Ghosts in the Snow (37 page)

"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 on 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."

He stomped around the desk. "If seeing ghosts is the price I have to pay for showing my wife mercy, then that is exactly what I shall do. I may not like to look upon them, I may hate them, but I despise that bitch— far more than I hate my ghosts."

"Yes, sir," Lars said.

His hands shaking, Dubric stomped from his office and climbed the stairs back to his room, with the damned ghosts dragging along behind him.
They are mine forever
, he thought, trudging up the stairs and shoving beyond the duty trying to drag him down. "Plague me as you will," he said, "I will not beg for mercy or release." He kicked the third-floor door open and balled his hands as he approached the north hall.

Eleven people dead, a plague upon my land, my people, and my soul. Risley escapes justice only to pay the price of his mind. But that will not suit your damned plots and schemes, will it
? Lost in his anger, he ignored the worried glances from the staff as he stomped past.
Nella throws away her life and heart, but you do not care. Lars desperately needs his father, yet neither will seek the other. You leave destruction in your wake, and all the souls you touch, all that sing your praises, the faithful and the kind, receive nothing but pain and torment in return. For this I am supposed to beg your forgiveness? Peg you, bitch! I have seen your forgiveness, felt your pegging mercy. Get out of my life and get out of my head
.

He shoved the door to his suite open, startling Bostra into drawing a sword.

"Go!" he said, stomping through. "Just go and leave me to my demons."

Bostra sheathed his sword. "Goddess, Dubric, you look like you've seen a ghost."

"Get. Out."

Bostra blinked and nodded, glancing over his shoulder as he grabbed the floppy hat. "Risley's still asleep. I checked on them moments ago."

Dubric waved him away, then fell into a chair.

* * *

An eternity later, Dubric looked up, seeing the familiar glimmer of his reflection in the mirror. "Oh, damn," he sighed, standing. He staggered to his dresser, finding Oriana's dagger by its feel, and fell into his chair again. Grimacing, he pulled the dagger from the sheath.

He stared at the silver blade with tears rolling down his cheeks. After all these summers, her loss still felt as if someone had just ripped out a piece of him, laid the wound open, and salted it. The pain would never end, not as long as he lived, all because the wretched Goddess had marked them as one.

Sometimes that hurt far more than the ghosts ever could.

"Show me," he said, and the mirror began to glow.

He wiped the tears from his eyes and smiled at his love. Their union had been both a blessing and a curse. He had known a joy so few could ever understand. A sense of completeness in her presence, the headiness of utter bliss every time he had touched her. But the ache of her loss had never faded, and it remained as fresh in his heart as if she had died moments ago. That, too, was both a blessing and a curse.

She stood in the midst of an endless sea, with water and moonlight glimmering all around her. His despised but still remembered religious teachings insisted she waited for him in the Waters of Life. The Waters of the damned Goddess. Oriana awaited him in heaven, and for that he was truly thankful. She had suffered so before she died, and she suffered no more. The suffering was his alone and rightly so.

More than the guilt of her death and the eternal plague of ghosts tugged at his heart. He said to his sweet Oriana, "I should not have been so rough on Lars. He only tried to help."

She placed a palm against the surface of the glass; in the reflection her other hand seemed to rest on his shoulder. He held his hand against hers and said, "I should apologize."

She nodded. His heart ached to truly talk with her, but lip-reading had proven impossible and heart wrenching in its frustration. They had stopped trying decades before.

He sighed and traced her fingers with his own. He had always wanted to ask a certain question of her, but had never tried. He was old now, old and tired. Surely his life had neared its end.

He looked deep into his love's eyes, still so sparkling and blue, and asked, his voice cracking, "Will I join you soon? I have waited for so long."

Her lower lip quivered and she seemed to waver for a moment, as if she had trouble standing beside him. Her bright eyes filled with tears and this time he had no trouble understanding her. No trouble at all.

"No, my love," she said. "Not for a long, long time. Your purpose has not yet come."

Dubric could almost feel her consoling touch on his burn-scarred skin and he wished he could hold her just one more time. He covered his face with his hands and wept.

