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An Excerpt from


Threads of Malice

Tenth moon, 2217

Braoin saw strings.

They streamed from somewhere above, dangling before his eyes. Black and shining in reflected firelight, they rustled in the slightest breeze and hung before him, just out of reach.

Not that he could move his hands to try to touch them. He felt like immovable sludge, thick and heavy and still. He lay on his belly, his head balanced upright on his chin, his muscles lax and uncooperative. He blinked and time strung away from him, fading to a dark river.

When he dragged his eyes open again the black strings had disappeared and his view had changed.

His head rested on its side and he stared at his right hand - at least it looked like his right hand, with paint on his knuckles as he remembered, but it lay slumped on a board like a dead slab of meat. Beyond it he saw only shifting darkness. He took a breath, determined to stay awake, and tried to move his fingers. One finger, the smallest, twitched, but the rest remained still.

Goddess, I've never been this drunk, he thought, letting his eyes fall closed again as he tried to think. He remembered eating supper with his aunt's family, but he'd had to leave before sunset, had to get home early because...

The dark! His eyes blinked open. His paint-stained right hand and his bare wrist and forearm lay still; there was no reaction when he tried again to move his fingers. He could not lift his head nor move his legs, which hung free beneath his hips. His nude upper body lay chest-down on a hard, scratchy surface, his arms were bare, and his back and shoulders felt cold. Braoin could tell from the breeze on his toes and testicles that he no longer wore his boots, or his pants.

No, no, no! Desperate to move, he forced a twitch through his dead fingers. A spasm gripped his hand, flipping it off the board like a fish out of a bucket.

"Waking, eh," a man's voice whispered from the dark. "Was afeared of that. Quit yer kicking if ye know what's good for ye."

"Let me go, please," Braoin said, his tongue thick. It sounded like "Eh ee ogh, eeh."

A sigh. "Talking ain't gonna make it no better." Fingers gripped Braoin's left ankle then pain sliced around it, holding it fast, as the man tied him tight.

Braoin pleaded in nonsense syllables while the man moved on to fasten his right foot.

"Shh. He's coming."

Something moved far behind Braoin, something big and lumbering. "Don't talk to it," a second voice said with a low, threatening growl.

A mumbled apology then Braoin heard steps hurry away.

He heard nothing for a long time, nothing but the rhythmic rush of blood in his ears. Try as he might, he could not move and saw only a long length of board leading into the dark.

A thick bellied man in black robes walked into Braoin's line of sight. He reached down and lifted Braoin's escaped hand, slamming it on the board.

Braoin swallowed and tried to plead, but only terrified guttural whines escaped his throat.

Fat fingers wrapped black twine around the board and Braoin's wrist, holding his hand still and tying it tight. The man muttered a curse then walked toward Braoin's head.

Braoin cried out and tried to shake his head. Please, I'll do anything. I just want to go home.

The man grabbed Braoin's hair and yanked his head, wrenching it upright. "No, please." Braoin scrunched his eyes shut.

"Quiet! We're not allowed to play here." The man moved to the left, tying that hand as well, then he leaned close and whispered, dragging a finger up Braoin's bare arm, "Soon though. I do so love to play, especially with lads like you. And I have the perfect place. Quiet and..." the fingertip moved across his bare shoulders and gouged into his spine as it scratched down toward his buttocks, "...private. Just you and me and the dark."

Held tight, Braoin prayed. He looked at the curtain of shining black strings hanging over the dias before him, and noticed slippered feet poking through. "Please," he said in his garbled, dead-tongue voice, raising his eyes and struggling to see the observer sitting above him. "Please let me go. I don't want to die. For Goddess sake, I'm only seventee--"

The man slipped black twine around Braoin's neck and pulled, wrenching Braoin's head up and back. "Behold the master," he said, tightening the vise around Braoin's throat. "May he judge you worthy."

Braoin saw above the strings, above the slippered feet, until he could see his silent observer; a desiccated, nearly skeletal corpse holding a whip. Its long, dead teeth were gleaming and yellow and it grinned at Braoin while he was dragged into unconsciousness.

Dubric Byerly sat at his desk, his thoughts churning. An open letter lay before him from the mother of a member of the castle staff. After the murders the previous moon, her distraught daughter, the castle's morning cook, had journeyed home to fetch her family. Once there, in the dead of night, she had killed her children, then herself. The grieving grandmother wanted to know what had happened. What had drawn her beloved daughter to such despair. Why her daughter had killed herself. Why her son-in-law had done such terrible things.

