Living With Ghosts (23 page)

“What?” said Thiercelin. Gracielis looked demure. “If you think I . . .”

“I think you’re upset,” Gracielis said. “You don’t really want me, monseigneur. Not at this moment.”

The worst of it was that he was right. Thiercelin said, “I do wish you’d stop knowing quite so much about me.”

“Forgive me.”

“I just don’t like feeling idiotic.”

“Then don’t.” Gracielis smiled. “There’s no need.” He went back to the fire. After a moment, Thiercelin turned to watch him.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Gracielis settled back on the rug.

Twisting, he gave Thiercelin a coy look over one shoulder. “Any time.”

“I’m sure,” said Thiercelin.

It is night. Merafi lies asleep, quiet under two moons. In her narrow house in the old city, Quenfrida sets down a bowl of meltwater upon a polished floor and raises to her wrist an obsidian blade. Kenan watches with eager eyes.

As the first drops of her blood fall into the water, all the candles go out.

8

G
RACIELIS STOOD BAREFOOT, naked to the waist, hair unbound around him, listening to the melody of sweet silver bells. They were strung in their thousands through the tree branches, each one named, each one a memory. Under his feet, bruised magnolia petals clogged the air with their dying. His senses were heady with it, sound and scent; his body was drunk with fasting. The mist filling his eyes granted him a sight clearer than clear daily air. The world sang beneath him, within him, in the myriad voices of the bells.

He turned slowly, feet barely touching the ground, after the fashion of dreams. He knew the path that wound, snake-wise, beneath the carpet of magnolia; knew how the sun could strike, the night fall aslant through the branches. A knife now filled his hennaed hands, wicked with edge and poison. He knew the path, and the brass gate to which it led, and the place beyond.

Seven tests—and beyond them the great mysteries to which he had been given no key. Seven, to measure strength, and heart, and soul, to turn him from acolyte to
undarios
-priest, the first of Quenfrida’s training and stone proud to prove her. His blood had run thin and cold at the thought of them. Seven. The first had come easy to him; and the fifth; the second less so, and the third, which he had thought to find simple, went disastrously awry. Nervous tension unbalanced him for the fourth, which already he had dreaded. The sixth was a blur in memory and limb. The seventh lay ahead, last and greatest—the test of death and life.

He had not followed the path, had not passed the brass gate. Terror had gathered him like a discarded cloak, bundled him over the wall. Later Quenfrida had found him and scorned him and bound him with the silken strands of his need. Then she had flung him forth, to live as best he might. He had never essayed the seventh test.

And yet . . . Now, his feet bore him over the petal-sweet ground, along the path, his hands slick on the bone-handled knife.

Human bone, they said. He had taken care never to ask the truth of it. The blade was hot to burning. Blood to seal his fate, to set upon the wind the song of his bell. Blood not his own, or else wholly his and all of it, to take or forge his life, to feed the perfumed soil of the garden. He had been seventeen. He had feared to die, feared to kill, feared failure. His hand shook as he set it on the latch of the brass gate. His foot hesitated on the threshold. From this step, there was no returning.

He crossed.

The world fell apart about him. He was drenched under a torrent of ice-chill water. A mighty waterfall thundered beside him, behind him. His vision blocked, blurred under the flow. He stood on slick hard stone, treacherous with rough edges, canted water-wards by centuries of pounding. Between him and the water there was a haloing silhouette. A man’s head and torso, naked and muscular, swan wings beating where his arms should be.
That’s not real, I’m seeing it wrong, he’s a man, a man, but the swan is within him....
A sharp pain cut his shoulder, like fire, like acid, the kick of an arrow through flesh. Gracielis fell, rolled, felt his hair slap damply across his face. It was black, that hair, and straight as pain.
Not me,not my past, my memory.
Through the haze of water, he caught sight of shapes closing in, men on foot armed with bows or spears and swords. A swan-cry cut the air, and for a moment it seemed as if the waterfall paused, turned to strike out at the ambushers. Gracielis—no, this must be Valdarrien—struggled to his feet, reaching for the sword at his hip. A man rushed him and he twisted sideways, jarring his shoulder. A feint and he cut low, taking his opponent on the thigh. The man staggered but did not fall, rushing him. Another twist took Valdarrien off-balance: he slipped, fell, sending red pain through his injured shoulder. His opponent bared broken teeth and closed. No time to rise . . . the blade came down for him, swift and sure and he closed his eyes . . .

