Living With Ghosts (31 page)

“Thank you.” She freed herself gently, returning his smile.

The passage was cut into the rock, sloping down toward the river, following the line of a low rock spur. There were similar tunnels under the keep at Skarholm, carved out into the crag long before the days of Yestinn Allandur, the breaker of covenants. At the base of those tunnels lay the heart of Skarholm itself, the Chamber of Clans, once the assembly place of the clan-heads in the time before Yestinn invented kings. Perhaps Yestinn had built this echo of it here as a sop to the weaker clan leaders of his time. The scholar’s pool of lantern light reached no more than a handful of feet ahead. Had he the choice, Kenan would have extinguished it. He was Orcandros. His eyes were apt in darkness. His ears were sharper still. They were higher than the river, but he could hear it, distantly, dropping and gurgling along its course, back-noted by the steady slow brush-brush of the tidal estuary. Two waters, one salt, one sweet, and rock, all close, all entwined. This place hallowed Merafi and sealed its opacity to ancient powers. In this place he could enact a working to match what he had begun with Valdarrien’s blood six years before.

He would not need Allandurin blood this time: that was already present. He could taste it in the sour air. He just needed to give matters a gentle push.

The passage came to an end on a long, smooth ledge. The scholar ushered them onto it and held his lantern up high. The light shivered, rippled out into the gloom. They stood on the side of a long oval cave, carved not by hand but by water, its sides whorled and smooth. Here and there, light struck sparks from crystals of quartz. The floor was muddy: small pools of water glistened in the lowest spots. Diagonally from where they stood, a cleft led on into further darkness. “Obviously,” the scholar said, “the cave itself is natural. I speculate that after Yestinn it was used as a cold store of some kind or perhaps a guard point above a water gate, although of course the river has moved its course somewhat since the early period, and the branch that would have come closest to here is heavily silted now. But if you look at the ceiling, you can see that the cave must have been used by Yestinn himself or one of his early heirs.” He raised the lantern as high as he might.

Miraude gasped. Kenan hid a smile behind his hand. Across the roof animals were painted in wide bands of faded color. Allandurin eagle, Orcandrin otter, Artovanin bear. Each of the clan signs marched there in appointed order, following each other round in a flattened circle, all save the eagle, who flew in the center.

At home in Skarholm, the animals were carved into the rock, showing proper respect. At home, no creature came ahead of any other. That was as it should be. Kenan intended to ensure that those days would return, for Lunedith, at least.

“You note,” the scholar said, “the clan badges. The same creatures appear on the tapestries in the Grand Audience Chamber of Rose Palace and on the wood panels in the Great Hall of the Old Palace. It recalls our joint past, of course.” He made Kenan a small bow. “I understand there are similar decorations in Skarholm.”

“Indeed.”

“Perhaps you might describe them to me some day.”

“Of course.”

Miraude peered across the cave. “It’s very cold. What did Yestinn do in here?”

“It may have been a council chamber of some kind, or a place of meditation. That crack you see over there leads into the cellars of the Old Palace, although the passage itself is blocked off. I’ve been able to make a temporary exit close to the Mercer’s Bridge: a shop owner has kindly allowed me access to his cellar. We’ll be leaving that way. This room retained some use after the first fort was abandoned. I’m hoping to spend the winter working through the household documents from some of those reigns, if I can gain access to them.”

“I’ll speak to my sister-in-law.” Miraude shivered and stepped closer to Kenan.

He offered her his arm. “It is indeed cold. When we leave, you must allow me to buy you some spiced wine.” She smiled up at him, taking his arm. He smiled back. This would do. This would do very well. He turned to the scholar. “Shall we continue?”

It was dusk when Thiercelin returned to his new lodgings. His valet was not in evidence, and the candles were still unlit. Perhaps he should have left instructions with his new landlord. He had not thought about that, earlier, wrapped in his concerns. He deposited hat and cloak onto a chair, and began to hunt for tapers. If Gracielis was right, if he was not mad . . . There was something, after all, that he might do for Yvelliane, if he could expose this Quenfrida and her accomplices. Perhaps then she would understand that he was not Valdarrien, that he loved her, that he could support her. Finding a taper, he nearly dropped it again when a voice spoke to him from the shadows.