These were not questions Dubric could answer.

He settled his mind and wrote a letter of condolence, expressing deep and heartfelt regret for the loss and offering to pay a stipend to ease the financial burden it wrought.

That done, he sealed the letter, setting it aside for delivery, and sipped his tea.

The door burst open and Dubric startled as Lars ran into the office. Gawky and tall as any lad on the cusp of manhood, Lars's cheeks were flushed an urgent purple and his straw colored hair was unkempt and wind-blown like a tousled halo. He smelled of mud and horse manure.

"Sir! We've received a messenger from the northern reach."

"What is it?" Dubric asked, standing.

Lars held Dubric's gaze. "A murder, sir, at least I believe that's what he's saying. He rode all night and he's terrified."

Not again, Dubric thought, groaning. Gathering his cloak, he followed Lars from the office.

By the time they reached the stables, Dubric had slopped a fair share of mud upon his boots and trousers. Flavin, the stable master, waited outside the door, crushing his hat in his hands. "The lad's nigh about spent," he said. "And his mule... I'll do what I can, but I ain't holding out hope, sir. Mules ain't meant to run like that. I've got Goudin walking her, but I can't tend her further ‘til she cools."

Dubric nodded grimly and Lars opened the stable door for him.

Dubric's squire, Dien, knelt near an open stall door, holding a filthy, bleeding boy as the lad splattered Dien's boots and the straw on the ground with tendrils of vomit. Dien cradled the boy as if he could protect the lad from the horrors he had come to tell.

Dubric hurried toward them with Lars close behind. "What happened?"

"Not sure yet, sir," Dien said, patting the boy gently on the back as the retching eased. "Eachann hit his head and he's not making much sense. Someone killed, best as I can tell, from the northern reach. Beyond that, your guess is as good as mine. He's insisting he talk to you."

The stable door opened again and Otlee, Dubric's youngest page, ran through with physician Rolle behind him.

"Fetch him some water," Dubric said to Otlee.

"Yessir!" Otlee bobbed a quick bow and ran out of the stable.

Dubric approached the boy slowly, leaving Rolle plenty of room to work. "How old are you, son?"

The boy winced at the physician's touch. "Thirteen summers, m'lord, give ‘er take. Never paid much ‘tention."

"And your name is Eachann?"

"Yessir, I--" He grimaced, lurching away from the physician. "Cripesagolly! Ye ain't gotta kill me, I'm a'ready half there!"

Dubric offered a consoling smile. "You were saying?"

"Geese, m'lord. I tends ‘em." The physician touched Eachann's bleeding shoulder and the boy yelped again.

The physician grasped the boy's chin, holding him still while moving a finger in front of the boy's eyes. "As well as a variety of contusions, he has a dislocated shoulder, a broken ulna..." the finger dropped and Rolle leaned close to look into his patient's eyes, "and a concussion, apparently." He stood, sighing. "I do believe he will survive questioning, but please, get him bathed and into a warm bed as soon as possible. You have no business keeping him here in a stable."

Rolle gathered his things. "Send a runner to inform me when he's settled so I can set the arm and give him something for the pain. Until then, I leave him to your care."

"Thank you," Dubric said as Rolle walked past.

Wincing, Eachann cradled his broken arm and looked at Dubric. "Yer him, ain't ye? Lord Dubric hisself."

"Yes. What brings a battered goose farmer to my castle?"

Eachann looked up at Dien before returning his pained gaze to Dubric. "The dark, m'lord. T'was the dark."

"That's the same thing he's been telling me," Dien said, drawing his cloak higher over the boy's shoulders. "The fall rattled his brain."

Dubric knelt stiffly before them, his knee resting beside steaming vomit. "Why the dark, Eachann? What happened in the dark?"

"The dark, it took another one," Eachann said. "This time it was one I knew."

Dubric watched the boy's fingers clench into the fine wool of Dien's cloak, crushing it. "What do you mean the dark took another one? Who? Why did you come for me and not an official messenger?"

"There's another gone, and yesterday they found someone, dead, spit up'n the river near Barrorise. My pa said someone hadta ride, I hadta ride, hadta get to the castle, to tell Lord Dubric about the dark. No matter how scared I was, I hadta tell. We ain't go no one else."

