Ghosts in the Snow (30 page)

She rushed to him, her hands shaking, and whispered, "Look at me. Please."

Dubric said, "Miss Nella, he is not worth your time. Not anymore."

"Let me decide that," she said, moving closer to Risley, searching his face, his manner, for any hint of guilt or innocence. "Please. Just look at me."

His eyes found hers and he blinked back terrified tears. They were his familiar eyes, gentle and warm even through the haze of confusion. She saw no guilt or admittance there, only shock and pleading innocence being overwhelmed by incomprehension.

"Oh, Risley," she said, touching his face. "Have they hurt you?"

He shook his head. "No. They've actually been rather gentle, considering what they believe." He paused, looking deep within her eyes, and said, "But I didn't do it. I swear."

"Of course not," she said, plastering a smile on her face. "You were with me, all night last night. It's a wonder I was able to work at all, us being awake all night romping like we were."

He chuckled at her attempt and kissed her palm. "Don't lie for me, love. I've already told them I never touched you." He reached up and stroked her hair, the chains jangling and cold.

"Enough of this," Dien said, knocking Risley aside. "Get your ass moving."

Risley straightened his back and said, "Give me one damned minute with her. For Goddess's sake, I may never see her again. Guilty or not, one minute won't make a bit of difference."

Lars shrugged, Dien glowered, and at last Dubric nodded. They stepped back, giving Risley and Nella a pocket of space.

Risley raised his hands, lifting one elbow high, and she slipped beneath his chains and into his arms, ignoring the filthy splatters on his clothes. "Shh, love," he whispered into her hair as he held her close and eased her trembling. "Everything will be all right."

She nodded against his chest, knowing he was trying to encourage himself as much as her. "What happened?"

His lips on her brow were warm and gentle. "They've got evidence against me, love, real, inarguable evidence, but I don't know how. It's impossible. They will hang me for this, and after seeing what they've found I can't blame them." His voice hitched and he kissed her brow again. "I know in my heart I haven't harmed anyone, but they'll hang me anyway. They'll have to."

His hands on her back shuddered as they pressed her against him. "None of that matters now. You need to move on, forget about me. Please."

"No," she said, looking up at him. "I can't. I won't."

"You need to," he said. "I'm no good for you now."

"You've always been good for me," she replied, stretching within his arms.

She kissed him. For a moment he resisted, but the moment crumbled and he crushed her in his desperate embrace.

"Oh, Nella," he whispered into her mouth as he took a breath and kissed her again.

Someone tugged at her. She tried to cling to Risley, but hands wrenched her away, yanking her from his embrace and scraping her back with his shackles.

"Don't you hurt her," Risley snarled, fighting against Lars's and Dien's grip. "So help me, you harm one hair on her head and you'll pay."

"She will be safe," Dubric said from behind her, his voice flat and cold. "Now that you are no longer a concern."

"Please! Don't do this!" she cried, struggling to break free of Dubric's hard grip.

As Dien and Lars shoved him to the hall, Risley looked back at her and said, "I love you. Remember I love you."

Then he was gone.

* * *

Risley said little beyond a single, quietly stated insistence of his innocence as they descended to the gaol.
At least he is not a wailer or a pleader
, Dubric thought.

Nor did Risley resist, other than a slight hesitation at his first step into the gaol. They prodded him forward and he walked amid them without comment, ignoring the catcalls and taunts from the few prisoners. The gaol reeked of piss and puke and mold, and the filthy unwashed bodies of drunks and derelicts. Dubric had always considered it to be a horrid place to spend one's last days, but certainly better than being eviscerated and left to freeze and bleed to death in the courtyard.

Inek sat on his cot and snarled, but said nothing. The eight who had attacked Dubric the night Celese and Rianne died remained behind bars, since none had shown the least bit of remorse. Gaelin and Allin had become oozing hags after a couple of days sleeping in filthy straw, and their once beautiful red hair hung limp and stringy and damp. Gaelin threw a handful of feces at them as they walked past.

"String him up quick now, you old bastard!" she screeched, but they continued on without giving her another glance.

