In the bleak winter darkness the castle was cold and dank even without ghosts, but Ingrey found his night sight keener than heretofore. They paced the corridors and chambers, Ijada trailing her hand over the walls. Exiting the main keep, they circled the buildings along the inner bailey wall; in the shadows of the stable, warm with the breath and bodies of the horses, Ijada whispered, “Look, another!”

The pale mist circled them both as if in anxiety, but then faded again.

“Was it…?” asked Ijada.

“I think not. It was simple like the first. Let us go on.”

As they trod across the snow in the narrow courtyard, Ingrey muttered, “I am too late. I should have come earlier.”

Ijada’s hand, gripping his forearm, gave it a little shake. “None of that, now. You did not know. And even if you’d known, you had not yet come to your powers.”

“But it rides me to know that there might have once been a time for rescue, and it slipped through my hands. I scarcely know whether to blame myself, or my uncle, or the Temple, or the gods… “

“Blame none, then. My mother and father both died before their times. Yes, they went to their gods, which was some consolation to me, but—not enough. Never enough. Death is not a performance to rate ourselves upon, or berate ourselves upon either.”

He squeezed her hand in return and bent to kiss her hair in the moonlight.

They made their way up the inner steps of the wall and along the sentry walk to the battlement’s highest point, above the river, and paused to look out across the steep valley of the Birchbeck. The water of the stream rippled like black silk between the steel sheen of the spreading ice along its banks. The snow cover on the slopes caught the light of the westering moon in a pale blue glow, webbed with the bare tree branches like charcoal strokes, save where stands of black fir marked the rises, or clusters of holly made mystery in the dells. The bare boles of the birches blended with the snow and shadows, eluding the eye.

They stood for a time, gazing out. Ijada shivered despite her woolens, and Ingrey wrapped himself around her like a cloak. She smiled gratefully over her shoulder. You warm me just as much as I warm you, love…

For once, Ingrey sensed the revenant before Ijada, although she felt him stiffen and instantly turned her head to follow his glance. A few paces away floated a shape like mist in the moonlight, denser than the others had been, elongated, almost a man length. Within it, another shadow lurked, like smoke shrouded by fog.

Ingrey’s arms spasmed around Ijada, then released her. “Fetch Learned Lewko, hurry!”

She nodded and sped away.

Ingrey stood silent, scarcely daring to breathe, lest this image fade or flee like the others. A head end it seemed to have, and feet, but he could not discern any features. His imagination tried to paint it with his father’s face, but a chilled realization came over him that he no longer remembered exactly what Lord Ingalef had looked like. His father’s appearance had never greatly mattered to Ingrey; it was his solid presence that had warmed, and his rumbling voice, resonating in a chest to which a child-ear pressed, that had promised safety.

The illusion of safety. I might now become a father in my turn, and I cannot give such perfect safety. It was always an illusion. Will my own children forgive me, when they find out?

Rapid footsteps scrunching through the snow and heavy breathing heralded the return of Ijada with the divine, making their way up the steep steps to this high point. Lewko paused at the top, gazing past Ingrey at the smoky revenant. “Ingrey, is it…?

“I… “ Ingrey started to say, I think so, but changed it to, “Yes. I am sure of it. Learned, what should I do? I wanted to ask a thousand questions, but it has no mouth. I don’t think it can speak. I don’t even know if it can hear me.”

“I believe you’re right. The time for questions and answers seems past. You can only cleanse it, and release it. That is what a shaman does, it seems.”

“And when he’s cleansed and released, will the Father of Winter take him up? Or is he sundered beyond recall? Are there no rites you can offer to help him?”

“He had his funeral rites long ago, Ingrey. You can do what you can do, which is cleanse him; I can pray. But if it has been too long, there will not be enough of him left to assent to the god, and then not even the god can do more. It may be that all you can do is release him from this thrall.”

“To nothingness.”

“Aye.”

“Like Horseriver.” Horseriver’s hatred of irrevocable time made more sense to Ingrey now.

“Somewhat.”

“What is the use of me, if I can send four thousand stranger-souls to their proper gods, but not the four-thousand-first that matters most to me?”

“I do not know.”

“And that is the sum of Temple wisdom?”

“It is the sum of my wisdom, and all the truth I know.”

Was Temple wisdom like a father’s safety, then, an illusion? And it always had been? Would you rather Lewko told you comforting lies? Ingrey could not walk back through that veil of time and experience to a child’s sight again, and wasn’t sure he would if he could. Ijada stepped forward and laid a hand upon his shoulder, lending the comfort of her presence, if not the comfort of some more desirable answer. He let himself absorb the warmth of her body against his for a moment, then touched her hand for release and stepped forward.

From a pouch on his belt he fumbled out a fine new penknife, purchased in Easthome for this moment. The thin blade reflected the face of the moon in a brief blink. Ijada gritted her teeth along with Ingrey as he took it in his left hand and pressed the edge into his right index finger. He squeezed his fist and raised his hand to the top of the fog-shape.

The drops fell through onto the trampled snow in a spatter of small black circles.

Ingrey’s breath drew in, and he clutched the knife harder. Lewko barely caught his arm as he made to stab his hand more deeply.

“No, Ingrey,” Lewko whispered. “If a drop will not bless it, neither will a bucketful.”

Ingrey exhaled slowly as Lewko let go again, and tucked the knife back in the pouch. Whatever of his hallow kingship lingered in his blood, it seemed it had no power over this. I had to try.

He took a long, slow, last look, wondering what to say. Fare well seemed a mockery, be at peace little better. He moistened his lips in the frosty, luminous air.

“Whatever you thought you were about, the thing you began here is finished, and done well. Your sacrifice was not in vain.” He thought of adding I forgive you, then thought better of it. Fatuous, foolish, hardly to the point now. After a moment he merely said, “I love you, Father.” And, after another, “Come.”

The dark wolf-smoke spun out from the pale fog and through his fingers, and away.

More slowly, the frost-fog dissipated as well, with a last faint blue sparkle.

“The god did not take him up,” Ingrey whispered.

“He would if He could have,” Lewko murmured back. “The Father of Winter, too, weeps at this loss.”

Ingrey was not weeping, yet, although little trembles ran through his body. He could feel the second sight fading from his eyes, the gift returned. Ijada came to him again and tied a strip of clean linen around his finger. They wound their arms around each other.

“Well… “ Learned Lewko signed them both. “It is finished.” His voice grew more gentle. “Will you not come in out of the cold, my lord and lady?”

“Soon,” sighed Ingrey. “Moonset over the Birchbeck is worth a shiver or two.”

“If you say so.” Lewko smiled and, with a nod of farewell, clutched his coat about himself and made his way down the steps, careful now on the ice.

Ingrey stepped behind Ijada and rested his chin on her shoulder, the both of them staring out over the valley.