"You said another. How many have been taken by the dark?"

Eachann shuddered. "I dunno. Some. Lots. I hear stories ‘bout the dark, how it's taking us, but it ain't never took no one I knew, nor spit one back b'fore."

Dubric rocked back, resting his weight on his heels. "Who?"

"Neighbor. Missus Maeve's boy. Name's Braoin."

Dien paled, holding Eachann closer. "No. Oh Goddess, no."

Dubric looked at Dien. "You know this Braoin?"

Dien smoothed the boy's blood-stiffened hair. "Yes, sir. He's my wife's cousin, her aunt's son. Good lad, never one to cause trouble. Sarea and the girls have been there a phase helping her folks get ready for the planting festival. I never should have sent them alone."

Dubric stood, gently taking Eachann from Dien. "Lars, gather my things, find Otlee, and get ready to ride. Dien, tell Rolle I am taking Eachann to my suite. Meet me here in half a bell."

His two most trusted men nodded their acceptance and followed Dubric from the stable. As he helped the boy to the castle, the wind picked up. The air smelled like rain.

The gray sky had darkened when four grim riders crossed into the Reach. Spattered with mud and drenched from incessant drizzle, they rode into the village of Stemlow and drew their mounts to the golden warmth of a tavern.

"Otlee, bring the map," Dubric said as he tied his horse.

He entered the tavern first, his nose wrinkling at the stench of cheap tobacco. Farmers and laborers looked up, their suspicious glances taking in his official garments and ready sword. The lone barmaid, a scrawny woman with a pox-scarred face, slopped a drink over her hand as she stared at him, and the barkeep paled before returning to his duties.

Many patrons turned away when Dien's dark bulk filled the doorway. "Guess they don't get many travelers," he muttered.

Dubric pulled back the hood of his cloak. "Likely not. If memory serves, this village is little more than a mark on the map." He led his men to an empty table far from the welcome heat of the fire, maneuvering between groups of grumbling men.

The barmaid followed them with a pitcher of ale and four tankards.

"Tea for the boy, and four bowls of whatever is hot," Dubric said.

"Rabbit an' dumplins, m'lord," she replied. He nodded and she hurried off, leaving them in peace.

"Let us see where we are." Dubric spread Otlee's map on the table. He looked to Dien. "Your family is in Tormod?"

"A couple of miles north, sir," Dien said. "At Sarea's parents' farm. But her aunt Maeve lives in Falliet."

Dubric tapped both points on the map, Tormod almost due north along a road curving slightly to the northeast, Falliet closer but northwest. "We cannot reach both tonight. The road through Falliet pulls too far west, surely two bells extra ride."

"Yes, sir." Dien frowned at the map. "Nearly three bells more with two rivers forded along that route. The road through Barrorise and its bridge give a far quicker ride. To Tormod, at least."

Lars wiped ale foam from his lips. "So what do we do?"

"We separate." Dubric returned the map to Otlee. "Dien must see to his family whereas I must investigate the death without delay."

The barmaid brought Otlee his tea. "Beggin' yer pardon, m'lord, but I overheard ye talkin'. The boys maybe oughta stay here if they can. ‘Tis not safe up north."

Dubric noted her thin, worn hands, ragged apron and earnest worry. "You have heard of the death in Falliet?"

"Pah," she said, rocking back and rubbing her arms as if she felt a sudden chill. "'Tain't just Falliet, but most all the Reach. Us'n Bendas are the only ones to not lose younguns, far as I know. We hear the stories, m'lord, and keep ‘em dear."

Dubric sipped his ale, grateful for the warmth filling his belly. "What stories?"

"'Tis the towns along the rivers sufferin' so, m'lord. Somethin's happenin' with the dark an' the water. Kiddies disappear in the rain er headin' to the well, an' Goddess knows ain't no child allowed to go fishin' no more, even in broad daylight. Atro the peddler done come through here a phase er two back. He said he saw the dark reach out an' take a boy, an' the boy never even screamed. Was there, then he was gone. 'Tain't safe fer yer boys, m'lord. Not on a rainy night like this."

Lars regarded her over his mug of ale and said nothing. Otlee held the map-case in his thin, ink-stained hands and sat a little taller. "I'm not afraid."

