sigeris.”

  “Go on, then.” And Thiercelin tugged off the ring he had worn since his marriage to Yvelliane.

  Valdarrien smiled when asked to enact the role of courier, and told why. Thiercelin had rapidly lost sight of him as he made his way out into the misted streets, but Gracielis had found from somewhere a fine china bowl in which he mingled scented oils with water, and into which he gazed, while the street grew colder.

  Wind began to catch and tangle at the mist. Even Thiercelin saw the flash of blue light in Gracielis’ bowl. The latter looked up, and for a moment it seemed to Thiercelin that there were fires alight in his eyes. Then Gracielis smiled and said, “It is done.”

  High on the hill, Yvelliane d’Illandre threw a note into a fire and straightened her spine. Then she glanced into a glass, nodded to her reflection, and knocked upon the door to the prince consort’s study. Firomelle was too ill to receive her. Yvelliane had looked in on the sleeping queen and felt no regret that her farewell must, after all, be silent. She could not have explained to Firomelle what it was she must do; and any other leave-taking would have seemed ill-omened.

  Tonight . . . She had written to Miraude a short note speaking of duty. She had tried to write to Thiercelin, but found herself almost wordless. Thierry, I love you. I’m sorry... She could bear no more. If she let herself feel too much now, her thin courage would fracture. She had written a simple account for the council archives, although she thought it probable that her colleagues would conclude that she had run mad. She could not afford to care about that either. Now she straightened her spine and lifted her chin, preparing to persuade Laurens to take the action Urien had requested, and readying herself, for the last time, to do her duty.

  There is a thrumming in the waters. In the head lake to the west, a bore begins to swell. Ripples play grace notes with the debris of the old city. Wind and wave tug at the pylons of the bridges. From the island temple, the bells begin to ring.

  Across Merafi the fires are failing. Joyain paces the length of Miraude’s room, nervous amid banked candles. A torchlit procession riding from the Rose Palace falters and stumbles in the rising wind. Some of the riders are turning back.

  Overhead, two full moons rise. Their light is colder than any blade.

  Quenfrida’s eyes snap open, and they are blue like water now, not like the sky. About her, the Tarnaroqui embassy is too quiet. Her silk gown makes the only sound as she goes from room to room, seeking those who should have stood as her guardians. All the windows stand open to the night. The air is misted. Sigeris rides in procession from the palace, seeking advantage even now from his hosts’ sudden superstition.

  Beneath two moons’ light Gracielis waits on the Dancing Bridge. His hair blows back from his painted face. His hands are empty but his eyes see down many aisles. He hears the whisper of Quenfrida’s silken skirts and turns his face from the wind.

  Valdarrien stands in the River Temple, where Urien has commanded him. Restless needs rip at him, half-comprehended; and the mist mocks him with Iareth’s form. His hand plays with his sword hilt. The priests frown upon him. Thiercelin stands beside him, feverish, pale, risking relapse. But he will not remain alone in Amalie’s house. He has entrusted himself to Valdarrien’s aid, and to waiting.

  He does not know for what exactly it is that he waits.

  The moons’ light turns the dirty waters to liquid steel, reflecting the broken buildings and other darker things.

  There are swan wings over Merafi.

  No rain is falling.

  From the upper windows of the Far Blays town house, Joyain watched the parade of torches wind their way from the Rose Palace. The flames burned pale and weak, diffused by mist. He could see no point to it. Whoever they were, the torchbearers traveled into nothingness. Beside him, Miraude said, “It’s the royal household. It must be some kind of ceremony.” He made no answer. She continued, “We could join them.”

  “Why? Outside isn’t safe.”

  “They’re people. Living people.” She turned to look at him, and her face was strained.

  He could see no safety in numbers. There was no way of knowing if the sickness was over. He could not say it. She had faced enough, alone in this house. His fault, for bringing the plague to her doors. She said, “I’ll need my cloak and practical shoes.”

  To join the procession they would have to reach it. And all the time they followed, the procession too would be moving. Two people would be far easier prey for the things that inhabited the mist. He did not know if he was strong enough to hold off attackers for long.

  He could not allow her to go out alone. He said, “We’ll need torches, good ones.”

  “There’s plenty of wood in the fire baskets.”

  A torch was more than a flaming brand. You needed pitch and . . . and other things. If they must go out into the night, he would have them as well protected as possible. She went on, “And there are some torches somewhere. We used them in a masque this summer. They’re probably in the stableyard store.”