Roaches scuttled away as they stomped through the putrid straw and sawdust on the floor between the cells. Dank water drizzled down the stone walls, leaving green and fuzzy mold plenty of opportunity to flourish. Light filtered dimly through tin lanterns, giving the hall a ghastly, ethereal gloom.

They passed through a set of heavy doors to another hall. It was less noxious than the cells Dubric routinely assigned to drunks and troublemakers, and all four breathed a little easier. Still filthy and vermin-infested, the hall continued into the dark, far past the reach of the single lantern.

Risley squinted into the dark. "Where are you taking me?"

"This is far enough," Dubric replied. "I do not want you out front. Your arrest will create a large-enough circus as it is."

Dien pulled keys from his pocket and unlatched a thick, barred door, then pulled it open. Partly natural cave and partly carved and stacked stone, the cell loomed dark and dreadful, with a loose pile of moldering straw along the back and a slimy puddle near the middle. A toad hopped from beside the puddle to the shadows, blinking as if the dim light hurt its eyes.

"So this is it?"

" 'Fraid so," Dien muttered, unlocking Risley's wrists while Dubric and Lars kept him at sword point. "You get a pan of water and two feedings a day, one morning and one evening, but don't expect anything fancy."

Risley rubbed his wrists. "Remains from the servants' table? There's always someone lower than someone else. Someone to accept the refuse and spoilage."

Dubric frowned. "This is not the time, or place, to revisit the inequities between the classes."

Risley sighed. "I suppose not." Squaring his shoulders, he walked into the cell. Without looking back, he said, "Lars, watch over her. Keep her safe, because you've captured the wrong man."

Lars drew a shaky breath and closed the door. "Part of me hopes you're right, Ris, but evidence doesn't lie."

"Then may the Goddess have mercy on my soul." Risley walked to the far side of his cell and sat with his back to them.

After locking the door, Dubric turned away and his men followed, leaving the stink of desperation behind.

* * *

"I… I have to find a way to help him," Nella said, wiping at her eyes and staggering to her feet.

"But how?" Dari asked. "He said himself that the evidence—"

"I don't care. I have to do something." She pulled a kerchief from her pocket and blew her nose. "He wouldn't turn his back on me. He would move mountains and seas—"

"He killed people! Killed Plien! How can you want to help him after all he's done?"

Nella started toward the door then stopped, her shoulders sagging for a moment. "Because he saved my life in Pyrinn and would do so again without hesitating. Because he treats me like a person instead of a servant. Because he shared a piece of pie with me." She paused and straightened her back. "Because I love him." Turning back to look at Dari, she added, "And I believe he is innocent. I will do everything in my power to keep him alive."

Leaving Dari standing dumbfounded in Dubric's office, she strode into the hall, blanching at the curious glances from passersby.

"Hope they string him up by his guts," a man said from behind her, but Nella didn't bother to look.

"Not so hoity-toity now, are ye?" a sweaty scullery maid said, trying to trip her.

"I heard Dubric found 'im sharpening 'is knife. That true?"

" 'Knife'? I heard he used an axe."

"Betcha 'e raped 'em before he kilt 'em. Only reason 'e let 'is whore live a'tall were 'cause they were boppin' ever' night."

Nella pushed through, her mouth set tight and her heart determined, and she soon found herself free of the crowd.

Where do I go? What do I do
? she thought, pausing to look around her.
His grandfather
? She looked up the main stairs.
He hates commoners. He'll never listen. Who can I trust? Who can help me
?

She paced near the stairs, her thoughts churning, until a pair of nuns walked past, chattering about an upcoming festival to aid an orphanage.
Friar Bonne
!

She had taken but two steps toward the rectory hall when she heard someone calling her name.

"Miss Nella!" the herald said, rushing to her with his hand fluttering over his heart. "Thank goodness you're not harmed. I'd heard you'd spent the night in that beast's lair and then when Dubric hauled him off just this evening, I had feared the worst!"

She forced a smile. "I'm fine, Mister Beckwith. Honest."

"I'm just relieved you're safe," he said, patting her on the arm. "Especially after he bashed me on the head this very morn. However did you survive your ordeal?"