"Mahap ye oughta be." The barmaid glanced over her shoulder to the bar. Waving an affirmation, she turned back to Dubric. "We don't let rooms, m'lord, but I can tell Earl to give ye one, iff'n ye want. His daughter got hitched last moon an' her room's still empty. Be tight sleepin', but the boys'd be safe."

Dien drained his ale as the woman walked away. "You and the lads can stay here till morning, sir, but I have to get to my family. If the shit up north is so bad they know about it in this piss-pot village, I need to protect my girls."

"I'll go with you," Lars said. He took a long drink and set his tankard on the table.

Dien frowned at him and shook his head. "Maybe you'd better stay here. We don't know what we're up against yet."

The barmaid appeared with their food. Ever hungry, Lars reached for a bowl and started in. "I'm not afraid, and two swords are better than one, especially for protecting your family."

"I can protect my own family, pup," Dien said, scowling into his bowl. "Besides, Dubric will need you. You're better off helping him."

Otlee beamed at Lars. "We don't both need to go with Dubric. I can do most everything myself. It's mostly just taking notes."

Dien picked at his food. "Maybe neither of you should go, not if children are being taken. I've half a mind to send you both back to the castle."

Dubric let them argue, their voices fading as he ate. Missing children suggests slavers. Mines? Textiles? Why only the Reach? What is the connection with water? And what about the one found dead? An escapee, or something else? His thoughts shifted and the spoon in his hand trembled.

He knew what awaited him on the dark road ahead, and he knew he had no choice but to face it. It was his curse to bear, and a burden he would face, no matter the pain.

He took a sip of ale, washing the tang of dread and disgust from his mouth. "No one is staying behind. Otlee, you ride with me. Lars, you ride with Dien. We are leaving as soon as we finish."

The matter settled, the others finished eating while Dubric returned to his worries. He sighed and poked at his rabbit. His eyes hurt already.

In a night turning rapidly colder, they crossed an unnamed creek without incident and bade each other farewell at the crossroads. Dien and Lars rode to the east while Dubric and Otlee continued north. The drizzle was speckled with sleet which chilled Dubric's hands through his gloves and stiffened his knuckles until he could no longer feel the reins.

Otlee rode beside him, silent and watchful, one hand guiding his horse and the other resting on the hilt of his shortsword.

Dubric unclenched one hand, opening and closing his pained fingers to loosen them. "I do not believe there is anything to fear."

"I know, sir. I'm just cold." Otlee turned, his face barely visible from beneath his cloak. "Is there an inn in Falliet? I'd hate to have to make camp in this."

"As do I," Dubric said. "Never you worry. Whether there is an inn or not, we will sleep somewhere warm and dry. You have my word."

Otlee drew his cloak tighter across his narrow shoulders. "Thank you, sir."

They rode past farms standing far from the road with warm lights twinkling from their windows. Dubric saw livestock and stone fences and an occasional clump of trees, but no other riders, no people at all.

Not that I could blame them, Dubric thought, flexing his fingers again. What a miserable night.

A cold thread of pain sliced behind Dubric's eyes and he winced as a ghost appeared in the road.

Dubric shook his head and pulled on the reins, startled at the boy's face. Slender and fair, with familiar features, the ghost limped toward him. Slashed across his face, chest, belly, and throat, the boy dripped goo from more wounds that Dubric wanted to count. "Lars?" he whispered, swallowing past the dread in his throat.

"Sir?" Otlee asked, but Dubric waved him off, letting out his breath in sudden relief.

Despite the resemblance, Dubric realized that the ghost was not Lars; he was smaller, twisted, and lame. A boy of perhaps nine or ten summers. Most assuredly not his senior page, praise the King, nor seventeen-summers-old Braoin. This ghost moved freely and seemed aware and autonomous, like all ghosts who had been dead a long time. Dubric guessed he had been dead for several seasons, at least, and certainly not recently pulled from the river.

"It is nothing," Dubric said, urging his horse forward. The boy fell in alongside, shuffling in a jerky gait. One dead boy will not be impossible to endure, Dubric thought, glancing down at the crippled ghost. It grinned at him with cheerful innocence completely lacking in mental faculties. Dubric smiled back, as tolerant as he would be of any dim-witted child. Slavers would have had little use for such a lad. A tragedy, but not unexpected.

