Ghostwalker

Chapter 11

29 Tarsakh

A heavy rap at the door awakened him. Stirring from troubled dreams, at first Greyt thought the knock was the sound of ribs crunching under a blow and he gave a startled gasp. He awoke but could see nothing in the darkness, as though he were blind. He soon realized, however, that he was alone in his bed and, exploring with his hands, that his body was whole. After a few tense breaths, the rap sounded again.

"What is it?" shouted Greyt.

The sickly-thin Claudir entered, robes carefully pressed and neat as always. He gazed imperiously down his thin nose at the Lord Singer buried under a small mountain of furs. "Important business, sir," he said.

"What could be so important?" Greyt threw back the covers and slid out of bed. He crossed to the window and yanked the latch open. The sun had not yet risen. The cold air surrounding his bare body sent shivers down his spine. "Especially before dawn?"

If Claudir minded or even noticed the Lord Singer's nakedness, he gave no sign. "There is a large group of townsfolk at the door," he said. "They have gathered in the square outside and wait upon your pleasure."

Greyt cursed under his breath, translating Claudir's words into tactical terms. "What is the general mood of the crowd?" he asked.

"They seem somewhat… ill at ease."

Greyt cursed again. "Angry mobs never 'wait upon your pleasure.' " He wrapped a blanket around his body. "Fetch my robe, yarting, and sword. I'm going out."

"Of course, my lord." Claudir bowed slightly. "Shall I send for several guards, two to escort you and half a dozen to filter through the crowd?"

"Naturally."

Claudir moved to leave, but Greyt stopped him with a call.

"And bring me a bottle of elverquisst after," he said. "I'm either going to toast a great success or the bodies of a dozen ignorant villagers. Or more."

"Of course, my lord," said Claudir with a bow.

The crowd gathered in the courtyard of Greyt's manor, spilling into the main plaza of Quaervarr, was just as "ill at ease" as Claudir had described. Almost three hundred villagers stood in the plaza; nearly a third of the town's population. Most bore weapons, whether new purchases or dusty heirlooms, and others carried the saws and axes they used in woodworking. Those who did not carry weapons carried torches. Frowns were smeared across most of the faces and angry shouts rang out from the crowd.

"Well, sounds like the Lord Singer's going to get it," a thin voice observed, as though to no one in particular. "This reminds me of that time in Newfort, when we-"

"Derst, must you bring that up again?" the hulking man by his side whispered. Facing away from one another, the two warriors seemed totally unconnected, and their soft words were lost in the crowd. "That was not the best of experiences, and I'd rather not-"

"As I recall, we had gathered before the Hero's Reward and called out Mayor Uhl-"

"The situation quickly turned on us, and we had to flee the town," said Bars.

"Well," argued Derst. "That was hardly my fault."

"Your plan."

"Well, if you'd remembered the horses-"

"You distinctly said: 'leave the horses behind. We'll be back for them later.'"

"No fair pointing fingers," argued Derst. "But since we're on the subject, if you hadn't exposed our identities-"

"If you hadn't slept with Uhl's maid Emmi, we wouldn't have had to hide our identities."

A smile crossed Derst's face. "Ah, Emmi," the roguish knight said silkily. "Bars, you know I can't resist a pretty smile and a well-rounded ankle-"

"I suppose you didn't notice her chest," murmured Bars.

"Well, a little," he admitted. "It was hard not to, with a bodice like-"

At precisely that moment the Lord Singer swept out from the double doors that marked the entrance to his manor. He stood upon the raised entryway overlooking the crowd in his golden robe of office, carrying his fine yarting under his arm. To all appearances, Greyt looked as though he had been up all night and might be heading out to a dinner party. Bars and Derst knew better, though. Greyt's eyes gave him away: red-rimmed and containing a hint of savage anger. The eyes of a tired man on edge.

"My neighbors and friends," Greyt said in his smooth baritone. "To what do I owe the honor and pleasure of this visit?"

At his tone, the crowd quieted, except for a few discordant shouts. Derst swore. Greyt's disarming manner had just that effect: disarming.

One man, however, was not so affected. Black cloaked, he stood tall in the middle of the crowd and spoke in a rumble.

"Lord Singer," he called. "We demand justice."

"Sounds like you, Bars," said Derst. "Always straight to the point."

The paladin did not reply.

"By all means," Greyt called back with a smile. "I didn't think you'd all risen early to bid me a good morning."

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 druids 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.