She fell still, staring at him, and reminded herself to close her mouth.
Goddess, how much more of this can I endure
? "He hit you on the head?"

Beckwith blinked in astonishment, showing her the blood-smeared bandage peeking from beneath his plumed hat. "This morning, when I was on patrol." He turned back, concerned. "When he killed Olibe Meiks and that milkmaid. Didn't you know? I thought that's how Dubric apprehended him. And then, when Dubric questioned me about the razors, I was certain he'd been caught."

Nella took a shaky step back and fell, biting her tongue.

"Oh, goodness gracious!" he said, rushing to her aid. "I'm dreadfully sorry, Miss Nella. I assumed you knew."

He grasped her hands and helped her stand, fussing over her and insisting she use his lacy kerchief to sop the blood from her tongue. "Perhaps you should rest for a moment or two."

"No, I'm fine, really," she said, trying to return the damp and stained hankie. "It's just been a shock, that's all."

He glanced at the smear of blood and spit glistening against the brilliant white, and held up his hand to stop her. "You keep it, Miss Nella," he said, forcing his grimace into a tolerant smile. "I have several." He patted her on the arm, then turned and hurried away.

* * *

Dubric entered his offices with Lars and Dien on his heels. "Otlee!" he hollered, striding through.

"I'm here, sir." Otlee came to the inner office door with paperwork clenched in his hands and an ink smear on his cheek. "But we have another problem, and it's a dilly."

Lovely
. "What sort of problem?"

"Fultin said Brushgar insists you visit him in his suite. Immediately. Or else."

"Count on the rumor mill to kick us in the gut," Lars muttered.

Dubric said, "Hopefully Nigel will listen to reason."

Dien muttered, "Always a first time, sir. Want me to come along?"

"No," Dubric said, "placating our lord is my responsibility." He took a breath and looked to his men to deliver his instructions. "Although our quarry is captured, we still have much to do." Brushing past Otlee, he hurried to his desk and fished a golden token from a drawer.

"Otlee, I need you to scour the library, legal files, even accounting records, for anyone, noble or common, who has had a history of complaining about our leadership and how they could do better. I want their name, rank, lineage, occupation, grievance… anything you can get for me. Risley must not slip away by insisting someone with a grievance against authority is to blame." He placed the golden token in Otlee's palm. "This will allow you access to every volume, paper, and file, even the ones that supposedly don't exist."

"Yessir." Otlee stared at the token as if it were magical.

Ruffling the lad's hair, Dubric said, "No unwarranted browsing. You're not there to find new reading material."

Otlee closed his fingers around the token and put it in his pocket. "Yes, sir. I'll find what you need, sir."

Dubric looked to Lars next. "Discover who has access to Lord Brushgar's china, no matter how high that list goes, and what's missing. I need to know how Risley got that plate."

"Yes, sir."

"And me?" Dien asked.

"I want Risley touted as a suspect, not a convicted criminal. Keep the patrols going and keep them on their toes. Allay fears and suspicion as best you can. We cannot afford to allow our alertness to slip."

"I'll see to it, sir."

Dubric nodded his approval. "I estimate we have two or three days at best before word of Risley's arrest reaches Haenpar. We must have every potential bit of evidence collected and confirmed by that time or all the guilt in the known lands will not bring justice. He is too well-known, and his family too powerful, to leave this a Faldorrahn matter if we make the slightest mistake or leave the thinnest thread untied."

He gathered a pack stuffed full of bags, envelopes, . and slips of paper. "And I will search Risley's suite after I convince Lord Brushgar of its necessity, removing floorboards and dismantling the walls, if I must. Does anyone have any questions?"

"No, sir," they said, finishing their notes.

Dubric hefted the evidence pack and left, his men dispersing behind him.

Ignoring the curious glances from passersby, Dubric knocked on Lord Brushgar's door, then entered, closing it behind him. Every curtain had been drawn and the shadows grew long and looming. He smelled no scent of perfume today, and felt thankful not to have the lady of the castle staring at him. The eleven following him were bad enough. "Milord?" he called.

