Ghostwalker

Chapter 16

30 Tarsakh

Meris and the Greyt family rangers stalked back into town. The sun was rising but no one could see it through the clouds. It would be a wretched, overcast day, but Meris's smile was not diminished. In fact, nothing could dampen his spirits.

Meris waved off the guardsmen at the gate-different guardsmen, since the ones of the previous day had not reported to their posts. These guards proved no obstacle to entering Quaervarr, even with an unconscious woman in his arms and Bars and Derst in tow. Now Meris was glad of the uncomfortable uniforms they all wore and that the captives were hooded. It would not do to have to "take care of" another pair of soldiers.

Meris and his group had just barely made it inside when a rider in a forest cloak burst out of the gates, riding south fast. The wild scout narrowed his eyes, but shrugged. Nothing to do with him.

As soon as they were inside the city, he had the knights clapped in manacles and escorted to a certain Pitek's general store. Grossly fat Pitek, a loyal Quaervarr businessman, had expressed little hesitation about allowing the Lord Singer to use his store as the secret entrance to his dungeons. Pitek had no choice, after all, since the very reason Greyt kept his business in existence was to conceal the secret entrance, and as death would be the consequence of betrayal. There were two other tunnels as well: one to Greyt's personal wine cellar, and a final one from the ninth cell to Meris's servant's chambers in Greyt Manor.

Prisoners kept in the ninth cell rarely survived long.

Meris enjoyed the dungeons. Dark and dank as dungeons should be, hollowed out from preexisting caverns, they lay not directly beneath the manor but beneath the main plaza, deep enough that prisoners would not be heard. Light was nonexistent save for the candles kept lit in the guardroom-darkness was as much a torture as lack of food or drink.

Meris was glad and disappointed at the same time to see that the little pest Derst had survived the journey: on the one hand, he appreciated the chance to torture Derst, though on the other he did not look forward to hearing the man's snide commentary. Perhaps his tongue would be the first thing to go.

As for Bars… The paladin's healing touch had ensured the wiry knight's survival in the forest. Meris made a mental note to break or remove Bars's fingers.

Regarding Arya, Meris had not yet decided what to do, though he relished a few torments he had dreamed up, most of which he had not tried for lack of a suitably beautiful female subject.

First, however, it was time for rest. After seeing the knights locked away in the dungeon, he made his way through the third secret door, back up to his chambers. As he went, he stripped off his black watchman armor and discarded it, only vaguely aware of its sweaty stench.

For the moment, though, he cared little as he thought about nodding off in the copper bathtub in his rooms. He had left orders to have it filled for him when he returned at dawn, and he was right on time. Meris stretched his back as he walked through the tunnel. The sweat felt cool on his bare skin and the packed earth around him smelled moist and almost metallic. The smell of blood did not dissipate in this place.

A good scent to end a good night, and this had truly been a good night: the courier taken care of, the knights captured, Walker slain… What more could Meris ask for?

The question was answered for him when he found Greyt waiting for him in his bedchamber. The Lord Singer had not even been facing the door-he had been waiting for Meris to come out of the servant's quarters.

"A productive morning, son?" asked Greyt.

Meris swore inwardly. Apparently, he was not the only one who knew about the third secret passage. "Yes," he said. "I've killed Walker-oh, I forgot his head. It's buried in the Moonwood somewhere. But I've brought you three other presents, who wait down below."

The Lord Singer was pleased, but Meris hardly noticed.

"As for me," said the scout. "It's time for a bath."

The tub had been filled, as ordered, and steam rose from its surface. Meris stripped off his breeches, heedless of his bare body, and picked up a towel from the dresser.

"Not as such, I'm afraid," Greyt said.

"Excuse me, father? I don't think I heard you correctly," Meris said dismissively as he tested the water with his finger. It was nice and warm.

"I wouldn't do that," said Greyt with a wave of his hand.

"Do what?" He clutched the edges of the tub and jumped into the water.

Or rather, Meris jumped onto the water with a painful thud and immediately clutched at his smarting bottom. His flesh was cold where it touched the water, water that was now ice.

"Impressive, father," spat Meris as he snatched up the towel to gird himself.

"There are consequences when you ignore me," Greyt said with ice in his voice.

"I never thought you much of a wizard, father," said Meris. "It seems you've abandoned the man's sword for the little boy's Art."

"How little you know," replied Greyt. "In fact, the tub is not my doing." Meris raised an eyebrow, now curious. "I would not have shown you this-yet, any way-but I have run out of time and it has become necessary. Talthaliel!"