  Even to reach the store, they would have to go outside. He sighed. The longer he delayed, the greater the distance they would have to cover. “Get your things.”

  His uni
form was long gone, burned with the bedding. Everything he wore was the property of the absent Thiercelin duLaurier. That almost certainly contravened some army regulation or other. Between that and his unexplained absence, he would have nine kinds of trouble to face when he finally made it back to army headquarters.

  Assuming, of course, that there remained an army to which he might return.

  At least he still had his sword, for all the good it would do. They gathered garments and torches and lamp oil in silence, and slipped out through a side entrance into the street. It was chill; the air tasted dank and sour. Mist curled in thin tendrils about the bases of walls and muted vision. All around, the houses of the wealthy stood dark and silent. He forced his fingers away from the hilt of his sword and took her hand. He could hear nothing save their hurried footsteps and the raw edge of his own breath. In his, her fingers were cool and soft. He hurried them down the slope to where the side road met the main route down from the palace. Here, there were traces of the passage of the torchbearers—torn straw underfoot, fragments of ash, a dropped plume from a hat. They would be making for the Kings’ Bridge, but beyond that . . . He could see the edges of the mist up ahead, creeping upslope toward them. Once they were in amongst that . . . Although there was no rain, the night was damp, fragments of moisture clinging to the fringes of garments, to the shafts of the torches. They burned with a limp, bluish fire, throwing only limited light. The wood was probably damp to begin with, after months in the stables. He hoped they would prove strong enough. They had to. The alternative . . .

  He pushed the thought away. Worrying would do him no good now. He had to get them as far as he could. He had brought death to Miraude’s house. He would shed his own blood to protect her life now.

  They reached a corner. The mist lay thicker here, shawling the traces of the parade in gray. With horses and carriages, the court would most likely have taken the main road, winding in slow loops down the hillside toward the river. If they followed directly . . . That road would take them above the mist for a little longer, but once they were into it, they would have to travel almost a mile. He could not like their chances, and it was unlikely that any of the households lining the route would open a door to them, however they begged. The alternative . . . A steep alleyway led downward between the rear entrances of a number of houses. It was used mainly by servants and porters: it was likely to be noisome and slippery, but it was considerably shorter. He glanced across at Miraude. Her face was set. He said, “Can you run?”

  “Yes.” She returned his glance. “What about you? You’ve been ill.”

  “If I have to.” He had not been out into these streets since the day of Leladrien’s death. He had no sure idea of how bad things had become. Well, he was about to find out. He said, “There are creatures, mist-things. They’ll try to get to us. It does no good to fight them. Swords and knives go right through them. Fire keeps them back, but if the torches fail . . .” Bodies, torn and ripped into bloody rags; teeth out of nowhere to bite and rend . . . It did no good to think about it. He said, “We just have to keep going.”

  “Of course.” She smiled at him. “Let’s start, then.”

  “Chai ela, Quenfrida.”

  “You forget yourself, my Gracielis.”

  In the wake of the torch procession Quenfrida had come to the bridge. Gracielis watched her from under his gilded lids and found himself unmoved. Her hair spilled over her shoulders; her gown hung loose and simple. Her feet were bare. She halted on the threshold of the bridge and smiled at him. “You can’t prevent me.”

  “Perhaps.” Gracielis bowed to her, silken precision. Wind tugged at him, whipping his hair into his eyes. He put up a hand to push it aside. “But I’ve a promise to fulfill.”

  Something about her had changed. She came toward him, and her movements seemed only half-awake. He said, “Help me. Let’s stop this thing together.”

  “Not with you,” she said, and smiled. The smile was feral. She raised her hands, and moonlight found them long and clawed. He fought an impulse to step back. “Never with you. You betrayed me.”

  “I chose,” he said, “as you bade me.” His own hands were unchanged. He looked from them back to her and shivered. He could feel the weight of it about him, the mindless urgency of water wanting to break free. From behind him rose the voices of the priests at their evening rite, soft under the bell. He exhaled and said, “You’re losing yourself, Quena. You’re changing.”

  “Kenan,” said Quenfrida, “failed me.” Water hissed under her words, under their feet. Her eyes were blind. “As you failed me.”

  “You’re losing control,” he said, willing truth into the words. “You can’t contain what you’ve awakened. It’ll kill you.”

  “I think not.” She was only feet away now. In the moons’ light he could see what he had never seen before, how old she was. There were disguised lines in her creamy skin, and her rich hair owed its gold to artifice.

  He had loved and resented and desired her all his life. Now he felt nothing, not fear, not even pity. He said, “It’s you who’s failing. You make such bad choices.”