"You may enter," Brushgar said from somewhere deep within.

Dubric searched the suite, finally locating Brushgar in one of the many sitting rooms. "Good evening, sir," he said.

" 'Good evening,' my backside," Brushgar grumbled. Wearing his nightshirt, he reclined upon a long pillowed bench with quilts and blankets tucked all around him. A book lay upon his lap and a platter of morsels sat beside a pitcher and goblet on a low table. Despite his bulk, he looked frail and thin beneath the bundles of blankets, like a melting drift of snow before the spring rains washed the last remnants away. He glowered at Dubric and took off his spectacles. "Is there a reason you've arrested my grandson after I instructed you to find another culprit?"

"All our evidence leads to him, milord. Evidence I cannot disregard or deny. Even evidence you tried to hide."

Brushgar tossed the spectacles on the table and leaned forward, his eyes glittering with urgent determination. "Horse piss! You persist in persecuting my grandson for crimes I told you he did not commit! I have had enough of such lunacy. Release him this instant."

The ghosts cavorted, ogling at the opulent surroundings. Dubric rubbed his eyes, but they declined to leave. "I will not, milord. I refuse to let the murderer of eleven innocent souls walk freely from my gaol. Ensuring your people's safety, sir, is my job here. Yours is to endure the facts as life presents them. Risley murdered those girls."

Brushgar reddened. "He did no such thing. Release him."

"No."

"You insolent fool! I give you an order, a direct, uncompromising order, and you refuse?"

Two of the ghosts, Elli and Fytte, bounced on the pillows beside Brushgar's feet. Celese tried to pick up an intricate mechanism from a shelf, but her hand passed through it. Pouting, she tried again and again. The rest wandered aimlessly or annoyed the ghost beside them.

"I have proof," Dubric said. "Proof of his cutting open ten young women and stealing their kidneys to eat them. I cannot and will not allow such a beast loose from my gaol to prey unchecked upon the land. Rabid animals must be captured and killed, and that is precisely what I will do. Your family loyalty be damned."

Brushgar snarled, spittle forming at the corners of his mouth. "The monster you speak of is not my grandson! It is some wretch, a transient, perhaps, or a drunk, and you will discover the truth of it immediately. I don't give a damn who you choose to be guilty, but you will not publicly accuse Risley. You will not bring him before Council; you will not prosecute him, incarcerate him, or hang him! You will release him this instant and send him home to his family.
That
is your duty, because I have decreed it so." Brushgar reached for his spectacles and leaned back onto his pillows. "I refuse to accept it or hear of it again. It is no longer an issue. As far as I am concerned, as far as
you
are concerned, he is innocent. That is an order."

"I cannot do that, sir. I refuse."

"You what?"

"He killed eleven people. Eleven of
your
people, and your people know this. They will not be persuaded by you waxing poetic over your grandson's innocence. They demand justice and justice must be provided. If you choose to lose your entire province to this madness, that is your choice, but I will continue to do my duty to Faldorrah, politics be damned.

"If you insist on denying justice to your people, then you must be the one to see it done. You must be the one to tell them that you value the life of a brutal murderer over the lives of the innocents he slaughtered. Until you have the wherewithal to do that yourself,
sir
, continue to busy yourself with your posturing accountants and your soft bed and your sweet wines while I maintain order and peace."

Brushgar stared at him for a long time without saying a word. "Are you finished?" he grumbled at last.

"Yes, my lord."

Brushgar picked up his book. "Then get the peg out."

* * *

Nella flew into the temple with ice gnawing in the pit of her belly. "Friar Bonne!" she called out to the shadows and the lone lamp shining upon the Brushgar family tapestry. "Please, Friar, I need your help."

She heard nothing but her own uncertain heartbeat slamming in her ears. Stumbling, she staggered forward, toward the light, and fell to her knees. Four tiny candles lay melted in a row upon the floor before the tapestry. A hand spade lay with them, Malanna's holy light shining upon its grimy surface much as her moon shone upon the land.