“Hello, Thierry.”

It was as if his thoughts had summoned her. He was mistaken. Turning, the lighted taper in one hand, he found himself looking at Yvelliane.

He took a step toward her. “Yviane.”

“I’m glad you’re so pleased to see me.”

“I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. I . . . You startled me. I was just thinking about you.” He lit the nearest lamp. “I’m glad you’re here. How did you find me?”

“Your valet.” Yvelliane took a seat nearby and looked at him.

“I was going to send a note . . .” He carried the taper round to the remaining lamps, then sat himself. “Can I get you something? Some wine?” She looked even more tired than the last time he had seen her. He wanted to go to her, to hold her. She sat with her spine straight and her hands folded in her lap, cool and forbidding.

She said, “Nothing, thank you.”

“Are you sure?” She nodded. He went on, “Listen, Yviane, I . . .”

She cut across him. “You weren’t here when I arrived. You’d gone to visit Gracielis.” Her voice was chill.

“That’s nothing. He’s ill and I just . . .”

“You clearly care for him a great deal. Perhaps I should have applied to him to ask you to cancel your duel.”

She was still angry. He would never get through to her. Thiercelin ran a hand through his hair and sighed. He said. “Please don’t. I don’t want to argue.”

“Nor do I.” But her face belied it. “You chose not to come home. I understand.”

“I just wanted . . .”

Again, she cut through him, “I do, however, want something from you.”

“You do?” He gazed at her in new hope. “Anything. You know I . . .”

“It’s nothing personal. Royal business.”

“Oh.” Firomelle. Always and always Firomelle. Thiercelin looked down. His boots were dusty. She had once again retreated behind her armor of duty, and he could not touch her. Nothing changed. Nothing between them ever really changed. He said, softly, “What?”

“There’s to be a ball at the Rose Palace next week. I need you to escort me. Tell Gracielis that I want him there, too: I’ll provide him with a partner. That’s all.”

Thiercelin said, “About Gracielis . . . There’s something you should know, something he told me . . .”

“I don’t want to know.” She began to put on her gloves, tugging each finger smooth with precise, short motions.

He was tired of barbed remarks and riddles. He wanted simple human contact and kindness. He looked at her with a kind of desperation, and said, “Oh, Yviane, must you?” He rose, made to reach out to her.

“I don’t have much time, Thierry. Firomelle . . .”

“Needs you. I have that one engraved on my heart.”

“It happens to be true.” She rose and began to put on her hat. “Don’t see me out. I’ll expect you at the ball. If you can bear to oblige me.”

That was unfair. Thiercelin forgot that it might be advisable to placate her, and said so. She favored him with a brief, contemptuous glance. Defensively, he added,

“You know you only have to ask. I’m not Valdin.” “I thought we’d already discussed that.”

“I didn’t mean . . . Oh, to the river’s bed with it!” He sighed. “Yviane, we need to talk.”

“I don’t think so. And, anyway, I haven’t the time.” Obliquely, he remembered Gracielis’ face, speaking of the woman who had rejected him. Such bleakness . . . He could only hope he did not betray himself so clearly. He looked at his feet and said, “Would you talk to me, if you did?”

“Would you listen to anyone but yourself?” Yvelliane went to the door.

“Yes,” Thiercelin said desperately.

She smiled at him, and frost crystallized in his veins. “How tolerant,” she said, and walked out of the room.

Outside in the street it was cold. A hint of mist crept in from the direction of the river. Climbing into her carriage, Yvelliane leaned back against the seat. Her maid said, “Madame?”

“I’m all right. I’m tired.”

The girl fell silent. Yvelliane closed her eyes as the carriage began its swaying way up the street. She had handled it all wrong again, she had mishandled Thiercelin just as she had always mishandled Valdarrien before him. No wonder he had left her, no wonder he had turned to Gracielis, faced with a wife who did nothing but snap and demand. She did not know what else to do.

He said he loved her.

If he loved her, why had he not come home?

She could not make him. She could do nothing save continue on her set course. She tried to take comfort in that, found it dry and hard and stale.
But,
said the weasel voice in the back of her head,
he wanted to talk to you . . .

