There were a few scattered laughs.
“Really? That’s exactly the reason I’m here,” murmured Derst.
“Derst, that wasn’t funny,” Bars muttered in reply.
“In Speaker Stonar’s absence,” the cloaked man continued. “You are our defender and our lord. We demand protection. The fighting on the streets must cease, and your soldiers—”
“I find that demand ironic,” Greyt shouted back. The crowd was stunned to silence. “Especially coming from you, who are supposed to keep the peace, Captain Unddreth.”
A collective gasp ran through the crowd as the earth genasi pulled back his hood. The scars and bruises of battle still decorated his face and, if anything, added intensity to his words.
“Your men spent all night searching for some stranger, swords drawn, injuring or frightening the townsfolk,” Unddreth accused. “This cannot stand!”
“A ‘stranger?’ Walker is a murderer who has been attacking our people for days!” Greyt corrected. “Many men are already dead and you insist I call my rangers back—you demand I leave our lands unprotected? I do what I must to stop this killer—for the watch has found nothing but failure.” Unddreth shivered at the barb. “You protest my methods?”
“Speaker Stonar would have—” Unddreth began. “Speaker Stonar left us in our time of need!” Greyt interrupted. “He refused to protect us, either because he would not or could not. He fled to our noble High Lady Alustriel when his countrymen cried out for aid! I can only hope she sees his cowardice or discovers his culpability.”
Confused frowns answered from the crowd and Greyt chuckled.
“Guilt,” he clarified, and the people cheered.
“A bid to rule Quaervarr?” Derst asked skeptically. “That’s not like—”
“I know,” returned Bars. Anger coursed through him. He hated politics and its machinations, but he understood the game. Greyt played the crowd like a yarting. “Not like the Greyt we know. He hates this city.”
Greyt waited until the cheering died down. “I cannot believe, however, that Stonar is behind this,” he shouted. “He is a good and just man, with nothing but noble intentions. I refuse to believe he is anything but ignorant—an unwitting piece of the puzzle.”
Derst and Bars shook their heads. Not a power struggle, then.
“I believe the killer is acting on his own,” Greyt said, “A lone villain murdering our people!”
“He is no villain!” Unddreth shouted, but his words were lost in the hubbub of frenzied shouting.
“Stonar must be told!” came a shout from the crowd. “Cast a sending to Silverymoon right away and bring him, along with a unit of the Argent Legion—”
“Impossible,” came a voice that should have been too soft to penetrate the noise of the crowd but projected loudly all the same. At the sound of that voice, the crowd parted around a cloaked figure. Bars and Derst looked and saw a shapely half-elf woman in a leather cloak, flowers laced through her shockingly light hair and feathers adorning the end of a gnarled staff she carried. Though the morning was chill, she wore only a light leather tunic and leggings. Her face, flushed in the cold, was young and smooth, but her eyes were both knowing and wise.
Bars was at a loss for words. “Who is yon lady?” he asked Derst.
“Now that’s a woman,” the knight replied. “The Lady Druid Amra Clearwater, of the Oak House. Powerful, skilled, and an excellent tumble between the sheets.” The paladin gave him a sidelong, warning look. Derst cleared his throat. “I mean, so I’ve heard.”
The beautiful half-elf continued in a light voice. “Some barrier thwarts our spells, as though a dark moon rises over Quaervarr and shrouds our sight,” she said.
“A magical barrier?” asked Greyt. “Then our enemy is more powerful than I thought!”
Cheers mingled with gasps of horror. The crowd fixed its eyes on the Lord Singer. The roguish knight and the paladin looked at one another, utterly confused. What could Greyt be thinking? Did he want to start a panic?
Silence, tense and fearful, gripped the square.
Greyt grinned. “Fear not, though, for the danger has passed,” he said. “Thanks to my efforts, the killer is in our hands and we shall question him to find—”
“He escaped!” Bars shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth. “The killer escaped!”
“Dolt,” Derst cursed under his breath, turning his head so as not to be recognized.
