Ghostwalker (7 page)

With a frustrated curse, Meris furrowed his brow and sniffed at the air. He didn’t smell the usual scent of ozone or feel the pressure change that usually indicated magic had been spent, but the storm might be the reason. Meris cursed the strange weather but did not let it distract him from his search. Still, the falling water had done its work. He looked for tracks in the muddy ground and found none—had the man left any, they must have been washed away in the storm. There was no trace of even a horse’s passing, much less a man’s presence.

The man in black had simply vanished, as though he’d melted into the shadows, or had never been there in the first place.

But Meris knew it hadn’t been an illusion or a dream. The man in black had been real, was real. Meris did not remember ever feeling so cold, so hateful when he had looked upon anyone, and yet something was familiar about that haunted gaze, that thin posture…

Ignoring the crowd that had formed around him in the street, Meris started back to Greyt’s manor.

When Claudir returned, Arya had just finished her tale.

“And I suppose your father has nothing to say about your gallivanting around the Marches with a sword instead of keeping track of the family fortune and studying your letters like a proper girl?” Greyt took a drink. He had drained the rest of his second glass and was now working on a third. “Does he approve of your stay in Quaervarr, I wonder?”

“He doesn’t say anything about it, since he doesn’t know I’m here,” Arya explained. She was still working on her first glass—Arya had never been fond of strong drink. “You and he are estranged—he’d never think to look for me here. And Quaervarr is remote, even if it is only a full day’s ride from Silverymoon. I was wintering there, and he’ll expect me to have gone farther out of his reach, not run to an uncle I hardly know and my father hardly tolerates.”

“You are very candid,” Greyt said with a little frown. Then he smiled. “I like that. Reminds me of me, in my fiery youth.” He reached over and took his golden yarting from the sideboard—clearly, it had been placed purposefully—and strummed a chord. “Now I’m just an old man who likes music. I want none of your father’s rash anger or politicking, but I am a doting uncle. You’re free to stay here in Quaervarr as long as you like, but if Everlund’s knights come knocking, my doors I won’t be locking.” It was a musical line.

Arya bowed. “I understand,” she said. “Thank you, Uncle. I ask for nothing more.”

“And that you shall have,” Greyt said, amused at his own wit. He stood with a flourish. “But please accept my invitation to dine here tonight. Claudir … set an extra place, if you would.”

The steward piped up. “But sir, I have not prepared—”

“Ah, three extra places,” Bars corrected.

“Don’t you mean four, Sir Hartpaunch?” Derst countered. “You’ll need two.”

Claudir blanched. “But sir,” he said, “I have only enough in the storerooms—”

“Do not trouble yourself, Goodman Claudir,” Arya said. “We must decline your generous offer. We have business at the Whistling Stag, and if we’re to keep a low profile, we shouldn’t dine in such luxury as your, ah, beautiful home.” She wasn’t sure those last words were true, but she said them for the sake of etiquette.

Greyt inclined his head. “Quite acceptable,” he said. “I wish you a good night.”

Bars and Derst rose to leave and Arya turned away. “As soon as we pay Speaker Stonar a visit, and ask him to keep our presence a secret—” she said.

“Oh, that’s a shame,” Greyt said. “He’s just gone to Silverymoon—he left yesterday. You must have passed him on the road.”

Arya’s face fell, but only for a moment. Then her smile was back and she shrugged. “Well, I suppose that saves me a visit, doesn’t it? Well met.”

“Sweet wine and light jests, until next we might meet,” replied Greyt.

It was a version of the traditional elf farewell, but it struck Arya as inexplicably unnerving.

The three moved toward the door Claudir had opened for them. Greyt sank back onto the couch, seemingly lost in thought. The knights, pleased to be free of the tense situation, made their way out.

“Oh, Arya, niece,” Greyt called.

Arya was startled despite herself. “Yes?” she asked, turning and looking between the shoulders of her two companions.

“The Stag, did you say?” Greyt asked. He looked like he was making notes in his head. “Excellent choice. Good food, better wine, and excellent company and service. Known all over the Marches. However, it’s not the best place for keeping your head below ground.”

“What choice do we have?” Arya asked rhetorically.

Greyt laughed, a musical sound. “Quite true, quite true,” he said. “In a town such as this, small as it is, the best inn is the only inn. How silly of me.” He waved them on and turned his attention back to his wine.