Tears stung Nella's eyes as she touched the gardener's tool. Olibe Meiks had died, and had left a family behind. His wife and three children had offered prayers and a symbol of his life to the Goddess, asking for strength. She wiped at her eyes, looking at the lamp and its lovely white light.

Her hand shaking, she traced the Goddess's mark on her chest and lowered her head, praying for Olibe Meiks, his family, and the dead girls. Her supplication finished, she drew Malanna's holy symbol on her chest again, then looked to the tapestry, choking back her tears. "He couldn't have done this. Please, Goddess, in all of your mercy, I beg of you. Please. Not Risley."

Crafted of white and silver threads, the silk tapestry shone in the lamplight. Embroidered with religious symbols and the Brushgar family line for centuries untold, it hung from the altar but did not touch the floor. She had never seen the tapestry up close before, and the individual threads sparkled like the gossamer wings of dragonflies in the sunshine. Risley's name was embroidered near the bottom of the list of names. Helpless, she reached out to touch his silvered threads. The fabric shimmered against her hand while his name felt warm and cool at the same time. Somehow just touching it soothed her.

"I wish I had an offering," she whispered, "but I have nothing. Nothing but my faith in him." Her heart clenched and she lifted her hand from the cloth. "And my love."

"That is more than any mortal man dare ask for," Friar Bonne said from behind her.

She startled, lurching to her feet. "Friar! I am so sorry. I didn't hear you." She glanced at the tapestry and reddened. "I shouldn't have touched it, I know, but I—"

"That's quite all right, child," he said, slipping from the dark like a portly ghost. "You've done no harm, and your intentions are most admirable." He smiled, motioning her to him. "Come, sit with me a while. We have much to talk about, I fear."

She let him lead her to a pew.

"I think I need your help," she said, sitting beside him. "Or maybe I just need someone to talk to. I don't know what else to do. I don't even know what to think anymore."

"I am your most humble servant," he said, bowing his head. "Now tell me what brings you here. Worship isn't for three evenings yet."

Her voice cracking, she told her tale from Mirri's fateful illness to Dubric dragging Risley away. "He looked me in the eye and said he didn't kill anyone," she said, crushing the bloody kerchief in her fist. "Goddess forgive me, but I believe him."

Friar Bonne stared forward for a long time, frowning. "You poor child," he said at last. "These developments must tear you apart inside. I had heard rumors of Risley's possible involvement, but I never suspected that he would be capable of such brutality." He looked at Nella gravely. "Dubric must have definitive evidence against him."

She winced, biting her lip. "It looks bad, I know that, Friar, but you didn't see his eyes. He's innocent. At least my heart says he is, but what if I'm wrong? What if he is guilty? I don't even know why Dubric decided to accuse him. No one will tell me anything and I just don't know what to do."

He squeezed her shoulders gently, like a father comforting a treasured daughter. "Men are not always what we expect them to be, especially to the young women they lure close. I've known Dubric for the entirety of my life. While we have never seen eye-to-eye on religious matters, he has proven time and time again to be of the utmost character, even in the face of great adversity. He would not accuse an innocent man of such terrible crimes."

She balled her fists and slammed them against her thighs. "But I know Risley. In the depths of my soul, I still trust him. Dubric has to have made a mistake."

"While he is as mortal and fallible as anyone, I've never known Dubric to make an error in judgment, especially concerning someone's life. I wish I could be more encouraging." He paused and grasped her hands. "I'm sorry. You're not here to understand why Dubric has deemed Risley guilty, you've come looking for help." He straightened his back and offered her a sad smile. "You've never faltered in your service to Malanna, and I shall not stumble in my service to you. What would you like me to do?"

She laughed harshly and tugged at her hair. "I don't know. I don't even know what I'm supposed to do, or think, or feel. I want to curl into a ball and cry, but I can't. I just can't. I can't desert him; I have to be strong, but…" She stood and started pacing, muttering under her breath.

"It will sort itself out, Miss Nella," Bonne said softly. "You must have faith in Malanna's plan."

She nodded, lowering her head. "I know. But I can't just stand back and let Dubric execute Risley for murder, can I?"

