“Took you long enough,” came an angry, nigh-angelic voice, startling her.
In the center of the room, a beautiful woman in a dark gown was standing, facing away from her. When she turned and saw Arya, she started and assumed a confused expression.
“I … I’m sorry, I thought you were someone else,” the lady said. Golden curls fell around a beautiful, oval face. Her ears were slightly pointed. “I am tired.” She moved to leave.
“Lady Lyetha,” Arya said finally. She dropped into a bow. “I’m sorry; I did not recognize you for a moment. I am Arya Venkyr, stepdaughter of your Lord Husband’s sister.”
Lyetha paused, looking at Arya again with fresh eyes. Her orbs were sparkling sapphires, and something about their intensity made Arya’s breath catch. Her serenity brooked absolutely no display of emotion. This was a noblewoman if Arya had ever seen one, and the knight was a personal friend of Alustriel herself.
“No need for me to worry, then,” she said dismissively. Lyetha swept out of the room, leaving a confused Arya in her wake, and that was that. Lyetha was gone.
Arya would never speak with her again.
Time passed.
Eventually, the lady knight, bored, looked around for something to distract herself. While she waited, Arya scanned the titles of different tomes with disinterest. Lord Greyt kept epics, poems, treatises, and battle records. Arya recognized names, but that’s where the interest ended. Though she could read and write Chondathan, Iluskan, and even some Damaran, thanks to schooling at her father’s house, Arya had never fancied herself a scholar. Books were for sages, the nobility, and wizards, not knights. Still, there was nothing else to do in the small study, so she browsed the shelves and desk.
After some time, Arya noticed a small amulet on the desk. It was gold, in the shape of a five-pointed leaf cunningly cut and delicately formed. Tiny Elvish runes were etched on the back.
Arya wished she had paid more attention during Elvish lessons, but she could make it out. “It is easier to destroy than to create,” she read out loud. She pursed her lips in thought.
The door clicked and she looked up with a start, hoping it was Lyetha returned to collect the pendant so she could ask her about it, but her hopes were in vain. Instead, Greyt came in, dressed in soft leathers embroidered with gold thread that set off his similarly colored hair. Without thinking, Arya slipped the pendant into her pocket.
By his mussed mane and smoldering eyes, Arya could tell Greyt was not pleased. Whether this was because of her interruption or not, Arya did not know, but she found she did not truly care. Somehow, she felt less uneasy when he was less than comfortable. His arrogance and supercilious manners were gone.
“Ah, Niece,” Greyt greeted her. “To what do I owe this dubious honor?”
Arya winced. She retracted her earlier observation about his manners.
“Not the best of mornings, eh, Uncle?” asked Arya. At least he was overt. She preferred when people did not hide how they really felt. Arya, honest herself, valued honesty in others. It was part of why she found court life stifling.
A wry smile creased his face. “Mayhap,” he said. “I am quite busy this morn with affairs of state—er, Quaervarr, that is. I am in charge in Speaker Stonar’s absence.”
“Precisely the reason I desire an audience,” replied Arya. “I have come to tell you something, something you should know.”
“And that is?” asked Greyt without any real interest. He crossed to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of Cormyrean red. With a halfhearted lift of the bottle, he extended an offer to Arya, but she declined with a wave. He flopped into his chair.
Arya took a deep breath before she next spoke, for against her better judgment, she was about to reveal an important secret.
“Lady Alustriel is concerned about the disappearance of several of her couriers, who have set out for Quaervarr but never returned,” said Arya.
Greyt looked at her blankly. “And what does that have to do with either of us?”
“My mission to Quaervarr,” explained Arya, “is to investigate those disappearances.”
He did not seem surprised in the least, a fact that made her wince.
“The North is a dangerous place,” Greyt replied with a shrug. “The People of the Black Blood were a danger in the Moonwood, and who knows what might have replaced them in the last months? I can’t guarantee safety, and neither can you.”
“It’s not that simple,” Arya said.
“No?” Greyt asked as he sipped his wine.