A cloaked and cowled figure stepped out of thin air beside Greyt. Meris gave a shout and reached for the discarded shatterspike, but he found the handle burning hot to the touch. Cursing, he let the blade lie and turned to face his father and the mage.

"Rest easy, Wayfarer," said the cloaked figure. Talthaliel stood tall and gaunt, even for a moon elf. "The time has not yet come for violence."

"A secret wizard, father?" Meris asked, the approbation in his voice mocking. "I never would have guessed." Privately, he thought about all the mysteries that explained.

"You have your secrets, I have mine," Greyt said. "And now let me share another secret, which is neither of ours. A second courier has been dispatched, who rode from Oak House. She left not long ago and cannot be far yet. I knew the druids could not be trusted." He growled under his breath. "Unddreth sent this message, but don't worry-I dispatched Bilgren and six of my best rangers to handle the good Captain."

"And what does any of this have to do with me?" asked Meris, though he already knew the answer.

"Talthaliel will transport you by magic to the edge of the forest, where you will intercept this courier at all costs," said Greyt. "My spies report that she carries a document damning and condemning me as the source of the murders and attacks."

"That's not true, is it?" Meris could not resist.

The Lord Singer growled. "Of course not, but there are certain other activities we do not want Stonar or the Silver Marches investigating, right?"

Meris shrugged. "Do your own dirty work for a change, old man," he said. He wiped at his eyes. "I have spent a day and a night running errands for you-I'm tired. Send another."

"No one else can be… trusted with this," said Greyt.

He was hiding something, which made Meris more wary.

"Your pet wizard then," snapped Meris. He had expected to see Talthaliel bristle at the insult, but all he could see on the moon elf's face was resignation.

"I… cannot," Greyt replied, shooting Talthaliel a look.

"Why 'cannot?'" pressed Meris.

Greyt stared at him for a long moment, perhaps fighting the urge to lash out, perhaps worried. Had Meris just found a sensitive point? The dusky scout filed the emotional response away for future use.

"Go yourself, then," Meris said. "Or must the high-and-honored hero Dharan Greyt, Lord Singer of Quaervarr, keep his yarting fingers dry of blood?"

Greyt took a step toward Meris as though to strike but stopped, as though realizing something. The Lord Singer took a moment to compose himself, then stared murder at Meris.

"You are my pup. You do as I command," snapped the Lord Singer. "You leave shortly. Ready your gear." He waved and Talthaliel disappeared. Greyt opened Meris's door to leave. "For now, I shall go open those presents you brought me."

"Careful not to open them too much," said Meris, his tone evoking a wince from Greyt. "Leave some of the fun for me."

The first sensation she knew was shivering chill. It was dark and bitterly cold, and she found that she was too weak even to huddle into a ball. Manacles encircled her ankles and held her wrists behind her back. Her throat was parched. She could see nothing but blackness. In the distance, she heard something dripping. She hoped it was only water.

Arya found that her captors had stripped her armor and left her in a torn tunic and breeches. Fortunately, she was not damaged beyond rough handling, and for that Arya thanked Torm and Tymora. With her toe, she felt along the wall until she had traced a rough mental sketch of her enclosure. Small and cramped, the room possessed only one entrance: a cell door with thick bars.

A dungeon cell, then.

Ignoring the wet, slipperiness of the stone floor, Arya sat and waited.

Then, after a long time-she couldn't see the sun, but it felt like half a day-Arya heard a door open with a long, rusty rattle. It slammed shut a moment later. Arya flinched at the bang and her head exploded in sharp aches. An involuntary gasp escaped her lips.

There were footsteps in the dark, and she became aware of a tiny spot of light slowly approaching as though down a long hallway. Arya had no choice but to stay still and try not to suffer any more pain until the light arrived.

When it finally did, she looked up to see a dim lantern held by a gaunt man in Greyt family livery. Arya's heart fell further when the man swung the lantern a little to the side and illuminated another familiar face, this one wearing a cruel smile.

"Ah, my darling niece," Lord Greyt said. He turned to the lantern holder. "This is the one, Claudir." He took the lantern and waved the steward away. Claudir padded off. If the butler felt any unease about wandering back through the lightless tunnels, he did not express it.

Arya scooted away from the cell door as Greyt opened it. She huddled back into the farthest corner of her cell, ignoring the damp and sticky feel of the wall behind her. She tried to scream at him to leave her alone, but her tongue felt thick and dry. Instead, she extended her feet to ward him off, though she realized she probably could not have injured him with a kick in her weakened state.