Sudden, frigid pain slammed behind his eyes. He gasped at its familiar and hated chill, reaching desperately for his horse's mane before he fell from the saddle. A score or more ghosts slid all at once from the wet dark all around him, blocking the road and reaching for his cloak, his horse, his soul. All young, all male, they wailed silently and grasped at him, some dripping spectral blood onto the muddy road. Their vaporous touch passed through his arms and legs, leaving only icy trails behind. So many, so sudden, he thought, struggling to breathe past the pain filling his head. Why all together and not one at a time? And all boys. By the King, what have I dragged the lads into? Slavers would not kill so many boys. Unlike the crippled ghost, or any other ghost he had seen before, these were faint images, transparent and filmy.

His horse shied, lurching to a halt and rearing back, its fore-hooves leaving the muddy ground. One ghost reached for its bridle and it backed away, snorting.

"Sir!" Otlee called from beyond the murky green horrors. Dubric could not see the lad past the chaos of the ghosts.

The lame ghost resembling Lars hobbled toward Dubric, pushing past taller, older, more vaporous boys. Still wearing his mindless grin, he stared into Dubric's eyes. He reached for the saddle, his frigid fingers grazing along the leather to clench around Dubric's ankle, and he pulled himself up.

"No!" Dubric hollered, lurching away and kicking at the spectre climbing up him. The crippled boy fell to the mud and faded away. Dubric rubbed furiously at his eyes and most of the other ghosts disappeared, leaving only two ghosts blocking the road.

One of the remaining pair, a wiry lad of perhaps fifteen, paced across the road and seemed oblivious to Dubric's presence. Sludge oozed from a flattened gash behind his right temple, and dripped from his crushed and mangled ear. The other, slender built with a shadow of beard sprouting on his chin, remained rooted where he stood. Naked, he silently screamed at the sky with his hands clenched beside his hips. Spectral blood dribbled down the inside of one leg and pooled at his feet. By the King, what is happening?

"Sir?"

Dubric blinked, shaking his pounding head. Both ghosts remained, screaming and bleeding onto the muddy road. He rubbed his eyes but the damned things refused to leave.

"Sir!"

Dubric felt a tug at his arm. Boys, all boys. What have I done? Lars! Otlee! No, please no. Cold, wet fingers wrapped around his wrist, demanding he turn to look, insisting he pay them notice, while the two boys before him bled in an endless stream of spectral gore.

Snarling, he wrenched his hand away and lashed out, striking at the apparition that dared to cling to him, but he hit wet flesh and drenched woolen cloak, not the icy mist of a ghost.

Otlee yelped and fell away, disappearing into the dark.

Panting, Dubric blinked, wiping his eyes with a shaking hand as his horse danced away. By the King, what have I done? "Otlee?"

No answer, only rain and sleet and bleeding ghosts.

"Otlee!" Dubric scrambled from his horse and he fell to his knees, cursing the Goddess for plaguing him, cursing her again for his mistake. All the while his head throbbed and shimmery green wisps tugged at the edges of his vision.

He crawled toward Otlee's horse, to the still form beneath its feet. Dubric's fingers clenched in the frigid mud, sending shards of pain up his arthritic knuckles as he pulled himself forward.

Otlee's horse, dark and dripping wet, stood over the boy. Its forehoof stomped once beside the lad's head.

"I am sorry, so sorry," Dubric said, crawling.

Steam puffed from the beast's nose, and the same hoof pawed at the road. So cold, so wet, and I promised the lad, I swore for King's sake, that he would have a warm, dry bed, not this damned mud!

The hood of Dubric's cloak fell back and icy water dripped down his spine, chilling him to the core. The pawing hoof stopped, settling a step beyond Otlee's head. Dubric inched forward, watching the horse as he reached for Otlee. The beast's head dropped, warming Dubric's face with a snort.

"Do not die, lad," he said, maneuvering between muddy hooves. "That is a direct order. Do not disobey me, do you hear me?"

His hands shaking, he felt along the back of Otlee's neck - all the vertebrae remained in place, praise the King - before rolling the boy onto his back.

Otlee gasped at the movement, moaning, and drew his legs toward his chest. Dubric felt the horse's steamy breath warm the back of his neck, and he hurried to check Otlee for injuries. All his bones felt straight and strong and his heart beat a steady rhythm - but he was so small, with no fat to keep him warm.