  Her blind eyes snapped to him, and for an instant she was herself. He stepped back. She laughed and spoke a word of power.

  The bridge buckled underfoot. Hands seized him, dragging him into the heart of the water. He struggled, feeling eyes and ears fill. Thunder. The river was all about him. Its strength was beyond him, beyond any man, mindless, relentless.

  He bit his lip, tasting blood, tasting himself. He cried out as his own bonds wove about him, jerking him to a halt. Think of Thiercelin, grim on his determined, half-comprehended path. Think of Amalie and Urien and stern Yvelliane. Think even of Valdarrien, whoseverylife wastwinedroundGracielis’own,throughthepounding oftheriver.Gracielis reached out and found iron beneath his hands. The rail of the bridge . . . He struggled to breathe, gasping out a word in turn.

  He stood on the bridge, under two moons. Water ran down his face, soaking hair and clothing. From upstream he could hear the river gathering force.

  He clutched at the rail, letting his hand find for him its nature. Iron from the earth, aspected like himself in stone. He raised his head to look at Quenfrida, bathed in moons’ light. Chains surrounded her, woven of mist, stretching into the night. He could see where they chafed, where they strained and tugged and had been repaired. He could see the space where Kenan should have stood. She held proud beneath the burden, and his heart turned cold.

  He had never seen such power. Her control was flawed, but it was better than he had hoped. She had tied herself in blood and soul to the river, and she would have her way.

  She returned his gaze. She said, “Will I show you again what I can do?”

  His hand tightened on the rail. “No, Quena.”

  “Then let me pass.”

  “No, Quena.” Gracielis pushed down sharp fear and reached along the rail. It grew hot under his hand. He trembled as the bridge stirred, as lightning ran through it. Sparks struck off around him. He shuddered and drew them to him, forcing himself to open. Quenfrida did not stir. He was burning up. He set his teeth against a cry and flung his hands out before him.

  White light flashed, carried through the moisture on the bridge. She cried out and her hair became a wild aura about her. Power of iron, most inimical to water . . . His palms were seared and blackened; he was dizzy with pain. He stumbled backward.

  The light died. Quenfrida still stood there, shaking. She stepped toward him and said, “I promised you death, did I not? Try this.” She spoke a word he had never heard, and stepped back.

  A force like dissolution ripped through him, binding the water from his veins. Blood dripped from his eyes, from his burned palms. He could feel the wind beginning to take him, to pull him apart into dust and oblivion. He reached out to her in terror and heard her start to laugh. He was crumbling away. He fought panic, clinging to what time he had left. Beneath his feet, water clutched at the bridge. He caught again at the rail,
and mantled down into stone. Stone against air, calm, unyielding. He clung, gasping, forcing himself to be one thing only, to be whole.

  When he opened his eyes, he was kneeling, arms locked about the rail. Quenfrida stood over him. He could feel the water gathering force with every second. He said, “Don’t,” and his voice was all but gone.

  She reached a hand out to him. It was empty. She would not risk a blade here. She said, “You’re stronger than I thought. Perhaps I didn’t choose so badly after all, those years ago.”

  “I failed you,” Gracielis said. Death stood before him in her flesh, and he could hope only to buy time. Pray Urien was watching. “Forgive me.”

  “It seems unnecessary.” But her hand did not move to touch him, not yet.

  “I love you,” he said, since she seemed to expect it. “I beg you.”

  “We’ve been here before. And you lie; you’re undarios now. The bonds between us are broken.”

  “Not those of memory,” he said. “Please.”

  “Please what? Don’t hurt you?”

  “No.” Where was Urien? “Say you forgive me.”

  She was smiling; she was amused. She said, “For what? To make you happy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why should I want to do that?”

  “Because I’m yours.” Gracielis closed his eyes.

  She was silent a few moments. Then she said very softly, “Look at me, my Gracielis.” He looked. Her face was pitiless. “No, I won’t forgive you.”

  By rights he should have wept; that, too, she would expect. But the world had turned inverse, and he was beyond caring for appearances. He sent a thought, pain-winged, to Thiercelin and lowered his head. He felt the bridge under him, good iron. He relaxed into it and hoped it would sustain him. He said, “Then finish me.”

  “Certainly.” He heard the creamy smile in her voice, as her hands came down. His own knotted in the structure of the bridge as he extended himself as far as he could. Think of polished steel, of obsidian. He bowed under the impact, fighting to be glass beneath her, fragile, fine, reflective . . .