"Now, now," said Greyt. "What kind of monster do you take me for? You are my niece, after all." He reached into the folds of his robes and Arya's eyes widened. Then, to her vast relief, Greyt withdrew a skin and uncorked it. He held it out to her.

Arya looked at him suspiciously, but Greyt only smiled. Hesitantly, she edged closer to him, keeping her eyes locked on his face. When he had not moved, she brought herself into a kneeling position and looked up. He tipped the waterskin and cool water rushed into Arya's mouth. She drank frantically. To her parched throat, it tasted like the nectar of the gods. She could not catch all the water and a great deal splashed over her dusty face and undertunic.

"I'm so glad you could rejoin us, little Nightingale," said Greyt as he took the waterskin away. "We have so much to discuss, you and I."

"What do you want from me?" she asked coldly.

"Merely to explain myself," he said. "And it seemed meet to tell you of your defeat. Walker is dead. Amra and Unddreth are gone. Stonar is alienated. I win, little knight."

Arya looked up at him. "You wish to gloat over me?" she asked. "Save your breath, Lord Singer. I am a Knight in Silver. More than that, I have justice on my side." She set her mouth into a wry, bitter line. "And more than that, I'm a stubborn, defiant daughter. You think my father could break me, much less you? You will not vanquish me until the last breath leaves my body."

Greyt smiled at her jest. "Humor in the face of certain death? I respect such courage," he said. "Until you breathe your last, eh? Such could be arranged, even 'ere you be hanged…" He reached for the dagger at his belt.

She did not flinch, even chained and helpless before him. She may as well have been standing over him with a drawn sword for the look in her eyes.

"You won't do that," she said. "You can't."

"Is that so?" he snapped. He bent down, putting his face not a hand's breadth from hers. He drew his knife and pressed it against her cheek. "You know me so well, little wench? Then you must know that I am a hero-"

"Not a hero," she said.

"A villain, then!" Greyt roared in her face. "Bane of all that draws breath! Nothing but pain and death!"

"No." Arya prepared herself, body and mind. "A coward. You are nothing but a coward."

As she had expected, Greyt's face twisted in anger. He drew the knife up and back…

"Get away from her!" came a shout from outside the cell door.

Greyt was startled, distracted for just an instant. But that instant was enough for Arya to attack with the only weapon she had left-the one atop her shoulders. She slammed her forehead into his face with all the force she could muster, and the Lord Singer staggered back, his nose shattered.

Her world spinning, Arya managed to make out a huge body moving in another cell across the hallway. A man banging meaty fists against thick cell bars.

Cell bars…

"Bars!" she shouted.

"Me too, lass!" came Derst's weak voice. The short knight stood at the hulking paladin's side and shouted at the Lord Singer. "Stay away from her, Greyt! Attacking helpless, bound women-some hero you are, Quickwidower!"

Greyt whirled at the mocking nickname. With his nose splattered across his face, his graying hair disheveled, and his eyes burning, he looked more a monster than a man.

"Hero?" he snapped. "Hero?" He grabbed Arya by the hair and threw her aside like a sack of flour. The knight slammed into the cell wall and lay stunned. "There is no such thing!"

Arya had just managed to raise her head when Greyt lifted her again and stared into her face. She prepared for another attack, but this time he merely shook her and shouted.

"How can you believe in heroism?" screamed Greyt. "How can you believe in heroism, when the heroes you worship are murderers such as your beloved Walker, men who seek vengeance over justice, violence over peace, death over life?"

Arya struggled to respond, but he was choking the retort out of her. Then he released her, and she fell gasping to the ground.

Greyt paid her no mind as he stood over her shivering body and roared at Bars and Derst. "The closest thing this world knows to a hero is the one I'm sending to murder that courier!" His voice grew quiet. "Meris, my son."

There was a chilling silence.

"Greyt," asked Arya in one last entreaty. "Why are you doing this? You play hero for these people-why can you not be one?"

Greyt's delicate facade broke and he lashed out, slapping her across the face with the back of his hand.

"Me? A hero?" he growled at Arya. "If these fools believe that, in spite of what I did to her, who am I to break them of that illusion?"

" 'Her?'" mused Derst under his breath. "Who's 'her?'"

Arya, reeling, could say nothing.

Greyt spent a moment recovering his self-control before he addressed her again. He was rubbing his gold ring. Then he lifted Arya's chin and examined her. "I could take you out of these chains, you know. You and I-"

"I'll never touch you," Arya said, staring into his eyes, "except with a sword."

Greyt smiled. He let her head fall again and turned away. At the cell door, he paused.

"As you will," he said. "You've had your chance to do your prancing, now your feet will do the dancing… under the gallows."