“No,” asserted Arya. “All the messengers had two things in common—all were young women, and all were alone.”
There was a moment of silence in the study.
Then Greyt laughed, long and loud. When his mirth finally subsided, he managed to speak between deep chuckles.
“I’m sorry, Niece, but I can’t say I’m surprised,” he said. “I’ve said it before, and it holds true now. ‘The road for a man, home for a woman.’ I believe a bard from Westgate said that … Now, what was his name? Mayhap not.”
Shocked, Arya felt irritation rise in her throat and had to clench her fist to avoid striking him. Her reputation for stubbornness and temper was not undeserved. She had cast off her responsibilities in Everlund, despite her father’s wishes, because of just such a discussion. But losing her composure as a Knight in Silver simply would not do.
In the meantime, Greyt continued his mocking laughter. She could not help but feel it was partly at her expense. Soon enough, she could take it no longer. She wanted to say something to stop that laughter, and she spoke before her mind worked.
“Are the streets of Quaervarr even safe? Can you not protect your own people?”
“Niece, know that your safety is of top concern,” Greyt added, seemingly at ease. “The attack upon your person last night will be investigated. To tell you the truth, I wouldn’t put it past this—what did you say people called him? Walker?”
Arya suddenly felt cold. “The attack upon my person?” she said softly. “I never said I was attacked last night.”
Greyt’s eyebrow twitched but his smile was firm. “Unddreth must have reported it,” he said dismissively. “I say, a Knight in Silver attacked in my own streets—”
“I haven’t told anyone about last night,” said Arya. “And I never mentioned Walker.”
Greyt’s smile slipped. The two were silent for a moment, Greyt staring at her with something that was not quite confusion. Then he stood, walked up, and loomed over her. Her anger gone, Arya trembled for a different reason entirely. Through discipline, she held her body firm, but she could do nothing about the emotion written in her eyes: fear.
She looked at Greyt for a long moment, and she saw nothing but cold, calculating anger in his face.
Then he moved, and Arya almost drew her sword. As though he did not see, Greyt continued his step to the sideboard and poured himself more wine.
“Are you sure I can’t tempt you?” he asked, raising the glass. “’tis quite good.”
“No,” Arya said firmly.
“Pity.” Greyt smiled a half grin but his eyes were smoldering. Then he shrugged. “Well, suit yourself.” He went back to the chair and collapsed into the cushions. “I’m very tired, Niece, and feeling my age. You’ll excuse me if I don’t walk you out.”
It was not a question.
Arya nodded, turned on her heel, and left the room as quickly as walking allowed. She could feel Greyt’s eyes boring into her back the entire time.
As she left Greyt’s study, Arya was not surprised to see Greyt’s cruel-faced son leaning against the wall, bedecked in his white leather armor. She was not surprised that he had been listening.
Arya nodded to him, not about to say anything, but he held up a hand to stop her.
“You know him, this murderer,” Meris said. “This … Walker.”
“We have met,” replied Arya. “Briefly. He saved me from a masked attacker.”
“A great Knight in
Silver needed saving?” asked Meris incredulously, snidely. “This attacker must have been quite skilled to defeat you.”
He sounded just a bit too proud, and Arya couldn’t resist the bait. “A coward,” she corrected him. “A knave who attacked from the shadows, like a filthy rat.”
The corner of Meris’s mouth twitched but the wild scout said nothing.
Arya felt that twitch stoke her anger, which had already been smoldering, into a hot blaze. She stepped toward Meris, hand on her sword hilt. “’twas fortunate Walker appeared in time,” she pressed. “He saved the coward from me.”
Meris eyes narrowed, and he stared at her coldly. “I doubt it,” he said, his tone betraying a seething outrage.
“Meris, come!” Greyt shouted from inside the study.
“Better not disobey,” Arya said to him, refusing to blink.
“I’m not the one who should be obeying, lass,” Meris almost spat.
Arya did not back down. “I do not fear you, cousin,” she said. Then, leaving him with the implicit challenge, she turned and walked away.