Greyt swore inwardly, angry at this news. He had no doubt it was true. He had ordered his men to take Walker alive or dead but at all costs to take him. Incompetence and failure vied for his greatest frustration.
He moved to rub his gold ring, but found he had taken it off. Around his finger was a shallow indentation, reminding him of the first ring he had worn there, the ring that had inspired his seal.
His mind snapped back to the situation at hand. Walker’s escape snarled Greyt’s carefully laid plans. He was momentarily unsure how to proceed. His criticism of the watch would not carry the same weight if his own men could not capture Walker. And, loose, the murderer could talk to Unddreth, Amra, or even Stonar himself, and all would be lost.
Then the solution presented itself. The Lord Singer’s quick mind found a way to approach this news that simply delayed his plans and, perhaps, even strengthened them.
“A testament to the power arrayed against us. Surrounded by attackers, cut off from the Marches … For all we know, there could be a war brewing just outside our borders!”
The crowd gaped.
“Save us, Lord Singer!” came a shout, a call that was quickly picked up throughout the crowd. Shouts of his nickname, “Quickfinger,” and praises of his heroism reverberated around the square. “Save us!”
Greyt smiled and bowed. “The killer was in my hands, but he escaped. He will not escape again.” He drew his rapier in a flourish and held it above his head. “Thirty years ago, I took up this sword against the giants of Fierce Eye, when the Raven Claw band was first formed. Know this now and know it true: mine every breath shall shield you!”
As he sang the last few words, rhyming poorly, but it did not matter with such simpletons, Greyt seemed to grow: a trick he managed by standing up straight, where he had formerly bent his knees. A bit of bardic magic set his sword blazing with fire and illumined his face. The crowd was in awe.
Time for the final touch.
“I promise you, people of Quaervarr: as I was your hero then, so am I your hero now!”
With that, he released the illusory fire and the blade seemed to explode in flames, sending sparks flying over the crowd. These vanished before they struck flesh or clothing, and the people gaped in astonishment. They burst into cheers and shouts, calling for Lord Dharan “Quickfinger” Greyt, the hero of Quaervarr. The Lord Singer basked in the adulation and praise, his heart rushing despite himself.
Ah, the thrill of heroism … how he had missed it!
“Send out riders!” came a call above the crowd, and the thrill died like a snuffed candle flame.
“What?” Greyt mouthed, looking over the suddenly silent crowd.
“Send out riders,” Amra Clearwater called again. “Speaker Stonar must be informed.”
“My lady, really,” Greyt said as all eyes turned to him. He halted himself, thinking quickly, for the half-elf druid was widely respected and even feared for the powers of Silvanus she commanded. “We cannot simply go running for help every time—”
“But Geth does not know,” argued Amra. “Let us assuage his ignorance—give him the chance to do his duty. Let him help!”
Greyt swore inwardly, trapped by his own words, but he saw a way out, one that could turn this to his advantage.
“A rider then.” Greyt said. “But the Moonwood is dangerous—it is too easy for one of our own to be lost and slain!”
That elicited a gasp of horror from the crowd, but he waved them to silence.
Greyt smiled. “One who knows the land and its powers. One of your dr
uids perhaps, Lady?”
All eyes turned to Amra, and the half-elf frowned. Greyt knew she could not refuse, not after she had challenged Quaervarr’s hero so openly.
“Fine,” said Amra with clear hesitation. “I shall send one of my own.”
“Excellent,” Greyt shouted with a flourish of his hands. The threat past, he grinned. “Now, for the rest of you: go back to your homes and rest your heads, safe in your beds. Your hero protects you all, great and small.”
If the cheers had been loud before, they erupted like a volcano now. Hundreds of eyes stared at Greyt in sheer adoration and absolute faith. He was their hero, their master, their shining knight, and he was fully in control of this situation.
Secure in his role, Greyt gave them one more smile, waved, and went back inside his manor to the cheers and shouts of devoted friends.
Meris was waiting for him inside the entry hall. “Overdone,” said the wild scout.
