Ghosts in the Snow

by Tamara S Jones

  Nervously, she broke the seal.

  My love,

  I must allay your fears. I am not dead, but rescued by your fortitude and by your faith. You have saved my life, and all debts between us are paid, for now and for all time. I leave for Haenpar tonight, love, and I'd like you to join me on our next journey together. I hope you will, and I pray you still love me.

  The man before you is my father's castellan,

  Bostra Hargrove, and he knows where Dubric has hidden me.

  Please come. I love you.

  Risley

  Her lip trembling, she looked at the robed man standing before her. "You—"

  "Do not speak of it, milady," Bostra whispered. "The stones have ears. Will you follow me?"

  She folded the note, her hands shaking and rattling the fine paper. "Yes."

  He turned and walked away, and she followed him.

  They crossed the castle along the second floor, to the west wing, and past the alcove where she and Risley had shared a pie. Bostra knocked on the tower door and Otlee opened it, closing and locking it behind them.

  "The tower clear?" Bostra asked, opening his robe. The inside was lined with fine butter-colored silk.

  "Yessir. Top to bottom. All doors are locked and secure."

  The robe fell away to reveal a tidy, compact man of middle age with a neatly trimmed beard covering a bruised chin. An eye patch and its strap circled his head, but the patch had been flipped up, exposing a blackened eye. "Put this on," he said, turning his robe inside out. "You're going to disappear."

  " 'Disappear'? I can't just 'disappear.' "

  He smiled, showing fine white teeth, and meticulously smoothed his yellow jerkin and black silk pants. "It's a figure of speech. You are now officially in hiding, milady."

  "I'm not a lady," she said, drawing the robe around her and raising the hood. "Where's Risley?"

  "You have no more patience than he." Bostra laughed gently and ran up the stairs. Nella followed.

  "We are officials from Casclia," he said. "I need you to walk beside me and lean close as if we are conferring over an intricate detail of extreme importance."

  He reached into a fine leather knapsack beside the door and pulled out a black silk chasuble and a small wooden hand club. He adjusted the chasuble over her shoulders and said, "I want you to hit your leg with this club, a nervous habit of sorts, while you walk. Most people will look at the movement instead of possibly recognizing you."

  She gripped the club and tapped her leg in an erratic staccato like her father testing cooling bricks. "Like this?"

  "Perfect." He took a step back, adjusted her hood and nodded. "That'll do nicely." He reached into the knapsack again, retrieving a loosely flowing hat with long, bejeweled tails of buttery satin. Placing it upon his head at a jaunty angle, he slung the pack over his shoulder. "Ready for your performance?"

  She smiled. "Your eye patch?"

  "Oh!" he laughed, flipping it down. "Forgot the damned thing." He gave her an encouraging smile and called out, "Go, Otlee."

  Then he opened the door.

  * * *

  They strode down the hall, quietly discussing a border dispute that hinged upon the definition of a river's location. Rambling incessantly about the rocks on an imagined northern shore, Nella did not glance at Risley's door as they passed it, and no one in the hall seemed to pay them undue notice.

  Floor maids curtsied, scurrying out of their way, and a pair of ladies gave Bostra appraising looks, but they walked through the hallway without pause. The herald hurried up the main stairs with a note in hand and his cloak flowing behind him. Gracing them with a friendly nod, he hastened off the way they had come.

  Still discussing the same imaginary river, they turned down the short northern hallway that housed titled officials. Without slowing, they walked past Dubric's door.

  An accountant shuffled toward them, wringing his hands and muttering, then he wandered away, turning the corner and leaving their sight.

  Bostra grasped her arm and turned, guiding her back to Dubric's door. A blink later they slipped inside. She had indeed disappeared.

  * * *

  Nella had never been in Dubric's suite before, and she had not expected it to be dark, or small. Unlike the bright, rambling rooms of Risley's suite, Dubric appeared to have only two rooms plus a privy chamber, and a lone window facing north. Dim, wine-colored light illuminated the drawn curtains, leaving the room in hazy shadow. A tall oval mirror glowed in the far corner, shining on the old man as he stood beside a table.

