Yvelliane would have counseled caution. Yvelliane was not here. There was no one here, save her and Joyain. She had no special skills, neither the ancient knowledge that Kenan chased nor the erudition of the missing scholar. She was all there was. Torch held high, she followed the pink glow along the rock passage and out into the main cavern. Joyain followed her, his breath warm and reassuring on her nape. The light wavered, ebbing and flowing with the water-beat from behind the walls. All across the cavern floor extended a fine network of channels, running red. She stepped back into Joyain, felt his hand close over her shoulder. Blood . . . It could not be blood, that made no sense. Although the scholar was missing and Kenan . . . She could believe that Kenan would kill, if it served him. Joyain said softly, “A net of fire . . . I saw this, I saw Lelien.”
It was not fire; it was tainted water. She turned to tell him, but he was already striding past her. She said, “I don’t . . .”
“Fire and water . . .” Joyain stopped at the edge of the pattern and looked back at her. “We have to break it. Fire and earth and water . . .” He switched his torch to his left hand and drew his sword. “We have to burn it. Do you still have your lamp oil?”
“Yes.” She came to stand beside him.
“I’m going to cut the sides of the channels. I want you to throw the lamp oil over the edge and set fire to them.” He smiled at her. “On the count of three.”
Gracielis was stone. All around him water clutched and dragged. He closed himself against it, falling through the chains. They tangled, weaving to catch him, but he was not there, he was below them, under their moving weight, still, unyielding, stone. He had lost all sense of Quenfrida. He could feel only himself and the water. No anger there, no need for revenge (unless in Quenfrida herself, wherever she might be). He reached out under it and found the bore, moon-drawn to the sea. Too fast, too hard. It would rock Merafi to her knees. Gracielis paused, then reached out into the heart of it, for the bindings that turned the natural into the monstrous.
About him the water changed its color. He could see nothing, yet he felt it. As blind as he was, the river neither assisted nor resisted while Merafi’s life bled into it. He followed the change, found more stone and a great cacophony of wings.
The bindings were dissolving. Hallowed under two moons, the river began to pull free of living control. Quenfrida had woken it; now it evaded her. He felt out into that winged thunder and tasted blood. Not the blood that pooled in the water, but something more familiar. He had knelt on the quay, hands slick with blood, and defended Thiercelin . . . Slick with Thiercelin’s blood . . .
A promise. And Thiercelin was with him. Stone-careful, Gracielis opened his eyes to the river-world and reached for the first of the bindings.
The water was dark with blood. It resisted as he wove into it the new covenant, but the will behind its resistance was alien. Gracielis held to his bonds, reached into the stillness that was Urien. Resistance warped and melted; briefly, he was aware of Quenfrida. Her face was covered but her hands were turning translucent. Strengthened by Urien, Gracielis cut her from her working, using the knife edge of Allandurin blood. The river began to turn back where it belonged, sleep renewed by the willing sacrifice.
The clans had fought for identity against their changing, dreaming land, and found the power to achieve it latent in their own blood. Yvelliane’s was as mixed as Gracielis’ own, Allandurin at heart, but mingled through the generations with many other lines. They were all there, all the people of Merafi, working through his weaving to lay their river to rest. He could hear them, light and serious, weak and strong, brave and lost, and clinging. Coiled amid them was a part of the river-force itself, once briefly manifest as Valdarrien, brought by choice to desire quiescence.
Gracielis held his hands out over the waters and felt them subside. He found Quenfrida, then, caught in the ebb, and reached out for her. Her blue eyes were gone to water. His hands passed through her as the power lashed back upon her and drained her away. Upriver, the bore contracted into its proper path.
Across Merafi the waters began to subside, leaving streets chaotic with mud and debris. The bore reached the place where the channels split, and poured along its accustomed course, washing away the last of shantytown.
In the ancient hall, Miraude cried out in surprise as the channels on the floor flamed, crisped, and faded. Beside her, Joyain leaned on his sword, gasping. On the temple roof the torches flickered and danced. In the sanctuary crouched a naked man, his gray hair drenched. The floor beneath his feet was carpeted with swan feathers. Another man lay unconscious on the iron of the Dancing Bridge.