Liquid splashed his face and neck, a thick sour splattering. He gasped, opening his eyes. His opponent was down, an arrow opening his throat. Valdarrien pulled himself to kneeling and met the cold level gaze of Iareth Yscoithi. She nodded, once, and turned, already taking aim at another man. Beyond her the spare form of Urien Armenwy closed with two spear-fighters. Valdarrien pulled himself to his feet. How many were there? A quick count: one downed by Urien, one dead, another lying stunned in a pool of water . . . A flash of orange caught his attention and he whirled, feet sliding on the rocks. Beyond the waterfall, half-veiled by spray, a small figure crouched, hands upraised. Red hair . . . The boy Kenan . . . There was no way to reach him. Valdarrien’s pistols were in his saddlebags. They’d be of little use anyway in all this moisture. Perhaps Iareth, with her bow . . .

Another man closed on him and he turned. Another, and another behind him . . . surely there were too many for the three of them to withstand . . . Gasping, grasping for balance, Valdarrien parried and cut, cut and parried. His shoulder burned, he felt himself sway, dizzy, exhausted. Something was wrong, there was a scent in the back of his throat like honeysuckle. The redhead laughed.

His foot slipped again and he fell heavily. He was too stunned to evade the descending blade. He could feel it already, the bite of steel, the sticky, sharp parting of flesh, the grind of bone. . . .
This is wrong, it didn’t happen this way, helived, Valdarrien lived
. . . There were swan feathers all about him, acrid with blood and that cloying honeysuckle haze. Kenan’s face swum above him, triumphant . . .

“Graelis.”

. . . He was inhaling the water and the blood and the sweet ghost-memory of her perfume, swan-tangled, cruel Quenfrida . . .

“Graelis!”

. . . mingled now with the falling of the blood from the wound in his borrowed body, Allandurin blood to feed a force that should, even now, be left bound and sleeping . . .

Hands were upon him, jolting his aching shoulder, shaking him aware. Awake. Mist of water clearing from his eyes, washing away the debris of another man’s memory. Gracielis looked up into worried brown eyes. Thiercelin of Sannazar. His body protested with remembered fear and borrowed pain. His shoulder felt oddly clammy. Thiercelin said, again, “Graelis?” And then, “Are you all right? You were dreaming.”

He was going to be sick sometime in the next few minutes. He pushed Thiercelin’s hands away and groped for his robe. Thiercelin said, “Can I get you anything? Water?”

Gracielis shook his head, regretted it. The room was cold; mist seeped in through the open window. Rolling upright, he bolted for the stairs and the yard beyond. It was dawn, sun close to rising, air still very chill. He clung to a tethering post, gulping, fighting for mastery of his body. Ghost-sight lay weighty upon him, cloudy with images. Around and through the lieutenant’s ghost, shapes contorted, closing grotesque barbed hands around the city . . . something happening, something wrong . . . His stomach heaved. He doubled up, retching. He was cold with fear, with rejection; his skin was slick, clammy. The lieutenant’s ghost hovered on the fringes of his vision, where it might make him dizziest. Amidst nausea, he cursed it softly in his own tongue, and then, because the price was already paid, spoke the word that would free him of it for a few hours. He almost welcomed the wave of sickness that drove awareness of the misty shapes from his mind.

Gentle hands were laid upon him, soothing, supporting. He leaned into them, let them turn and lead him away to where he could sit. A voice said, “Wait,” and the hands were gone, briefly. They were back before the mist could have him, putting a cup into his hands. “Drink.”

There was no perfume to spell out a name. Gracielis opened his eyes and looked through the mist at Thiercelin. Gracielis said, “It’s happened. She’s working. I can feel her. Something’s happening, something’s wrong . . . Thierry, I . . .”

“Slowly,” Thiercelin said. His words were halting. “I can’t follow you when you speak so fast.”

The mist was full of claws . . . Their sting was inside him, like a poison. Gracielis tried to control himself. He wanted Quenfrida more than he could bear to admit. The air tasted sweet, wrapped around him in honeysuckle fronds. It was not her scent, but the feel of her was mixed with it, horribly. Thiercelin’s hand closed over his and he fought an urge to pull away, as the cold and the strangeness bit into him. There was something terribly wrong . . . Thiercelin held onto him and said, “What is it? What’s wrong?”