"You must do whatever you must, and trust that it is meant to be, just as, at this moment, Risley is meant to be in the gaol."

"But Dubric intends to execute him. That can't be in Malanna's plan." She paced before the altar, muttering. "Is there any possible way to get Risley away from here?"

"I can't see how. We certainly can't sneak into Dubric's gaol and spirit him away."

"But he's the King's grandson. His father's Lord of Haenpar. Surely they could do something?"

"I suppose they could," he sighed. "I have little faith that their involvement would sway Dubric, but I am honored to contact them in your stead to inform them of Risley's incarceration."

"Thank you," Nella cried, hugging him. "Thank you and thank the Goddess!" Beaming, she asked, "Is there something, anything, I can do in the meantime to help?"

Bonne looked at the ceiling for a moment, then said, "You could remain his friend and not desert him, I suppose. Surely he feels utterly alone, and you could do much to lessen that."

"Yes, I can do that. I am forever in your debt, Friar. Thank you. And thank you for listening." She gave him an appreciative smile then hurried away, feeling a faint song of hope in her heart.

* * *

Dubric opened Risley's cracked and battered door, then paused, wavering. The chill of the ghosts pulled at him, rattling in his head like a bucket of frozen stones.

For King's sake, why won't they leave me be
? Pushing past the icy burden, he stepped through the portal and frowned.

Ransacked and very, very dark.

Taking a moment to light a wall sconce, he sighed and rubbed his eyes, kicking a chair against the wall.
Damn! I should have left Lars here to secure the premises. Another set of clues compromised
. He walked through the suite, lighting lamps and sconces until shadows clung to the corners and recesses beneath overturned furniture. Books littered the floor like slaughtered soldiers on a battlefield and clothes lay strewn about. He knelt beside a crushed decanter and frowned at the spilt wine.

Everything he looked at seemed tainted by death and blood. His ghosts languished or wandered at their preference, their mutilated bodies oozing spectral drips and sludge.

He moved aside a broken table. "Why will you not leave me alone? I have captured him. Surely you can stop tormenting me?"

Ennea leered in his face and Meiks maintained his angry scowl, but the rest paid him no heed. Rubbing his eyes in a desperate attempt at a reprieve, he walked through each and every room, surveying the destruction. The crowd had been justifiably angry, but they could have stolen a key bit of evidence, ruined even the most blatant clue, all in the madness of relief.

He reached the last room and paused. Unlike the others, this door stood closed and, despite the filthy boot marks on its polished surface, the frame remained unbroken.
Risley's office
? he thought, rummaging through his pockets.
Was it as he had left it? Do I dare hope
?

He fished out a ring of keys and considered the lock.

"Brass," he muttered, flipping through his master keys, "circular entry…"

The third key clicked in the chamber and the door eased open without a creak. Putting the keys away, he entered, peering into the shadows. A lamp sat on the desk. He took a moment to light it, then set his evidence pack upon the floor.

Doodles flittered across the surface of a scorch speckled blotter beneath an assortment of delicate tools. Many drawings resembled Nella, but a few were detailed sketches of a lightweight structure Dubric did not recognize. One of these, an intricately woven curve, was partially obscured by a dark smear of blood.

After noting the blotter and its oddities, Dubric looked around the room. Organized clutter packed a wall of oak shelves with books, boxes, and trinkets, and papers and packets lay in haphazard piles on a long table. A partially repaired saddle lay in one corner and a box of antique armor lay in another.

The controlled chaos of a man with diverse interests
, Dubric noted, then sat in Risley's chair. The top left side drawer of the desk contained an unremarkable assortment of writing implements and papers, the next held color-coded tubes for the messenger birds, a bridle, assorted tools, and notes… Again, nothing unusual.

As he reached for the third and deepest drawer he paused. Smeared blood stained the handle. After noting the placement of the blood, he opened the drawer.

A convoluted apparatus stood inside, with blood dulling the steel surface of the support spine. Shimmering in the lamplight, a box of silver wire and etched strips lay askew beside it with a small alchemist's burner beneath. He lifted the apparatus and set it upon the desk, trying to decide what it was.