Meris allowed the tiniest of smiles to creep onto his face. “I doubt that also,” Arya heard him whisper. “I doubt that very much.”
“Now!” came Greyt’s shout.
Meris turned and entered the study, allowing the door to swing closed behind him.
Greyt was standing in front of the desk, awaiting him. Books on high shelves surrounded the Lord Singer, and he was holding one in his hand, idly scanning through the lines of text.
“Father,” greeted Meris as he walked up to the Lord Singer.
Greyt greeted the dusky-skinned youth with a vicious slap to the cheek. Meris reeled, stunned, and looked back up at his father in shock.
“You lazy, incompetent fool!” Greyt shouted. “Your lax patrolling of the Moonwood has jeopardized our plans!” He slapped the book against the wall, and the pages fluttered all around.
“Really, Father …” Meris started.
“And now, right when opportunity knocks, when Stonar—” The words dissolved into a snarl, and he glared at Meris. “How can you be such an idiot, to attack her in the very street? Have I not done enough for you? I’ve turned a blind eye to your indiscretions for years, even ignored the untimely deaths of your siblings. Of all my blood, you were the only one worthy of my legacy, and this is how you repay me? With betrayal?”
“Father!” Meris growled.
Greyt slapped him again. “How like an ignorant child you are! Incapable of controlling your own base desires. You sicken me.”
Meris stared at his father in shock, then anger, and assumed a sullen expression. Though he was outwardly chastened, his rage burned. Meris’s fingers itched to clasp his sword. He admired his father, true, but Greyt could not escape a measure of his contempt—probably as much contempt as Greyt felt for Meris in return.
Still, the wild scout stayed his hand, once again aware of that same nervous suspicion that had protected Greyt from his rage thus far. Meris never ignored this feeling, a sense that he was walking into a trap. There was something Greyt was hiding, some protection the Lord Singer kept hidden, and that dissuaded Meris from attacking him.
“Whatever I can do to make amends, Father,” Meris said. “Merely speak the word, and it shall be done.”
“Watch over the house of Bilgren tonight,” Greyt said. “I fear he will be next to suffer Walker’s ire. He is the last of the Raven Claw band, and that may be—”
“Except yourself,” clarified Meris. When Greyt frowned, Meris reiterated it. “The last except yourself.”
Greyt looked at him none-too-pleasantly. “Go to Bilgren and make him wary,” he said. “I doubt even the barbarian’s fanciful weapon—that gyrspike, or whatever it is—will be enough to save him. Protect him the night through, and prove yourself true.”
Meris accepted the rhyme with a grimace.
“And continue the search for Stonar’s supporters,” said Greyt. “The druids are our enemies as is, I fear, that fool captain. As for the owners of local businesses, I want them persuaded to see my side of things or taken care of, understand?”
Meris nodded and frowned.
“What is it?” Greyt demanded. He drew himself up taller. “You have something to say?”
Meris stared at him angrily for a moment then looked away.
“I will not fail, Father.” He turned on his heel and stalked out the doors of the study.
“See that you don’t,” Greyt growled.
The door slammed shut, and Greyt smiled authentically for the first time that day. It always pleased him when things turned out exactly as he wanted.
Business needed to be tended to, though. He allowed the elation of the last few moments to settle, then he set the glass on the sideboard and poured himself another. He slipped an amulet out of his tunic—a piece of amber in a rough ovoid shape—and rolled it between his fingers. The amulet was warm.
“You heard all that, I suppose?” he asked aloud.
“Of course, Lord Greyt,” a disembodied voice said immediately. A gaunt form clad in a gray robe shimmered into being, shedding invisibility the way one slips out of a blanket. “All three interviews.”
“And?” He did not look up but kept his eyes fixed on the amber gemstone.
“You acted more or less correctly,” the cloaked man said. His voice was calm and level. Though magical power seemed to surround him like a corona, Greyt was not disturbed. “The Beast must be wary of the Spirit of Vengeance.”
Greyt knew the cryptic names were references to Bilgren and Walker respectively. “And Arya?” Greyt asked.