“Perhaps,” allowed the Lord Singer. “It matters little when dealing with the sort of fools who make up frontier towns such as Quaervarr.” He beckoned Meris with a wave and began walking toward his bedroom. “Walker escaped?”
“Yes.”
“This upsets my plans,” said Greyt. “But not irreparably. The trap failed?”
“Walker is formidable, but we had him. He only escaped with help.”
“Who?” Greyt asked, though he had already guessed the answer.
“My cousin and her paramours,” Meris spat. “She burst in and rescued him. Then her wretched lads covered their escape.”
Greyt sighed. “Ah, Niece, Niece, you disappoint me. So obvious, so unsubtle, so … like a knight.” He paused at the door to his bedroom. “I have a task for you, boy.”
“I can hunt them both down tonight,” offered Meris in a harsh whisper. “I need only half a dozen men—”
“No. Another task.” Meris furrowed his brows in confusion and Greyt suppressed a smile. “That whore Clearwater is sending one of her lapdogs to warn Stonar of all this. The last thing we need now is our beloved Speaker returning at the head of an Argent Legion. Everything would come undone. Send your rangers into the woods—”
“Consider it done,” said Meris. “I’ll take care of it personally.”
As soon as he realized it was still open, Greyt closed his mouth and regarded his son. That had been too easy, Meris’s agreement too fast. Greyt searched the young wild scout’s features, but the dusky face was unreadable. Neither could the Lord Singer read Meris’s body language—except for the single hand on the sword hilt that spoke volumes.
“Yes,” Greyt said, very softly. “And I promise, when you return, Walker and Arya will be yours. Just … do not delay. Silverymoon isn’t a day away.” The rhyme held none of its luster, and was a death sentence coming from the Lord Singer’s lips.
Meris smiled but did not speak. With a curt nod, he turned and padded away.
Greyt watched him go. So Arya’s tale had been true: Silverymoon was searching for lost couriers, and Meris was involved somehow. The Lord Singer wondered how this could have escaped his notice. This was a surprise, and nothing pleased Dharan Greyt less than surprises when he was not the one behind the mystery.
Greyt might have asked aloud, but he knew Talthaliel was already weighing this, having read Greyt’s thoughts faster than the Lord Singer could have articulated them.
With a derisive whistle, Greyt decided to let the diviner puzzle over this dilemma. He had more important things to do, the first of which was keeping an appointment with his bed.
Greyt opened the door and stopped short in surprise. The woman sitting on his bed was facing away from him, her features shrouded in darkness, but he would recognize that silhouette anywhere.
“I did not expect to see you here,” he said coolly.
“I did not think you would,” said Lyetha. “I have not been in this room for many winters.”
She shifted. She wore nothing beneath the white silk robe wrapped around her delicate curves. She looked so beautiful in the moonlight that Greyt’s breath caught. Though he had known her over thirty years, the half-elf did not seem to have aged more than a decade. She still possessed the same youthful vibrancy that had first attracted him.
“It was not always that way,” said Greyt. He slid down onto the bed next to her. “There was a time when you called this room your own.” He extended his arm around her, and Lyetha did not recoil from his touch. Rather, she leaned her head against his shoulder. “I remember when first we—”
“So you will be a hero again,” whispered Lyetha in a soft, hopeless voice.
Greyt blinked. The sweet honey of her voice was filled with bitterness. Lyetha spoke of great things for her husband, but the way she said it turned all the praise to worthless, crumbling ash.
“I have always been a hero,” Greyt said with a little smile, an attempt at cheer. “You should know that, beloved.” He had not even meant to say the last word, but he found, deep inside, that it was not a lie.
For the first time, Lyetha looked at him, and he saw her azure eyes gleaming into his own. She was as beautiful as he had ever seen her. Her ruby lips parted slightly and she smiled at him. She ran a silky hand down his cheek.
“It is not long until dawn,” the half-elf woman said. “The moonshadows grow longest in this dark time.”
“Yes.” Greyt smiled. He remembered those words, the words she had spoken to him that first time they had awakened together.