Dien shifted his weight. Nella had curled in a chair with a book while Risley slept, and as far as Dien was concerned, the bastard could sleep the whole afternoon away.

He'd always heard no one slept sounder than a guilty man who'd been captured, but Risley's sleep had been far from sound. He had tossed and turned, wrestling with whatever horrors plagued his mind, until the girl had arrived, staggering through the door as if facing the gallows.

She had kissed Risley's cheek, then he slept like an innocent babe, as if he had not a worry in the world. Time crawled by, punctuated by cozy snores and the soft turning of a page.

On the other side of the door, Dubric had gone, then come back again, sending Bostra away, if Dien had heard correctly. He wondered what bug had crawled up Dubric's ass today. He certainly sounded pissy enough for Nella to take notice.

Perhaps a half-bell later Risley stirred and Nella set her book aside, rushing to him. Despite Dien's preference to keep her as far from the bastard as possible, Dubric had insisted she merely be protected from definite harm, not chaperoned. And, with Risley officially under Haenparan protection, Dubric had instructed his staff to remain cordial, yet firm. Dien stoically observed their happy embrace, their longing looks and one quick kiss before he cleared his throat. "Keep it clean," he said.

Laughing, they moved from the bed to a divan and sat, curled together, their heads close and their hands entwined. Their conversation remained whisper-quiet, with occasional giggles, until Dien wondered if he would hurl his breakfast.
Damn, were Sarea and I that disgusting? Yeah, we probably were. Sometimes we still are
.

Their occasional kisses remained thankfully brief, and he allowed their flirtations with only a random grumble to cool their ardor. He reluctantly watched them and wondered when Lars would come to relieve him. His frigging feet were really starting to hurt.

* * *

"Hey, Lars!" Trumble called. "Someone wants to see you."

"Be right there." Lars checked his face in the mirror as he finished washing before guard duty. Running a comb through his damp hair, he hurried from the bath chamber, praying he didn't have bad news waiting for him or a crisis to deal with.

He stopped, staring, the comb clutched in his hand.

His father stood in the chaos of the main room with his hands clasped in front of him.

Of Lars's three roommates, Trumble sat in a chair, scraping mud off his boots and onto the floor. Moergan searched through a pile of dirty laundry for a decent pair of pants to wear and Serian crawled out of bed, mumbling, "You about done in the privy? I gotta take a leak."

Lars nodded dumbly.

Serian broke wind and staggered past him to the privy room, relieving his bladder without bothering to close the door. He rarely closed the door.

"So this is where you live?" Bostra asked, the first words he had spoken in Lars's presence for nearly six summers.

"Yes, sir," Lars replied. He swallowed at the sound of his father's voice. Goddess, it had been so long ago, nearly beyond memory, and yet it still resonated as familiar. As home.

Bostra looked around at the strewn remnants of their frenzied adolescent lives. At the dented practice armor, the grungy clothing, scattered books, stained blankets, and rumpled, unmade beds. Moergan had a pair of girls' underdrawers tacked to the wall above his bed and something rotten stunk in Serian's corner.

Lars felt like he'd been caught in public with his pants around his ankles, but he resisted the urge to try to tidy up. It was too late for that.

"I paged here, too, did you know that?" Bostra asked. "I was about your age when I came here."

"No, I didn't know that," Lars replied, surprised to hear his own voice and astounded by his father's height.
Goddess, I'm taller than he is, by a hand width or more. How did that happen? He was always so big and I so small
.

"My room was down the hall." Bostra chuckled and shook his head. "This brings back so many memories. My roommates and I, we would try to sneak in ale or girls—"

"Dubric won't let us," Lars interrupted.

"I know. He hasn't changed in twenty-five summers. But you still try, don't you?" Bostra nodded toward the panties on the wall. "Try and sometimes succeed?"

Lars shook his head. "Not me, sir. Dubric doesn't allow it."

The silence stretched before them, a long chasm of lost summers and uncertainty.

Moergan and Trumble looked at each other. "Maybe we should go," Trumble said, glancing at Serian as he staggered from the privy.

Lars held his father's gaze calmly, seeing the disappointment and confusion on his face. He had seen nothing else there, not as far back as he could remember.