There was no time. She had to be back for the evening council.

He wanted you to listen . . .

If he came home, he’d find plenty of opportunities.

But you’re hardly ever there . . .
The voice choked her.
If he’s gone, whose fault is it, Yviane?

Who killed Valdarrien?

Will I never learn?

11

I
N THE DARK OF THE LOST HALL beyond the undercroft, Kenan sat with his eyes closed and counted down the seconds to sunset. Awareness of light and dark, sun and moons ran through his clan-blood. Quenfrida’s teaching had shown him how to awaken it, dilute as it was. He would never have the otter shape of his ancestors, but somewhat of their other skills lived on in him. He sat cross-legged on the floor, upper body naked, hair drawn back into a tight braid, hands resting loosely upon his knees, his breathing regular and slow. The priests had no idea he was here: he had slipped in from the scholar’s private entrance in the shop owner’s cellar. The shop owner would never again remember that entrance. Quenfrida’s instructions had included the art of clouding minds. And the scholar . . . He would never know anything again. As the last light slid below the horizon, Kenan stirred and opened his eyes. It was time.

His tools were laid out before him. A handful of earth from the temple grounds, a glass bottle filled with water from the river, a tallow candle, a stick of red pastel, a bundle of hairs—his own, his grandfather’s, and strands from various of his
kai-rethin
—and his thin bone-handled knife. He had not Quenfrida’s art of lighting candles with a look: for that he must use flint. In its flickering light, he drew a rough circle on the floor around himself with the pastel and placed the candle carefully beside him. Then he sprinkled the earth in front of him, shaping it into a small mound. The city, stronghold of Firomelle and her line, heart of Gran’ Romagne, which held his homeland in thrall. He held his hand over it, describing it in Lunedithin, first of tongues. Merafi, in small, for him to work his will upon. With the tip of the knife, he scratched a shallow trench around it, digging into the dirt of the cave floor. He untied the hair bundle and wrapped the strands about the base of the mound. Then he uncorked the bottle. All around him, the eyes of the painted creatures watched him. He saluted them and dripped seven drops slowly onto the mound. “River water, mother of the city, vein of its life-blood, hear me.” Another seven drops. “River water, born of the mountains, born of the sea, sweet and salt, to shelter the city and keep it secure.” Seven more drops, “River water, taken by me and summoned by me, be mingled in blood and break your bindings.” He set the bottle aside and picked up his knife. The edge shone slick and cold in the candlelight. He held his left wrist out over the mound and put the knife to it. “Blood of my body, clan-blood, old blood, enact my will on this river and city.” He looked up at the paintings and nodded, once. “Clans of my fathers be my witness.” And drew the knife along his vein.

Blood dripped down. Kenan held still, his breathing steady, counting his heartbeats from one to ten. And then . . .

The mound shivered, quivered. Water began to seep from its sides. Kenan lowered the knife and with his bleeding hand extinguished the candle in the heart of the soil. There was a moment of stillness.

A bear growled, low and angry. Wings beat, lifted, stirred into life. Hoofbeats tapped over the ground. The call of an owl answered the bark of a fox, the cry of a wolf. The hall floor shivered as thin red lines spread out across it, overlaying the natural patterns of earth and water. In the darkness, Kenan smiled. They had heard him, the totems of his past, and they concurred. Clan-blood had spoken. It was time for Merafi to fall.

This was not a good idea. No, being brutally honest, it was a stupid idea and a fitting end to a humiliating and unsatisfactory day. Joyain scowled as he wended his way down toward the old docks. That had its advantages. At least it caused people to get out of his way.

He was not in uniform, but that was no guarantee. Someone in The Pineapple might still recognize him.

The very last thing he needed was a fight.

She will burn you
. . . Joyain put no faith in fortune-telling. Gracieux was a meddler and a charlatan, nothing more. What Joyain chose to do was no one’s business but his own. And if he chose to accompany Iareth Yscoithi on some bizarre pilgrimage into the disreputable part of the old dock, well, then . . . He was off duty. He could do as he pleased.

It was morbid. What he really wanted to know was why she couldn’t simply pay a visit to the Far Blays family mausoleum like anyone else?