Crouched against the parapet, Thiercelin of Sannazar covered his face with his dirty hands and wept.
24
THE WATERS PULLED AWAY from the city, drawing the mist after them. For a day or two Merafi was still, holding its breath against a new catastrophe. Two nights passed, clear and calm. No new cases of sickness were reported. Cautiously the remaining inhabitants stepped out to assess the damage. Small groups formed on street corners to exchange tales. Here, a woman scrubbed mud from her floors. There, a bakery relit its ovens. There was very little looting. Perhaps the Merafiens were too pleased to meet others to want to take advantage. Perhaps they were simply relieved to have survived. Distant acquaintances helped one another with repairs; strangers housed the displaced as guests and friends. Venturing down to army headquarters, Joyain found it staffed by a motley assortment of city watch, royal infantry, and fragments of other companies. The ranking officer was a major of dragoons whom he had never seen before. Presenting the letter he had brought with him from the palace, he waited for the major’s reaction. He had abandoned his post and lost his uniform.
He had somehow helped to redeem Merafi. It might just balance out. The dragoon major looked up at him and said, “Glad to see you alive, Lieutenant. Not many left from your company.” Joyain did not know what to say. The major continued, “You probably should hand in a report at some point, but not right now. Take a unit of men down to the docks and see if you can help with the cleanup.”
In the merchants’ district, Gracielis sat at Amalie’s kitchen table and composed a letter to her. Around him the house was quiet. Upstairs, Urien sat with Thiercelin, but if they talked, no word of it could be heard. Not that Gracielis had tried to overhear. What Thiercelin wished of him now—if anything—he did not know, and for once he did not know how to ask. He could neither restore nor replace Yvelliane. In the face of Thiercelin’s mourning he could offer up only silence and trust that he did so gracefully.
He did not mourn Quenfrida. She had owned him. Now, she did not. It seemed that in the end that was all there had been between them. Perhaps that was the price of becoming undarios, that one became ever more detached. Urien might know. Gracielis did not think he would ask. He had known Quenfrida; he had craved her almost beyond bearing. He had destroyed her. His need of her had been very far from love.
If he might, he would choose to go on loving. He suspected that undariiset little store by love.
If he had not become undarios, he would in the end have been of little use to Thiercelin. As it was, such help as he had rendered had come at a bitter price. It might yet become more bitter still, at least where he was concerned.
He wanted to go upstairs to Thiercelin to offer comfort and himself. That was not what was needed, not now, perhaps not ever. Yvelliane was dead and he was complicit in that. Such things were not easily forgiven.
He turned back to his letter. Although it is only a handful of days since youleft, I write to tell you that the city is once again safe. It is not a sit was, and will need much rebuilding, but you may return without danger. I think those who come back soon will be particularly welcome. Your home is undamaged. I remain here against your return.He stared at the words. So neat, so formal. Slowly, he added, Please come. I miss you.He closed his eyes. The kitchen smelled of soot and beeswax and spices. Under his elbows the table was smooth and cool. All a
bout him, Merafi settled. He felt it weigh back down into its former solidity, hazy and thick to his senses. It was not easy to be a foreigner in Merafi. There would be no rewards for his struggle on the bridge. He opened his eyes and tilted his head back, stretching his neck. He was between one thing and another, not his old self, not yet someone new. He had no idea what he would do next.
Well, in the here and now, he must finish the letter and then produce a meal and perhaps even win a response of some kind from Thiercelin in honor of his bad cooking. And then, and then . . . He shrugged and signed his name at the base of the letter.