  Her companion led her to Dubric. "Remain silent," he said in her ear, "before your opportunity for choice is lost."

  Dubric motioned her toward him, and said, "You of all people are an innocent in this, Miss Nella, and I cannot allow you to go uninformed into hell."

  He smiled at her, kindly yet concerned. "Risley will be taken to Haenpar tonight whether you go with him or not. He has no choice in the matter. But I cannot in good conscience send you to your possible death without showing you what he has done."

  Acrid bile tainted her mouth but she swallowed it away. She noticed he clenched a filthy dress in his hands.

  "Show me," he whispered, and the mirror wavered, replacing his reflection with a dead girl in an ale room, lying in a pool of blood. He dropped the dress and picked up another garment. "Show me," he said again. This time the image reflected a milkmaid, facedown in the mud with her back gone.

  She tried to turn away, but Bostra held her still, forcing her to see. A scullery maid in the slush with her intestines pulled over her hips. A laundress, eviscerated and nearly beheaded. A horror of meat and barely human extremities scattered in the mud, a dyer bubbling in a vat, another gutted and half-charred. A girl she had never seen, with her back opened and her guts trailing behind her. Plien… her insides steaming in the snow, her thighs filleted and her throat slashed.

  "Stop it!" Nella cried, scrunching her eyes closed.

  Dubric turned, his eyes glittering and determined. "He did these things, Miss Nella. Look at them! Each worse than the one before. He enjoyed it."

  "Risley wouldn't do those things! Not him."

  "He slaughtered those girls, and if you leave with him he will do the same to you."

  The image of Plien remained in the mirror, and Nella turned her head away. "He will not harm me. He loves me."

  Dubric dropped the cloth in his hands and Plien's horrid corpse faded away. "I know you love him, Miss Nella, but is his passion for you a symptom of his madness? Does a killer like that understand love? I instructed Aghy to let you do as you wished when you visited Risley in gaol, for I knew he could not truly harm you there. But soon, very soon, he will be able to do as he pleases again. At least for a few days."

  Her heart hammered in her throat. "What happens in a few days?"

  Bostra released her arms. "After he is found guilty of murder, three sages from Waterford will cleanse Risley's mind."

  "Then he'll be fine again? He'll—"

  "No, Miss Nella," Dubric said, rubbing his eyes as if they pained him. "Then he will be an infant, less than an infant, in the body of a man."

  She took a step back, rabidly shaking her head, and stepped on Bostra's foot. "So you're telling me that if I agree to go with him, at worst he will kill me, and at best his mind will be taken away?" She took one burning breath and another and another as she tried to understand the situation before her.

  "Why, then," she said at last, looking between them, "did you make me disappear?"

  "Because no one can know Risley lives," Bostra said, "nor that I am here."

  "Our people will kill him outright if they knew," Dubric said. "Justice is one thing, murderous mobs are a different matter entirely. I hope you choose to remain here, Miss Nella, but I have watched you for moons and I know how you feel about him. If you remain, we will spirit you through the east tower and return you to your life. But if you go, Miss Nella, if you go, you must be aware of what awaits." He paused and watc
hed her with pity shadowing his face.

  She thought of Risley, his face, his touch, his gentle, hungry kiss, and tears welled in her eyes. "Does Risley know?"

  "No," Bostra said, "and you must not tell him. He must believe the sages will cure his insanity or he will resist. If he resists, he will certainly die."

  "There has been enough death," Dubric said.

  Her knees shaking she said, "No matter the danger, I can't leave him. Maybe he will kill me. I think I'd prefer that over watching…" she shuddered and her breath fell away, leaving her empty and trembling. "But whatever the future brings, I can't leave him. I won't hurt him like that. I love him too much."

  Both men nodded. "That is your choice, milady," Bostra said, leading her away from the mirror. They stood before a closed door while Nella composed herself. "It isn't locked," he said, gently pulling the chasuble from her shoulders. "You seem a fine woman and I am truly sorry we didn't meet under better circumstances."

  "Me, too," she said, then she opened the door.