"You've never
tried
? Not once?"

"No, sir."

Silence again, somehow both vast and tight.

Moergan yanked on a pair of pants and tossed another pair at Serian. The three left, closing the door behind them while Lars and Bostra faced each other across the room.

Bostra knocked some dirty socks and a broken crossbow off a chair and sat. "Can we talk? For a few minutes?"

"I thought we were talking, sir."

"You're not making this any easier."

"I'm sorry, sir. What would you have me do? I apologize, but I am a bit rushed. I'm supposed to report for duty." Lars put the comb in his pocket and shrugged.

"Are you and Otlee filing papers?"

"No, sir," he said.
I'm replacing Dien after his shift, not that you would care
, he wanted to add, but didn't.

Bostra leaned forward and pulled a pile of armor off a chair. "Then you can spend five minutes talking to… to your father." He looked up at Lars. "Please. Just five minutes."

"Dubric is expecting me."

"Dubric will understand." Bostra gestured toward the chair.

Lars sat, knowing darn well Dubric would not understand.

"So," Bostra said, "how have you been?"

"My health has been good, sir."

Bostra frowned. "That's not what I meant." He seemed to struggle with what to say, and his hands clenched and unclenched on his knees.

"I have been fine, sir. Is that better?"

"No." He sighed and leaned forward. "Look, I know I haven't been the best father, and you don't even know me anymore, if you ever did."

"I have no complaints, sir."

"You don't have to keep calling me 'sir.' "

Lars blinked. "But I have always…"

"I know. You've always tried to be a good boy. Even when you were little. And I never appreciated you. I know that now, and I wanted to say that I'm sorry." He sighed and said, "I only came to say I'm sorry."

Lars stared. He had no idea what to say or do.

Bostra stood. "I understand if you hate me, sending you away like I did, and leaving you here all alone. But you've done well for yourself and you've made your mother and I both very proud. I thought you might want to know that."

Bostra turned to go while Lars struggled to understand what had happened. Contusion and joy grappled for control as he stared at his father and wondered what to say.

When the door creaked open, however, he leapt to his feet and hurried to the threshold.

"Wait!" he said, scrambling around the chair. "Where are you going?"

"My five minutes are up."

For a few moments, Lars had forgotten about guard duty. He took a breath and nodded, knowing he needed to tend to his work.

Bostra extended his hand. "Thank you for giving me a few minutes."

Lars grasped his hand. "You're welcome, Father."

Both smiled. Bostra said, "Perhaps sometime this spring Dubric can let you come home for a phase or so. I'm sure your mother would love to see you."

Lars grinned.
Home
. "I think I can arrange it."

"I'm sure you can." After one last smile, Bostra turned and walked away.

* * *

Her head resting on Risley's shoulder, Nella startled at the sound of a rap on the door. Lars opened it a heartbeat later, grinning.

"What's got you so chipper?" Dien asked.

"I'll tell you later." Lars laughed, following Dien back to Dubric's main room. He frowned at Risley and Nella, then he and Dien conferred quietly with Dubric, just outside the open door.

"While we have a moment alone," Risley said against her cheek, "I'd like to ask you something."

She turned in his embrace to look into his eyes. Try as she might, she could not conceive of him committing the murders. She just couldn't. "Ask me anything," she said, smiling.

He reached into his pocket, pulling out a C-shaped curve of silver. As he gently placed it on her wrist, he looked deep into her eyes. "I know this isn't the best of circumstances, but will you marry me?"

Her heart thudding, she touched the bracelet. "It's gorgeous," she said, fingering the delicate work.

He chewed his lip, watching her. "It's the right weave, isn't it?"

"Yes, but usually we Pyrinnian women wear bracelets after our wedding day."

He grinned and his nervousness seemed to fade. "We Haenparan men like to give gifts when we ask our beloveds to marry us. I thought a bracelet could be a compromise."

He glanced at the door and the continuing discussion between Dubric and his team. "Do you like it?"

