Living With Ghosts by Kari Sperring Page A

see the shadowy forms of the upper classes at play. It was all most edifying. He said as much to his companion, voice amused in the darkness.
    “Watch the road,” was all Thiercelin said.
    It was Gracielis’ private opinion that it mattered little where they kept their vigil. It appeared that Valdarrien’s ghost was drawn to Thiercelin in any place. But Thiercelin was set upon waiting here in the royal aisle. He had wanted to do so on foot, unshielded from the damp and cold. Gracielis had objected. He had no wish to risk his livelihood by an untimely bout of pneumonia. Thiercelin had frowned, muttered, and conceded the point. “Although,” he said, “I see little point in your presence if you’re too wrapped up in blankets to do anything.”
    “I can see clearly,” Gracielis said. “And I’ll ensure I have freedom of movement. It will be well.”
    “I suppose I have to believe that.”
    Wisely, Gracielis was silent. It was very dark. Little of the moons’ light penetrated the cloud cover or filtered through the thick overhang of trees. The lieutenant’s ghost was a spiteful blur. The night felt still, as if Merafi, having stirred in its long indolence, had again subsided. He wondered what she made of it, sky-eyed Quenfrida, out somewhere beneath these same clouds. Once he might have dared to ask her and sat at her feet for her reply.
    Once is not always.
    In self-defense he pulled away from the thought and looked instead at Thiercelin. A man who loved his wife; one might go to the guillotine for that truth. Yet he had chosen not to share this new burden with her. One might wonder why. Yvelliane d’Illandre was not a woman to require protection. Gracielis, who knew her better than he would ever let Thiercelin know, was sure of that. There was some trouble here. It was said on the streets that Prince Laurens was much seen with the Tarnaroqui ambassador these days. It was also rumored that not all of the royal council were content with that, readying themselves for the struggle for influence which must surely follow the death of the queen. And Quenfrida had set him this task, which touched upon Yvelliane, the First Councillor.
    He gazed at the shadowy form of Thiercelin, whose trust was bought and sold, and no longer wanted even to try to enjoy himself.
    Thiercelin was not looking at him, but peering into the darkness outside. His face was set. Palely, he said, “Look . . .”
    They were no longer alone in the aisle. Silent over the hard road, a horseman came cantering. His head was high. His cloak stirred with a wind that was not blowing. He was hatless; the hair that streamed behind him was longer than fashion required. His clothing was dark; he had neither braid nor bright buttons. The faint moons’ light glinted off the pommel of his sword. His face was in shadow. There was a careless defiance to him, lined in posture, in the very angle of that bare head.
    Into the silence, Gracielis heard Thiercelin whisper, “Oh, Valdin.”
    Gracielis leaned forward in the gloom. He said, “I see him.”
    “What do we do?”
    “We wait.”
    Mothmoon broke through the clouds, illuminating the road. The rider cast no shadow. He had more substance than the lieutenant’s ghost, drawn in contrasts rather than pastels. He was closer now. In a few moments he would pass by them or perhaps through them, as though they were the creatures of mist and memory.
    His face was unmistakable. A little drawn, a little malcontent. High cheekbones, dark brows. He was bearded, like the most typical street bravo. The hooves of his mount did not quite touch the ground.
    There was no more time. Gracielis opened the carriage door and stepped down into the road. He was straight in the path of the rider. For once, the lieutenant’s ghost did not follow him. He inhaled and sought control. Remembered the words, the ritual from the Second Book of Marcellan . There were three chains, three paths which could bind the dead: love and death and the