Arya smiled, nodded, and turned away. Somehow, she felt uneasy telling him where they were staying. She dismissed the feeling, though, and left the room.

As the door was closing, Greyt’s grin slipped into a considering frown.

He saw right through Arya’s act. Though it was probably true her father was looking for her, she was hardly the directionless runaway. So Silverymoon had sent some of her own to converse with Speaker Stonar. He vaguely remembered Stonar mentioning something about missing couriers.

What was Taern Hornblade playing at? Or Lady Alustriel herself? Had they discovered the magical barrier? Or was this a battle at home? Could Stonar be raising support against the Lord Singer? Greyt didn’t know the nature of Arya’s visit, but he intended to find out.

Hers was a tantalizing situation, and one that could be used to his advantage, if he could only decide how….

“Unwise…” a voice whispered in his ear, but Greyt dismissed it with a tsking sound.

He beckoned to Claudir with a surreptitious wave.

A pair of invisible eyes watched impartially.

“You know your way out, I imagine,” Claudir said in his stuffy voice. Arya nodded. The steward cleared his throat and went back into the sitting room, shutting the doors behind him.

The knights were silent for a moment.

“You almost gave it away,” Derst said. “He may suspect our true intentions.”

“Hmm?” Arya wasn’t paying attention.

“You didn’t tell him about the missing couriers,” Bars observed. “Stonar never would have gone to Alustriel for help if Silverymoon had still been able to contact—”

Arya perked up. “What?” she asked, feigning distraction. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Bars took the hint.

Derst didn’t.

“You remember, the couriers?” he prompted. “The real reason we’re here?”

Arya slapped Derst lightly on the side of the head. “The real reason is to hide from father,” she hissed. “There just happen to be two real reasons. Who told you about the couriers?”

“The same person who told you,” Derst replied indignantly, though he had the sense to keep his voice low. “Alus—Ow!” He shook his foot where Bars had stomped on it.

“Let us adjourn, and go to dinner,” Arya said, her voice at normal speaking volume. Then she added, in a terse whisper. “Where certain ears that do not need to hear certain things will not, right, Sir Goldtook?”

Derst furrowed his brow but then shrugged. “Indeed, Lady Sir Venkyr,” he said. “I am famished myself. I heard they were cooking some excellent venison at the Stag this eve. Shall we?” He put out his arm for Arya to take.

“Famished, eh?” Bars asked. “That’s what happens when you don’t eat for a month and become a stick.” He shoved Derst away and put out his thick arm for Arya to take.

“Only because you ate all the month’s rations, bulbous rothe,” Derst pushed Bars aside and put his own arm back out.

Arya threw her hands up with a sigh and stomped off toward the door by herself, leaving the two casting angry looks and flashing obscene gestures at one another. She threw open the door and almost stumbled into a frowning Meris.

As it was, Arya barely avoided falling, but she still ran bodily into him. A package wrapped in water-stained leather fell to his feet. The two staggered for a breath, and Meris’s strong hands grasped Arya by the shoulders. He righted her and pushed her away, none-too-gently, with a low growl.

His frown disappeared when he caught sight of her face. “Cousin,” Meris said, as though recognizing her for the first time. “Anya, wasn’t it?” He scrutinized her closely. His former angry expression had become cool and calculating.

There was an edge there—something about the gleam in his eye—that unnerved Arya more than any frown would have.

“Arya, if it please you, Cousin Meris,” the young woman said with an awkward bow.

“Whatever it was,” Meris said dismissively. He was eyeing her up and down.

Arya stifled a twinge of irritation. “I’m sorry for startling you, sir,” she said. Meris’s eyes flickered back to her face. There was fire in those eyes. Arya did not care to think where they might have lingered before. “And for colliding with you.”

“Apology accepted,” Meris said. “And I’m no knight, lass. I wouldn’t address me by a title that matters nothing to me. I might take offense.”

Arya was appalled. The lady knight made it a point not to stand on ceremony, but Meris’s complete discourtesy made her gape.

Derst stepped up beside Arya. “Have a care how you address the good lady knight, Goodman,” he said. His words were civil, but when spoken with that whiplike tongue they carried a thinly veiled threat. “She might take offense at your uncultured tongue.”