"Very much." The bracelet sparkled in the filtered morning light as he kissed her palm. She closed her eyes, considering her answer, then it rang clearly in her head. Risley was innocent. He could not, would not, have killed those girls. Dubric had made a mistake. No matter what their future held, she had only one answer to give. She leaned forward, her fingers tracing along his cheeks, and said, "Of course I'll marry you. I love you."

"Thank the Goddess," he said, drawing her close and kissing her. "I thought for a moment I'd lost you." His hands in her hair and his breath in her mouth, he leaned back against the cushions and she followed, climbing onto his lap.

She felt no hesitation, no fear, no worry or second thoughts, only the warm encouragement of his hands upon her back.

"I think that's enough," Lars said from behind her.

Risley kissed her one last time before releasing her. "Ah, what I wouldn't give for a few glorious minutes truly alone."

She searched his eyes and smiled. "Oh? Whatever do you mean?" she asked, wishing Lars would wander off again. Time crashed against her, shortening with every breath, and she did not want to lose a moment.

Risley kissed her softly and said, "Wait here."

She nodded and he slipped away, walking to Lars and Dubric. She didn't hear what they discussed, but a short while later the door closed and latched, leaving them alone.

"We've ten minutes," he said. "Let's not waste it." Ten minutes sounded like an eternity to Nella, and she leapt into his arms.

* * *

Sunlight shimmered through the curtains and he smiled, gently tugging on the laces of her uniform as he kissed her. "I've waited so long for this." He nibbled her shoulder, tasting her sweet, clean flesh.

"So have I. Far too long." Her hand on the back of his neck trembled with her nervousness, but she didn't pull away.

He kissed her again, pulling off his shirt and casting it aside as he pressed her back upon the bed. A shaft of filtered sunlight gilded the pillows in a warm inviting glow and he smiled as he caressed her arms, her breasts, her lips. Her dark eyes glimmered in the sunshine.

A twitch pulled at his smile, but she didn't see. "So small, so slender, so delicate," he said. He took great care and he took his time, drawing her to him, stroking her short brown hair, kissing her succulent throat and her honeyed mouth.

Her touch was both a bliss and a torture, addictive as the finest wine, and he marveled in her presence and her skin. Despite his aching need to finish, he warmed her slowly, savoring every morsel of their touch. Their clothes disappeared, landing with a whisper on the floor as they rolled together. She held his head as he suckled her, her thighs alongside his hips.

"Will it hurt?" she asked him, her voice airy and soft as she moved beneath him.

He shifted her hips, pressing close against her warmth, and her head rolled back with her delight. Her mouth fell open and she gasped his name, arching against him.

"Maybe at first," he whispered against her throat. "But I will be gentle. As gentle as I can."

He kissed her as she pulled him close, her fingers digging into his buttocks with her hunger and need. He felt the cool metal of her bracelet against his back, dragging against his skin like ice beside the fire of her touch, and he smiled. "Shh," he said, nuzzling her neck. "Are you in a hurry?"

"Someone could come," she replied, blushing, her eyes searching his. She reached up to touch his face and raised her head to kiss him, bringing him close.

That's my girl
, he thought, shifting her hips again, adjusting the angle as he kissed her, pressing her back, pressing against her. Holding her breast in his left hand, his right brushed the hair from her eyes. He wanted to see her, see her eyes in the sunlight, and he suckled her as he whispered her name and reached beneath her pillow.

She lay warm and quivering beneath him, ready and oh-so-willing. He looked into her eyes, into her soul, and moved forward, stabbing into her hips—and into her throat.

Blood spurted against the wall, curving to his right as she arched beneath him. "Shh," he said, timing his strokes to the rhythm of her blood as he pulled the dagger away. "The pain is done. It's done."

Her eyes grew wild, terrified with their agony and surprise, and clouded with confusion at the realization of what he had done. She flailed against him, trying to cover her throat and trying to get away, but he held her still and watched her eyes.

Blinking, she weakened, her fingertips and toes cooling as the arc from her throat lessened. "Stay warm," he said, thrusting toward his goal, yet never leaving her eyes. "Stay warm, my love. I'm almost done, almost there." She grew limp and he pulled his hand from her mouth, for she no longer had the strength to scream. His left hand free, he grasped the headboard to help his balance. He did not want to crush her.