Dubric slipped his fingers behind Otlee's head and he paused, his throat clenching. He touched the warm and tacky swelling, gently feeling the damage with his fingers. Otlee moaned in reply.

"Stay with me," Dubric said, lifting Otlee as he crawled from beneath the horse. "We cannot be far from Falliet. I will find help and you will be all right. I swear on my life, you will be all right."

Dubric staggered to his feet, Otlee lifeless in his arms. The ghosts did not seem to notice. Dubric wrapped his cloak around Otlee and climbed onto the saddle. Cradling the little boy, he urged his horse into a canter and hurried as fast as he dared. He hoped Otlee's horse would follow.

Dubric's horse shied as it moved through the pacing ghost, but he gripped the reins in one stiff hand and continued on, ignoring the chill soaking through him. Otlee twitched then fell still, limp and cold against Dubric's chest, and Dubric kicked his horse to a gallop.

Dien and Lars crossed the Casclian River bridge at Barrorise and continued north along the road following the Tormod River.

Just past the bridge, Dien reined his gelding in and dismounted. "Do you see that, pup?"

Lars heeled his mare backwards then slid off the saddle. "I don't see anything but rain and mud."

"Then you need to look closer." Dien led his horse to the edge of the road and knelt.

Lars came to stand beside him. "Seems wide for a fishing trail."

A wide swath of dead grass and weeds had been trampled in a careening path to the riverbank, and rainwater flowed down through a pair of deep gouges in the mud. Dien stood, squinting, and pulled his sword. "Let's take a look."

Lars peered down to the river. "It's probably nothing."

Descending, Dien grabbed a sapling to keep his balance. "Didn't that boy this morning say they found Braoin's body just north of Barrorise?"

Lars turned to inch sideways down the treacherous bank. "You think they found him down here?"

Dien reached the bottom and looked up at Lars. "Someone dragged this tangle onto the bank. It didn't get here on its own."

Lars leapt the last bit, landing in the rocks beside Dien. A vicious pile of branches and brambles lay high upon the bank, gouging into the mud incline beside them. A strip of cloth hung from a broken branch and flapped damply in the wind. "Somebody tore their shirt," Lars said, pulling it free. "It's silk."

"Maybe it was Bray's, but I doubt he could afford silk. Not many folks around here can." Dien squinted at the diamond patterned fabric. "I don't recognize it, but that doesn't mean a lot."

Lars reached into his pocket for a small, cotton evidence bag, one of the basic supplies Dubric insisted they carry at all times. "Probably someone else's, but it won't hurt to keep it." The scrap of cloth tucked away, he walked along the bank, examining the rocks and mud. "Between the rain, the river, and the dark, we're not going to see much."

Dien stretched, looking up to the sky. "No, I suppose not." Rain clouds moved overhead but glints of stars peeked through. "And what was here is probably washed away."

Lars crouched at the river's edge and reached into the frigid water. "Not everything." Something stood in the water, breaking through the surface and sparkling in a moonlit circle against wet blackness. He pulled a bottle from the muck and stood, giving it to Dien. "Someone have a celebration?"

"Or a wake," Dien said. He tilted it in the moonlight then sniffed it. "Whiskey, it smells like. It hasn't been in the river long. Less than a bell, I'd say."

Lars wiped his hands on his trousers. "Eachann came to the castle this morning, after riding all night. The body was found, what, yesterday?"

"Yep. Give me another sack. Someone came down here tonight."

"In the rain," Lars said, tossing Dien a bag. He reached for a bush on the bank and hoisted himself up. "I'm going to check the road."

"Be careful. I'm right behind you."

Lars continued to climb. He scrambled to the road and checked in both directions, looking for tracks or broken weeds, but the rain had smoothed the mud and flattened most of the growth. He heard Dien climb the bank. "Cart tracks, I think," Lars called out, "but it's hard to tell. If so, they're heading north. Nothing's south of the horses."

"You sure about that, pup?" Dien asked, packing the bottle in his saddlebags. Grasping the horses' reins, he led them to Lars.

"Not sure at all," Lars replied, kneeling beside a curve gouged into the grasses. "Everything's washed away. But I think he turned around here. Look."

While the rain had leveled the road, the gouge in the grassy edge remained, opened to the mud like a wound.

