Ghostwalker

Chapter 4

26 Tarsakh

An Greyt's waiting room, Arya was tapping her fingers on the oak table and chewing on the edge of her lip.

It was a spacious room, with elegant windows and real glass. There were three lavish couches, upholstered with varying colors of fur and leather, ranging from the tanned flesh of caribou to what the steward Claudir claimed was tundra yeti. Arya's nose always turned up at the thought of harvesting furs. Her distaste was not, however, shared by her two companions. On the middle couch, they lounged on feather pillows and shared laughs-Derst's witty snickers and Bars's rumbles-over something or other. Too nervous to join them, Arya lingered near the cold fireplace, running her fingers along the stems and petals of the flowers Greyt's servants had collected for display.

Winter lilies and frost roses stood in bright array among emerald stems and leaves, curled into bunches along a golden banister. The flowers might have been picked that morning; they were so soft and vibrant. The ones that gave the trick away, however, were the stunning fire-dragons-snapdragons so red the people of the north claimed they were slain dragons reborn. The burning petals sparkled with dew, but Arya knew they only bloomed in the warmth of Flamerule. There was no way Greyt could have had them gathered that morning.

"Admiring the blooms, Lady Sir Venkyr?" Derst asked. "Pretty this time of year, eh?"

Arya smiled wryly. "Oh, indeed, Sir Goldtook," she replied. "As you can see, they're quite lovely." She inhaled a fire-dragon deeply, wondering about the fragrance, but there was nothing. The flower was stale and had obviously been dead for some time. Magic.

Appearances, in Greyt's house, were everything.

The door clicked and three pairs of eyes turned as Greyt's steward Claudir entered. "The Lord Singer of the Silver Marches, Dharan Greyt," he said. The three knights started at the odd title, but quickly composed themselves.

At that announcement, Greyt swept into the room. Trailing his rich violet cape behind him and clad in his finest black doublet, the man was resplendent in his noble attire. His dark blond hair was swept back and his blue eyes sparkled. A rapier with a golden basket hilt hung from a beautifully embroidered and stitched belt around his hips. If the knights didn't know better, they would have thought him the lord of Quaervarr, if not the lord of Silverymoon itself. He was smiling as though it was habitual. He paused, ducked into a low bow, and folded his hands in front of him.

"Well met, Uncle," Arya said with a slight curtsy, even though she was wearing a man's leggings and not a skirt. Arya was not much for dresses.

"Ah, my beloved niece, what a pleasant surprise," Greyt said with a grin as he took Arya's fingers. He bent and kissed the young woman's hand with an exaggerated bow, then stepped back to examine her. He gazed at the star and nightingale design on her tunic, the arms of House Venkyr. "Nightingale of Everlund, you would teach nymphs beauty."

Arya blushed, though she could have sworn she had read that particular bit of poesy somewhere before. Ignoring Bars's and Derst's bemused looks, Arya forced a neutral smile. She knew this contrived manner-the style of court-and could play at it if necessary.

"Speak plainly, please, Uncle," Arya said. "I lack your training in such poetry."

Greyt bowed his head a little. "You have grown into quite the young woman, niece. When I last saw you-what was it, a dozen years ago? — you were only half as tall and not nearly as… full-bodied." His grin was waxy and his eyes glittered. He turned away, went to the side table, and poured two glasses of a sparkling red wine.

Arya felt her face growing warm-again-and could hear her companions' snickers from behind her. She would have shot a glance back at the two young knights, but it would only have made them laugh louder. "My thanks, Uncle," she said. "Time has been kind to you as well."

Greyt inclined his head.

Composing herself with a brief repetition of the knight's code, she met his gaze levelly. "Allow me to introduce my companions, Sir Bars Hartwine and Sir Derst Goldtook, of the Knights in Silver."

The Lord Singer bowed and proceeded to ignore them. The knights shifted uncomfortably but said nothing. Greyt indicated the couch with one glass, but Arya made no move to sit. He shrugged indifferently.

"I must admit, your arrival comes as a bit of a surprise," he said as he handed the wine glass to Arya. She accepted it gracefully and inhaled the aroma but did not drink. Leaning against the sideboard, Greyt continued. "I had thought you at court in Everlund, waiting on your father, Lord Rom, and that you were to be schooled in letters, poetry, and the sorts of things that-that, well, noblewomen do. And yet here you are, clothed in an adventurer's garb and companioned by knights." He looked at the pendant of Silverymoon hanging over her blue tunic. His smile broadened. "I see you take after my sister."

"She is my step-mother, Uncle," Arya reminded him lightly. "You and I are not related by blood. She merely married my father."

"Of course." Greyt smiled and gave a little laugh. He rubbed the gold ring with a wolf's head around the fourth finger of his left hand-a nervous habit. The pause was an awkward one.

"You must be wondering why I have come," Arya prompted, raising the wine to her lips.

"Ah, and direct, I see," Greyt replied, driving into a new subject. "You do indeed show the Greyt spirit, though the Illuskan coloration doesn't fit us." He brushed her auburn hair with his fingers. "A product of that dull, pretty knight who stole my sister."

Arya didn't know how to reply.

"But please, speak. I am anxious to hear your tale." He finally sat, flinging his cape across the fur-covered couch. Then he raised the glass to his lips and smiled. "I do so love tales."

Arya opened her mouth to speak, but the doors slammed open and a white-garbed young man walked through the portal. A naked sword was in his hands.

Bars and Derst leaped to their feet, the roguish knight's hand going to a belt dagger, but Arya stopped them with a raised hand. The dusky-skinned man was also carrying a kerchief. He paused and his stance shifted to a defensive posture, from which he eyed the two men.