He bent in and kissed her. After a long moment, she returned the kiss, releasing her robe and holding his face with both hands.
Later they lay in each other’s arms in silence and watched the sunrise out Greyt’s window, rising somewhere past the Moonwood.
“Love,” whispered Greyt.
Lyetha did not respond, but he could tell by her breathing she was listening.
“I know I am a hero in their eyes, the people of Quaervarr, but I care nothing for what they think.” His voice wavered, but he ignored his own misgivings. “I only care what you think.”
Lyetha met his eyes. “You have been very good to me, my love,” she said, touching his cheek.
For a moment, Greyt could see the old fire in her sapphire eyes, and his heart felt so light.
Then she sat up and pulled her robe around her shoulders. “But you have never been a hero, and I fear you never will be,” she finished.
His eyes widened and softened. She could not have stung him more with a knife.
Then she stood and walked silently away, leaving the Lord Singer to greet the morning with damp eyes.
CHAPTER 12
29 Tarsakh
She woke from a dream where a hauntingly beautiful melody surrounded her, bathing her in its dark warmth, like a lover draped in a black cloak….
Awareness returned to Arya gently as she relaxed in the grove, bathing in the warm dawn sunlight that pierced the clouds overhead. The grass was softer than any bed she had ever known. The breeze was cool and soothing and, despite the winter, the air felt almost warm. She was dimly aware that her armor sat stacked a couple paces to her right. Clad in the light garments she wore beneath, she stretched languidly.
It was only when she rolled over onto her side that Arya remembered where she was and how she had come there. She saw that Walker lay limply on his back a short distance away. His cloak pooled around him like blood and the black of his heavy collar made the exposed half of his face seem a skull.
“Torm’s shield,” Arya breathed. She pushed herself to her knees and crawled over to Walker. Her limbs were surprisingly sore, and she took quite some time to make it those few steps.
“Walker?” she asked. She unlaced his collar so that he could breathe and saw his face for the first time. His handsome elf-touched features were pale and clammy, and his limbs were stiff. She slapped his cheeks and listened at his lips, but there was no breath. Neither could she feel his heart beating within his chest. “Walker!”
Arya tore open th
e leaf-shaped clasp of his cloak and pulled the dark leather apart. He wore a much-patched cuirass of boiled leather under the cloak and she immediately unlaced the clasp at his shoulder. Her dexterous fingers, used to working with armor ties, had it free in moments, and she ripped it off to give him space to breathe. She was almost surprised to find that his face was not scarred.
Walker’s chest, muscular and pale, was another matter. Upon his skin lay a network of crisscrossing scars from countless wounds, some minor, some serious. Standing out against his bone-white skin, four wounds in particular caught her eye. Two seemed half-healed: a shallow cut on his chest where his ribs had been crushed and a devastating scar on his upper chest, near his throat. There were two others—a gash on his shoulder and a puncture in his left arm—that were closed and seemed to be healing. The scar below his throat was the worst, a sort of wound Arya had never seen a man live through.
At first she thought the wounds had been inflicted the night before, but she did not recall seeing Walker stabbed. No, they must be old injuries. Why they still looked fresh, refusing to scar, she did not know.
Then she snapped back to reality. Arya had been around dead bodies in her time, and nothing distinguished Walker’s body from a corpse.
Had Walker made it to the grove alive only to die in the night? Arya remembered nothing beyond the ghostfire elemental’s attack. Had she fought so hard to save Walker only to fail now? Had she lost him before she could figure out the key to this whole mystery?
Tears leaking down her cheeks, Arya knelt beside Walker and pleaded with him to wake, open his eyes, and rise up.
Then, to her surprise, he did.
Walker’s eyes flickered open and he looked up at her in confusion.
“What is the matter?” he asked matter-of-factly, though worry flashed through his eyes.
Blinking with wonder, Arya thought her senses had deceived her. “Walker?”
“Of course,” said the ghostwalker. “What is wrong?” He sat up with startling smoothness of movement, looking around for attackers, and Arya stumbled back, stunned.
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