  Sunlight sparkled through lace curtains, washing the sitting room with jewels of light. Risley lay asleep on a bed that seemed out of place among the stuffed chairs, bookshelves, and a lifetime of collected trinkets.

  Dien stood just inside the room and he smiled encouragingly as Bostra closed the door.

  Risley looked so peaceful, snoring softly and sprawled on his belly, that her hesitation melted away. He wasn't a monster; he was Risley, her Risley, and she could never leave him.

  She knelt beside the bed and brushed tousled hair from his brow before kissing his cheek. "I'm here," she whispered. "And I love you."

  He whispered her name and snuggled into the pillows, moving closer to her, and relaxed beneath her touch. Still stroking his brow she asked softly, "Why is he so tired?"

  Dien said, "We pulled him from the gaol around two bell this morning and he hadn't been sleeping. I doubt he'd slept at all."

  She whispered his name and kissed his cheek.

  Dien shifted his weight and yawned. "Dawn had come by the time we'd agreed on a plan and put it into motion. He's been sleeping ever since."

  "Then I won't wake him," she said. Settling into a nearby chair, she watched Risley sleep and wondered if they had any remaining hope.

  * * *

  Dubric's ghosts examined the bits of ruined clothing on the floor, giggling and nudging one another. Elli picked up a torn and bloody uniform. Grinning, she smacked Rianne with it, knocking her severed arm through the wall beside Bostra.

  Startled, Bostra looked up from his tired daze and squinted at Dubric. "Did I just feel a breeze?"

  "No," Dubric said, thankful his ghosts' antics were obscured in the dim light. He gathered up a handful of papers, grimacing at Rianne's head rolling across his worktable. "I have paperwork to complete. Would you object to my leaving for a bit?"

  "Of course not," Bostra said. "The sooner the paperwork is finished, the sooner we can leave."

  Grumbling under his breath, Dubric trudged to his office while his ghosts tormented him.

  He found Otlee filing papers the ghosts had strewn about the night before. "I unlocked all the doors like you said, sir. Only one person had asked why the tower was locked and I told them I had to run top to bottom three times as part of an assignment." He beamed. "He believed me, sir."

  "That is fine," Dubric replied. "Nice job."

  Elli fluffed Otlee's hair and the boy froze, growing instantly pale.

  Dubric changed the route to his desk, blocking Elli's cool attentions. "I have been remiss in my duties as a teacher. These past days I have barely given you a moment to read. Here," he reached into his pocket and retrieved his library token, "tell Clintte you have full access in my name. Any book you would like. Even from the restricted section. But I expect a ten-page written report on the material."

  "Thank you, sir!" Otlee said. He bobbed a quick bow and left, squealing slightly as Fytte patted his behind.

  Once the outer door closed, Dubric snarled, "Do what you must to me, but leave the boy alone."

  The ghosts giggled and began pulling books from the shelves.

  "Stop it," Dubric hissed, slamming the inner office door, but the ghosts did not seem to hear, or care.

  Elli shoved every single thing off his desk. Ennea tossed papers into the air. Plien pulled books from the shelves and dropped them on the floor. Celese took Rianne's head and swung it by the hair at other ghosts, while Rianne bumbled around blindly. Claudette repeatedly tried to trip poor Rianne. Cheyna and the peddler's daughter—her name had been Lirril—huddled together in a corner and had caused no trouble. Nansy, the newest arrival, silently screamed before his desk and gushed blood all over herself. Still barely moving, she seemed utterly oblivious to the chaos around her. Every now and then a piece of her viscera would fall out and splatter on his floor. Grinning, Fytte snatched up the dripping slop and flung it at the walls.

  Ten damned ghosts. He wished they would wander away like Olibe Meiks had done. "Why will you not leave me alone?" he asked them. "Why?"

  His door opened and Lars said, "Perhaps because they have nowhere to go."

  Dubric sighed and nine of his ten ghosts turned to look at Lars. "I thought I sent you to get some rest."

  "I can sleep later," he said. "I've noticed since Risley's arrest you have barely spoken with us. In fact, you continually send Otlee and I away."

  "Perhaps I do not need your assistance."