It was too much for him to see at once. There were swan wings in the mist and another, more menacing shape behind them. Throwing an arm across his eyes, Gracielis whispered, “No.” And then, “I can’t. I don’t know how. Oh, let go . . .” Thiercelin took the cup from him and pulled him to his feet. Disoriented, he struggled.

Thiercelin shook him lightly. “Stop it.” Over his shoulder, Gracielis could see the mist closing in. Thiercelin said, “Calm down,” and his voice held no fear. Gracielis tried to look at him, to avoid the mist-shapes and found his sight blurring. “All right,” Thiercelin said firmly. “I’m taking you inside. Come on.” Those same strong hands drew him into the inn’s cramped back-kitchen. Gracielis leaned into them, shaking, and felt Thiercelin’s warmth through his thin robe. He almost panicked when Thiercelin let go, heart pounding. Then he realized that the other was simply closing the door. He rested on the wall, shutting his eyes, breathing deeply. His mouth tasted foul. He was so cold.

“Drink, now,” Thiercelin said, putting another cup into his hand. This time Gracielis obeyed, rinsing his mouth, then spitting into the slop bucket. The water tasted bitter. For a moment he shivered, wanting to put it from him. Then he inhaled and made himself swallow.

Thiercelin said, “Better?”

“A little,” Gracielis said, and realized that they were speaking Tarnaroqui. Switching to Merafien, he said, “Forgive me.”

“What for?”

“Disturbing you.” Thiercelin made a noise of derision. Gracielis said, “I am very sorry.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Thiercelin took the cup away. “You’re frozen. Come back upstairs.” His hands were kind rather than firm now. Gracielis welcomed the support. He was so tired, so confused . . . His room, his precious, safe room, was colder than it should be. He halted on the threshold, and his eyes widened in alarm.

The mist, coiling, winding, clinging, somehow here in his sanctuary . . . He must have tried to back away, for he collided with Thiercelin and caught at him, shaking. The window was open . . .

Thiercelin stared at him in consternation. Gracielis’ voice nearly refused to obey him. Desperate, he said, “The window. Please close the window.”

Thiercelin looked concerned, then said, “All right. Don’t worry.” Watching him, Gracielis was aware with every nerve of the danger. Yet nothing touched Thiercelin as he walked, oblivious, across the room and shut the window. No resistance to him, no barrier . . . “Better?” he asked. Gracielis nodded.

“In you come,” Thiercelin said briskly, and shut the door behind them. Gracielis made a vague movement toward a chair and Thiercelin caught him. “No, you don’t. Bed.”

“But . . .” Gracielis said.

Thiercelin stared him down. Gracielis let himself be guided to the bed. The sheets were still warm. Thiercelin pulled them around him ferociously, then sat down on the edge. “So,” he said. “What happened?”

Gracielis’ head pounded. He said, “I ate something, I suppose.” Even to his ears, this sounded feeble.

“Hah,” said Thiercelin. And then, “I know enough about you by now. You saw something?”

“I . . .” Gracielis began and stopped. It was too cold, too close. He could not describe it, not yet. He said, “A dream. I was dreaming . . .” He rubbed at his shoulder, almost absently, and found it damp. He shuddered. Too many memories. Too many memories not his own. “An old nightmare.” Partly true, anyway, if no more than partly. He rubbed his shoulder again, then looked at his hand, lest it prove bloodstained.

It was not. He looked at Thiercelin. “I’m sorry. I woke you.”

Thiercelin looked thoughtful. “Just a dream? To do this to you?” Gracielis was silent. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s just—you talked in your sleep. You said,” and Thiercelin frowned, “at first, it was just ‘no,’ and something about bells, but then . . . You called out a name.”

Gracielis turned colder. The air full of death, and the river turning . . . He was as caught here as any Merafien, and his memory was no longer inviolate. He looked at Thiercelin, whose needs had brought him to this moment, and saw only kindness. It was too late now to turn back. “Quenfrida,” he said. “She is . . . She’s someone I knew at home.”

But Thiercelin shook his head. “No, it was a man’s name. Urien Swanhame.”

Swanhame. A man built slight and gray with swan wings behind him. Gracielis said, “I know no one of that name,” and shivered anew.

Thiercelin said, “I know him. Urien Armenwy. He was a friend of Valdin’s, someone he knew in Lunedith.” His voice was entirely flat. Looking at him, Gracielis saw that he was afraid. Thiercelin continued, “I met him once or twice.”