“The Nightingale is suspicious,” the wizard said. “She searches for the killer of the couriers, and she suspects that the Spirit of Vengeance might be that killer. She also suspects, however, that you might be that killer.”
Greyt dismissed that with a snort. “But who is he?” asked the Lord Singer. “Don’t play the mysterious cloaked figure with me—take off that cowl and tell me who he is!”
“Who?” the man asked as he pulled back his cowl. Beneath, the pale skin of a moon elf sparkled in the candlelight, and emerald eyes glittered.
Greyt rounded on the wizard. “You know very well ‘who’ I mean!” he shouted. “Who is Walker?”
The wizard spread his slim hands. “You have made many enemies in your travels, my lord,” he said. “I know not who he is. Only that his vengeance is old.”
Greyt was about to shout again, but he bit his tongue. “Talthaliel,” he asked sweetly, running his finger along the amulet. “Why do I keep you around?”
“Because I am useful,” the wizard replied matter-of-factly.
“You are,” Greyt said. “And why are you useful?”
“I see many things,” Talthaliel said.
“And how do I have power over you?”
“You have that,” the diviner replied, nodding at the amber crystal on his necklace.
“Exactly,” Greyt said. He clenched his fist around the gemstone.
“You may stop,” Talthaliel said. “I shall do as you ask.”
“That’s better,” Greyt said. “Now tell me who Walker is.”
“I cannot,” replied the diviner. “Powerful magic shields him, magic I cannot pierce. Not his own magic, but that of a protector. I can feel the other shielding him—a powerful, ghostly presence, but certainly alive.”
“Then he is not a ghost,” Greyt said.
Talthaliel shook his head. “A mortal man with magic on his side.”
“You can tell me nothing else?” Greyt asked.
“Only that he can be killed, and the Wayfarer is eager to do so,” Talthaliel said.
“You are maintaining the communication barrier around Quaervarr?”
“As you command,” Talthaliel said, nodding. “Several attempts have been made to pierce my magic, but the druids do not approach my skill. Nor do they come to town often—there is little suspicion. None will hear of your activities to undermine
the Lord Speaker.”
“Still,” Greyt said. “With some murderer killing people, questions will be asked. Someone could go to that trollop Clearwater and ask for a sending to Silverymoon or even Everlund—Unddreth already has, and I could only deflect him this once. If they realize that someone is keeping a barrier up, our plan would be ruined. You and I cannot battle the Argent Legions or a handful of the Spellguard from Silverymoon. The last thing we need right now, while Stonar is gone, is someone running for help.”
Talthaliel said nothing.
“And my son,” Greyt mused. “What of him? Will he fulfill the vision any time soon?”
“There is malice in his heart, but not in his mind … yet, at least,” replied the seer. Greyt’s expression became dubious. “My two-fold vision will hold true: Your son will come to kill you, and your son will not defeat me.”
Greyt smiled. He so enjoyed knowing the future before his opponents did.
CHAPTER 8
28 Tarsakh
Spirits of the dead ebbed and flowed around him, whispering of hunts long past and unfulfilled dreams, but Walker, as always, hardly listened. He sat legs crossed, staring into the blurry, bleak world of the spirits, and thought.
Two of his foes lay dead and two were alive. Indeed, the spirits of Drex and Torlic hovered around him, silently awaiting the completion of some unfinished business.
Walker’s death had come at the ends of four weapons, and four hands had held those weapons.
At least, he thought so.
Dying had shattered his memories; he could remember hazy fragments about the murder and only flashes from before that. As far as Walker was concerned, his life began that night fifteen years ago. He fully remembered his attackers only when they spoke the words he could not forget, the words they had spoken that night long ago….
Instead of focusing fruitlessly on the past or on the future that inspired no interest, Walker thought about the present. Two men were dead and two were going to die. He knew Greyt was one of them, and he would soon know the other for certain. Drex had said Torlic’s name, but the half-elf had not pointed him toward a third. Walker had to know, and he simply could not remember.
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