  "Perhaps these ghosts you see are causing trouble," Lars replied. "Otlee seemed spooked in the hall outside, and I've noticed the air around you is unusually cold. Dien mentioned smelling perfume the other day. Sometimes I smell blood."

  Fytte grinned and walked right through Lars.

  "What the!…" He turned around and his eyes grew wide. "What was that?"

  Dubric rubbed his eyes. Nansy faded away, but the rest remained. "That, my dear boy, was Fytte. She seems to be the ringleader. Her and Elli."

  Lars nodded slowly and his eyes scanned the whole room. He nudged a book with his toe. "Can I assume they've been making all these messes lately?"

  "You can."

  "Can I also assume they were the cause of your collapse yesterday?"

  "You can."

  He looked relieved and took a breath. "All right. May I have your permission to try something?"

  "Try whatever you like. They certainly do not listen to me. Why should they listen to you?"

  "Because I believe," Lars said. He reached inside his pocket and pulled out a gleaming circlet of silver; a sphere within a sphere. He held it in his palm as if presenting it to the room.

  Every ghost retreated from him.

  Dubric turned his head away from the circle. "Why did you bring that whore-goddess's bauble here?"

  "To see if it would help. What are they doing now?"

  "Who cares? Get that thing out of here."

  Lars carefully set it on Dubric's desk. "Sorry, sir. If they've attacked you once, they may attack you again, and Otlee and I are tired of cleaning up their messes."

  "Get that damned thing out of my office."

  "I can't do that, sir. They're afraid of it, aren't they?"

  "And what if they are? That thing is no better."

  "You may not like to look at Malanna's moon, but it can't harm you. Friar Bonne said—"

  "I do not give a rat's ass what frivolity Bonne has put in your head."

  "You should. He said your curse has a name. I can't remember what it was called, but he said—"

  "You told Bonne about my damned ghosts?"

  "No, sir. Not your ghosts. Not specifically. I only told him that while researching the murders I had heard of a person cursed with ghosts and was curious. He said that he, too, had heard of such a thing and the church recommended using Malanna's symbols to keep them at bay." Lars paused and looked at Dubric. "He also said the only way to remove the curse was to return to the church. Perhaps you should consid—"

  Dubric slammed his fist o
n the desk. "Do you think I do not know that? After all these damned summers, all these damned ghosts, do you really believe I have not known about apologizing to that whore-goddess? The bitch can curse me all she wants. She can harm me no more than she already has." He stood and snarled, leaning over his desk. "She gave me the gift of Oriana. Marked us as one soul. I knew the moment I saw her I would love her for the rest of my life and I even thanked the Goddess for my good fortune."

  He drew a rattling breath and said, "We had less than six moons together before she was taken away. That damn Goddess did nothing to protect her even though Oriana was of her order. She let my wife, my pregnant wife, die in a fire set by Shadow Followers, all because we were involved in that damn war.

  "I tried to save her. Did you know that? Siddael and Albin tried to stop me from going in after her, but I could hear her scream in my soul. My Goddess damned soul! She was still alive, screaming her prayers in the horrid gibberish that haunts my dreams on the rare nights I sleep. She was burning, but she was still alive! Do you have any idea how horrible that was? To see my love burned alive? I grabbed her but her flesh came off in my hands. Her arm, her poor precious arm, ripped off like the leg of a roast chicken, and still the damned Goddess would not let her die!"

  "Sir, I knew you lost your wife, but I never—"

  "Shut the peg up. You don't know shit. In the end, I killed her. I took my knife and I slit her charred throat. I stopped her suffering. All of it for that bitch-goddess of yours. I wanted the fire to kill me, too, but it didn't. It took me six moons to get on my feet again, one for every moon I spent with Oriana. Six moons in a hospital bed gives you plenty of time to think. Plenty of time to decide."

  He reached out and picked up the silver circle, crushing it in his fist as if it were nothing more than a slip of paper. "If you think I will accept Malanna's charity now, you are sadly mistaken." He dropped the wad of metal on the desk and snarled, "She can burn in the seven hells for all I care."