Lars pointed up the road to a sprawling, brightly lit manor. "Who lives there? Would they have seen anything?"

Dien scowled and tossed Lars his reins. "That's Sir Haconry's estate. He doesn't see anything except..." Grimacing, Dien shook his head and mounted his horse. "Never mind. Promise me you'll stay clear of him."

"Sure," Lars said, climbing onto his horse. "Whatever you say. I won't go near the place."

His head pounding like the tide against the stones of Waterford bay, Dubric reached the village of Falliet. Two shops, a church, and a handful of homes clustered around a cleared scrap of land and a wider stretch of road. Stemlow had been a teeming city in comparison.

Dubric guided his horse to the closest building, a shop with a house attached to the back. Light shone from within, warm and beckoning, praise the King. Even the poorest fire would be better than freezing rain.

Cradling Otlee close, he slid from his horse and hurried to the door, leaving the horses standing untied in the mud. Both ghosts followed, their weight dragging at back of his eyes, but he clenched his chattering teeth and kept his back to them.

With Otlee balanced against his shoulder, he banged on the door with his free hand. "Open this door in the name of Lord Brushgar and the province of Faldorrah!"

Hurried footsteps, then the door eased open, bringing with it a rush of light and heated air.

A woman motioned him in with a hopeful look upon her finely boned face. "Thank the Goddess," she said. "Eachann found help. Please, please come in. You must be freezing."

Dubric brushed past her. "I need a light, a basin of clean water, bandages, and a bed, and I need them immediately."

"Why?" she asked. "Has something--" She peeled back the drenched cloak and winced as she looked upon Otlee. "Here, this way," she said, leading him past racks of fabric and clothing.

A pair of harnessed looms held vigil across from each other in the next room and a partially completed tapestry stood in its stretchers along the far wall. Light from the woman's candle flickered across the fabric and heddles, shining on strands of thread. A cat hissed from a bobbin-filled shelf, its eyes reflecting flashes of gold.

Dubric's host beckoned him from the shop into her home, a tidy dwelling with upholstered chairs and pillows and woven rugs. She led him further in, beyond a small but immaculate kitchen to a closed door. "It's my son's room, but he won't mind," she said, pausing long enough to light a lamp. "Take what you need. I'll fetch the water and bandages."

"Thank you." Dubric pulled back the quilted coverlet and laid Otlee upon the bed, gently removing the sodden cloaks with shaking hands. "Your linens," he muttered at the smear of blood on the pristine pillowcase.

"Never you mind about that now," the woman said. She appeared at his elbow with a basin of steaming water and a clean rag. "Here, let me get that." She dampened the rag and wiped Otlee's face, rinsed the mud from the cloth, then began to clean the wound. "I've got a good selection of men's garments in the shop and another kettle of water warming. Help yourself to them before you catch your death. I'll tend your grandson until you return."

Dubric swallowed his guilt and choked out, "He... he is not my grandson."

"I'll tend him anyway. Go on now. You're doing no one any good dripping all over my floor."

"Mama?" Otlee murmured, his eyelids flickering.

"Not your mama," she whispered, caressing his brow. "Lay still now. You're going to be fine."

Dubric staggered to his feet, slogging through the incredible cold that threatened to overtake him.

Otlee winced, pushing the woman away without opening his eyes. "It hurts."

She dampened the rag again and shooed Dubric toward the door. "I know, darling, but we'll make it all better. You'll see. Shh, now and let me tend it." She stroked Otlee's cheek with one hand and mopped the wound with the other, whispering soothing words all the while.

Dubric lurched to the hall to find the pair of ghosts waiting for him. He closed his eyes and stumbled through them, his muscles threatening to stiffen. Shivering and the ghosts following, he staggered to the fabric shop. He grabbed a beautifully woven wool blanket and tugged it over his shoulders, but it did little to ease his chill.

His vision turned cloudy but he blinked the haze away, reaching for a rack of trousers, then tunics. He leaned in a corner, his fingers struggling to undo the buttons of his shirt. They were stiff and frozen, filled with arthritic pain, and uncooperative. The ghosts continued stare at him, but he turned his head, his teeth clattering through a muttered curse. He had released one button and nearly had another free when his legs buckled. He fell to the floor, shaking, and stared at the stationary ghost's bare feet. After a moment, they shimmered and faded with Dubric into the dark.