Shops and booths and houses were repaired. All across the city hung the smells of sawdust and mud plaster. Boats and barges began once again to make their way into the docks, unloading building materials and foodstuffs. Day after day refugees returned to reopen homes and businesses. At the government offices in the Old Palace, clerks sifted through records, questioned survivors, pestered the watch for reports, and posted requests for information. Lists of what was known began to appear in its portico, giving numbers of bodies recovered, names of those known dead, or of those still missing. Day after day the lists grew, but they were unlikely ever to be complete. No one knew exactly how many had lived and died in the margins of the city, in shanties and docks and back streets. A few of the wealthier merchants had begun to stake out new building plots atop the cliff, high out of reach of the river.
“But how can people just not count?” Miraude said, standing on the steps of the Old Palace about a fortnight after the sacrifice. “Someone must have known them. Someone must’ve cared.”
“Perhaps those people are dead, too,” Gracielis said. “Or perhaps they want to go on not being counted.” He had met her near the Gran’ Théâtre, and walked with her. Like many others, he made almost daily visits to consult the lists, looking for names he knew. He had gone himself to report the deaths of Sylvine and Chirielle. He had said nothing of Quenfrida, nor had her name yet appeared on any list.
Miraude said, “I don’t understand. Why would someone not want to count?”
There were tears in her eyes. Taking her elbow, he steered her to a nearby booth selling hot wine. He found them a table at the back and ordered for them both. Then he said, “There can be many reasons. People run away. They hide.”
“It seems so unfair.”
He made no reply, looking out into the street. A waiter brought their drinks, and they sat for a time in silence. Then Miraude said, “You look different.”
He looked like himself, the kernel beneath the shell of artifice. His hair was beginning to show brown at the roots. Amalie liked it. She had been one of the first to return. She said that he was finally turning into someone real.
Miraude continued, “You look more . . .” “Ordinary?”
“No. More relaxed. You’re not acting.”
He smiled. He was always acting. So many things to hide, so many to elide. It was not legal, to be undarios in Merafi. He could say none of that to her. He could not even say it to Amalie. He said, “I’m changing my profession.”
There was another silence. She said, “Thierry’s all right. I mean . . . He’s miserable, but his injury is healing well.”
“That’s good.” Thiercelin had left Amalie’s house the week before, to return to the Far Blays town house. Gracielis tried not to think about that. “Please try to understand,” Thiercelin had said, “I need to be quiet. I need for things not to be complicated.” And Gracielis had nodded and smiled and said, “Of course.”
Now Miraude said, “Can I take him a message from you?”
“No. I don’t think it would be wise.” He drained his cup. “Can I escort you back to your carriage?”
“I don’t have one. I walked down here. It isn’t very far.” Her chin rose. “Iar . . . Iareth Yscoithi did it all the time.”
He considered her. It was not done for a woman of her rank to wander the city alone. He should offer to see her home. Her gaze was defiant. He smiled. She said, “What?”
“I was thinking that Lord Valdarrien was surrounded by women of very strong character.”
“Thierry, I want something from you.” Firomelle sat in her high-backed chair beside the fireplace in the small library at the Rose Palace. Winter light filtered in through the windows onto a face that was still thin, but no longer drawn or pale. Standing on the rug before her, Thiercelin did not know how to respond. He fixed his gaze on the floor. He did not want to be here. He did not want to be anywhere in this world, which lacked Yvelliane. Had it not been for Miraude, mercilessly bullying him out of bed, he would still be at home now.
“Sit down. I’m not going to eat you.” There was a chair behind him, opposite Firomelle’s. He sat. The fire was warm on hands and face, softening the chill light. This must have been Yvelliane’s chair. He closed a hand on its arm, seeking a memory of her touch. Nothing. There were no more ghosts haunting him. Did Yvelliane’s ghost walk the corridors of this place she had saved? Gracielis, doubtless, could tell him. He was not ready, not yet, to face Gracielis.
Firomelle said, “I’m so sorry about Yviane. You know that. There aren’t words big enough . . . But I didn’t summon you to talk about her.”
He had been silent too long. To the floor, he murmured, “Madame.”
“Before he returned to Lunedith, Urien Armenwy came to see me. He told me what had happened.” She rose and went to the window, back straight. “Yviane gave me back my city and helped save my life. But the gift began with you and Monsieur de Varnaq.” She was silent a moment. Then, “Come here.”