"Ah, Meris," Lord Greyt said from the couch. "Allow me to introduce my niece, Lady Arya Venkyr of Everlund. And, ah-well, her companions." He gestured to the dark-haired man. "My son-your step-cousin-Meris Wayfarer."

Arya noted the strange surname. Meris was not a legitimate son.

Meris sniffed, measuring and dismissing the two knights in a glance, then shifted his gaze to Arya. There his eyes stopped and rested. Taking his sword in one hand, he knelt and took her hand. "Charmed, cousin," he said. He kissed the back of her hand, and when his eyes met hers, they smoldered. "Passionately charmed."

Bars took a step forward, but Derst caught his shoulder and stopped him.

Arya bowed to Meris and turned her attention back to Greyt. Seeing her lack of interest, Meris's smile fell into an irritated frown. He slunk back and threw himself onto the couch opposite Greyt, where he drew a whetstone across his blade with a scraping snicker. The tone of the meeting changed entirely because of that little sound.

"But you were beginning your tale," Greyt said. "Please, do go on."

The doors swung open again and this time the gaunt steward Claudir glided in. "Lord Greyt, sir," Claudir said in his haughty tin voice. He stretched out the last word.

"What is it now?" Greyt snapped. He almost splashed wine on his leather-wrapped couch as he waved in annoyance.

"There appears to be a visitor at your door who will not identify himself and who says little." The steward sniffed. "Much of Quaervarr has turned out to see him and appears stricken dumb. Will you see him, my lord?"

Arya furrowed her brow, and she reached for the sword at her hip but did not draw it. Her companions had risen as well. Meris was oblivious, still sharpening his sword.

Greyt rolled his eyes and rubbed at his temples. "Must I be saddled with unceasing interruptions?" he asked with venom. "Meris, go see who in the Hells is stirring up trouble out there, won't you?"

Frowning, the dusky scout got to his feet, his sword still out. As he followed the steward out, he let it slide back into his scabbard with a clink of steel. The doors closed behind them.

As soon as they were gone, Greyt's gracious manner returned, along with his grin. "Pardon my outburst, Niece," he said. "As the lor-er, hero of Quaervarr, I'm constantly dealing with these odd occurrences, which always seem to occur at the least convenient of times. Ah, the perils of living on the frontier. The wild can cause a man to… crack, as it were. I'm sure our visitor is just another crazed ranger, mad youth, or broken adventurer. Pay it no mind."

"Aren't you a bit concerned, Uncle?" Arya asked, shifting uncertainly. "The Cult of the Black Blood is rebuilding, according to the rumors my father has heard at court. Could this not be one of their men? Or perhaps even their leader, this-"

"Jarthon," Greyt said. "And no. I doubt even the People of the Black Blood would be so stupid as to attack in public. The Beast Lord's foul spawn seem to have left us for good." He shuddered but quickly composed himself. He sank back into the couch and swirled his wine. "But, if, as I hope, some triviality will not interrupt us again, do continue your tale."

Perturbed but determined not to show it, Arya kept the false smile on her face-even as it pained her-and took a sip of her wine.

Meris suppressed a sigh of disgust as he followed Claudir through the halls of Greyt's manor. Hunting trophies, tapestries, statues, and treasures-from adventuring, supposedly-adorned the place, gaudy and mostly fake. Meris could tell at a glance.

The old man's power and charm impressed him, but he did not allow it to reduce him to a simpering moron like the rest of the people of Quaervarr. He could see right through the old Singer, with the penetrating eye only a wayward son can acquire.

Meris was always honest with those around him-he didn't put on a pleasant face or a charming facade to impress the pitiful fools who surrounded him.

Still, Meris respected the old man's success, a success won through deceit and charisma. And he did like the Greyt fortune. Besides, as much as it pained him to admit it, he held a sort of subtle tolerance of his aging father. Perhaps it was because he could see so many similarities between Dharan Greyt and himself.

Claudir reached the front door and opened it for him. Hand on his sword hilt-a comfort to him-Meris stepped out into the sun.

Or, at least, what should have been sun.

Meris blinked, but not from the dazzling light. Instead, the sun and clearing skies he had seen not long ago had hidden behind dark, foreboding clouds. Lightning split the black haze and thunder growled. From what curse had this storm come? Magic, mayhap. Meris detested magic.

Then he caught sight of a lone black figure staring at him from behind a high collar that was laced over his mouth and nose, concealing his face. The man stood in the main road before the Greyt family manor. Meris felt colder upon seeing the dark figure, but the tingle creeping down his spine only ignited a flare of anger. Rain poured down.

"You there," Meris called. In the near silence after the thunder's clap, it sounded like an ear-splitting shout.

If the man heard, he gave no sign. He merely held out a dark bundle and allowed it to fall from his hands onto the muddy ground.

Meris was already walking toward him, sword ready to be drawn.

The dark figure turned and walked away.

"Wait," Meris called. "Stand and face me, boy!"

The figure continued to walk away.

Rushing after him, Meris vaulted the plain wood fence, but the man was already half a block away. When he came down, landing smoothly on his feet, mud splattered up, staining his snowy cloak. He paid it no mind. Neither did he stoop to see the package the man had left.

"Coward!" he called as he ran.

Meris was almost on top of him when the silent figure ducked into an alleyway, one Meris knew ended in a wall. The white-clad scout jumped after him, but when he entered the darkened alley, there was nothing to be seen. The shadows of the two thatch-covered houses were deep, but they hid nothing but air. The man had vanished.

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.