Meris’s smoldering eyes shot to the rapier-thin knight. His nose turned up. “Silence, boy,” he said, even though Derst had clearly seen a couple more winters than had Meris. Greyt’s son was probably about the same age as Arya. “Can’t you see the wench and I were having a conversation?”

All three started.

Meris continued speaking to Derst. “Your face displeases me. Begone, before I have to show you out myself.”

“That is no way to talk to a knight,” Bars growled. He looked at Derst and shrugged. “Well, I can see the argument, but he is a knight, after all, and that’s no way to speak in front of a lady.” Meris lifted his brow.

“Aye, so apologize, orc-spawn,” Derst snapped.

Meris looked at him incredulously for a moment, blinked, and laid him low with a right hook. The thin knight staggered back, stunned. Bars lumbered in with a swinging left, but Meris ducked and slammed an elbow into the big man’s great belly.

Bars gave a great “Oof!” and staggered, bending over Meris, who had dropped low.

Meris had his foot behind the big man’s ankle and stood up abruptly, throwing Bars to the ground. Next to him, Arya had disappeared, and a charging Derst was in her place. The wiry knight threw a left hook feint, which Meris ignored, and a right fist thrust, which he ducked. Meris bent, put his shoulder into Derst’s stomach, and threw the thin man over him.

“Bastard,” Derst gasped as he landed in a roll and reached for a knife.

“You called?” Meris mocked. In response, the thin man’s face scrunched.

Bars rose, but Meris shoved him down with his left hand, keeping his eyes on the thin man. Meris’s hand went to his sword hilt.

There, it found the point of a long sword hovering at his groin.

Putting his hands out wide, Meris slowly turned. Arya had drawn her sword and was standing just within slashing range.

“Enough of this,” she said. Her eyes were deadly. “Cousin, I was truly sorry to have offended you, but I take back my apology now.”

Meris rolled his eyes at the sword pointing at his belly and looked up at her with a sarcastic frown. “You can’t be serious, Cousin,” he said contemptuously. “You side with these fools? They are no better than stupid sheep, and that makes you no better than a shepherdess.”

“At least a shepherdess has some dignity,” Arya snapped back. “Unlike you, Cousin.”

“Until one takes it from her,” Meris said without missing a beat. Ignoring Arya’s sword, he wiped himself free of invisible dust and brushed past her. The two knights gave him angry stares as he strode away, his white cape swirling behind him, driven up by the haste of his walk.

They watched him slam the inner door behind his heels.

“Well,” Derst said, wiping the blood from his nose. “At least you don’t take after that side of the family, Arya.”

Under any other circumstances, Arya might have replied wryly that she wasn’t even related to that side of the family, but the encounter with Meris had unnerved her.

That cold hatred, pent up behind walls of calm…

Arya had faced many enemies, but none who frightened her so. She saw through his every movement, heard the bitterness in his voice, and knew that he was utterly coldblooded. Meris was the personification of the injustice the Knights in Silver stood against.

“Arya?” a voice said behind her, startling her from her reverie. “Are you well?”

“Aye?” She turned and looked into Bars’s concerned eyes. As she did so, she realized with a flash that passing such a judgment was unfair. She did not, after all, know Meris. Perhaps he was just temperamental, or abrasive. It hardly justified labeling him…

“I’m sorry, you were saying?” she forced herself to ask.

He smiled weakly. “Let us be gone,” he said, rubbing his solid belly with a slight wince. “That bastard’s hit made me stomach queasy. And when the demons stop playing in there, I’m going to be hungry.”

“You shouldn’t have had so much wine, mayhap then you wouldn’t whine so much,” Derst quipped with a wry grin.

“If we don’t get moving, maybe I’ll just have to eat you,” Bars said.

Arya smiled and was about to add to that, but Derst was already nowhere to be seen.

26 Tarsakh

Legs crossed and body stripped to the waist, Walker sat peacefully in the forest glade singing the last, bittersweet lines of a song. His ruined voice—like blood flowing through broken glass—mingled with the warm breezes blowing north.

A chilly brook swirled and danced by his feet, flowing from a waterfall that poured over a fallen shadowtop. The sun was setting, painting the forest canopy with emerald light and seeming to set the reddish bark of the firs afire. The snow had melted from the trees already, and not just because of the druidic charm that kept the grove warm. Spring was approaching, and while the snow would not completely disappear until the summer months, the air was warm.