He joined her. Outside, the trees stood bare against the gray sky. The lawns were empty. She said, “You can’t see the city from anywhere in this palace, did you know? It was built like that on purpose. I’m beginning to wonder if that was a mistake.” She did not seem to require an answer. “I’ve let things slide. Yviane tried to warn me.”
“You were ill, madame.”
“That’s no excuse, not for a queen.” She shook her head. “Look at me, Thierry.”
That was hard, almost as hard as rising, as thinking. The lines of her face, the shape of her, bespoke Yvelliane. He turned. She said, “I have to make Merafi strong again. I want you to help me.”
“I’m not political.”
“You’re intelligent and sensible. You know how to think.” She smiled. “You are also, I admit, lazy and wary of responsibility.” He blushed. She went on, “Miraude d’Iscoigne l’Aborderie tells me you spend your days locked away in your room.” She reached out, took his hand. “I know it’s been no more than a few weeks. But you must stop. I command it.”
“Madame, I . . .”
“The fact is we don’t have time to mourn. We have to go on. Yviane would agree with me. And you . . . You know what happened. You were there. I need you.”
There was no retreat from this. He was not ready. He’d never wanted anything like this. She said, “Don’t waste what Yviane did.”
It was not fair. He might not say so. He said, “I doubt I’ll be very good.”
“You’ll learn.” She took his hand. “Now, come back to the fire and advise me about one of my problems. You know Gracielis de Varnaq. Tell me about him.”
Ten days later, Thiercelin called at Amalie’s. The house was in disarray. Several wicker trunks occupied part of the hallway, and in the parlor a travel case stood open. Standing before the hearth, he kept his head high, but behind his back his hands were tense. He was here because it was right, and because it was due, and because . . .
He could wish he had made himself come earlier, or not at all. Not, he knew, that that would have meant he was any clearer as to what he wanted to say. He was here because he owed it to Gracielis.
The door opened to admit a brown-haired young man in shirtsleeves. For an instant Thiercelin stared, and then: “Graelis?”
Gracielis bowed. “Monseigneur.”
“What happened to your hair?” That was not what Thiercelin had intended to say
. As ever, with Gracielis nothing would go as he had planned it.
“This is, I regret, its real color. I’ve grown sadly lax lately.” Gracielis shrugged. “My apologies. You are well, monseigneur?”
“Physically, yes.” And that was sharper than Thiercelin had intended. He looked down. He had had it all prepared, what he would say and how. He had forgotten that Gracielis would speak. He had forgotten that this man was his friend. He said, “I have a message for you, from Firo . . . from the queen. I could have sent it, but I thought . . .”
“Her Majesty thanks me for my services, but requests that I leave her city?”
“Not just that.” Thiercelin looked up. “There are options. How did you know what I was going to say?”
“As far as I know, it’s still illegal to be undarioshere.”
“Yes.” There was a small silence.
Gracielis said “What happened at the River Temple . . . If there had been another way . . .”
“I am not,” said Thiercelin, “so foolish as to hold you responsible for what Yvelliane chose to do.”
“I know. But you are angry, monseigneur.”
“Not with you.” But it was untrue, and, watching Gracielis’ face, Thiercelin was aware he knew it. He had never asked Gracielis to love him. He had asked for help. He had asked Gracielis to use those same abilities that might now drive him from Merafi. He had not thought that his request could have such consequences. He should have known. Nothing to do with Valdarrien had ever been simple.
Gracielis said, “She loved you, monseigneur.”
“Don’t.” Thiercelin could not talk about this, not now. He gestured at the travel case. “Has Madame Viron just returned?”
“She returned some weeks ago. But she’s preparing for a new journey.”
“I see.” Thiercelin inhaled slowly. “You don’t have to leave. If you choose to swear allegiance to the queen, you can stay.” He looked again at the travel case. “But you’re going, aren’t you?” Gracielis did not answer. “Why?”
Living With Ghosts Page 47
