Ghostwalker Page 5

  Greyt smiled.

  “Your niece, the Lady Knight Arya Venkyr of Everlund, begs an audience with your lordship,” the steward said. “With her are her two companions, Sirs Bars Hartwine and Derst Goldtook of the Knights in Silver. Shall I show them in, Lord Singer?”

  His niece? A knight? Greyt had not been in contact with Rom Venkyr of Everlund, his brother-in-law, for some time. Rom’s daughter?

  “A moment, please,” Greyt said. “I shall receive them in the sitting room.”

  Claudir offered a half-bow and left without a word.

  Meris and Greyt regarded one another, silently. The only sound was the half-elf Tillee’s sobs. Finally, the Lord Singer spoke.

  “Aught else?” Greyt prompted.

  Meris nodded and shrugged noncommittally.

  It was the only answer Greyt needed.

  The Lord Singer clapped his hands and turned back to Tillee. “Well, since you seem so insistent, it might well be truth. We’ll send you to the Oak House and set you before Amra Clearwater. Let her tell us if you speak true.” With a smile, he took the crimson blanket back. “I’m sure, since you sound so passionate and honest, you must be telling the truth. Besides, a good maid such as yourself would not lie, eh? Meris will take you there.”

  The ranger couldn’t hide his smirk.

  “Oh, thank you, Lord Singer!” the half-elf woman replied with a wide smile. She reached for his legs to embrace him. Despite his half-hearted effort to dodge, she caught him. She kissed his gold ring, the one with his family seal. “You really are a hero!”

  He put on a fake smile, rolled his eyes, and pulled his cape from her grasp. Then he started toward the door, rubbing at the gold wolf ring. On the way, he caught Meris by the arm and dipped his head toward his son’s ear. “Do you want her?” he asked.

  Meris’s nose wrinkled.

  Greyt smiled. He would have responded the same way.

  “Bilgren will be disappointed, but he’ll get over it,” Greyt said.

  Then, as he was leaving, he paused. “Oh, and see that you leave no stain,” he said. “I’ve just had the carpet re-laid. It is red, but still … It is also new.”

  Shrugging, Meris turned away. His sword scraped out of its sheath.

  As Greyt closed the doors behind him, he heard Tillee’s surprised gasp. Meris hadn’t allowed her to scream.

  CHAPTER 4

  26 Tarsakh

  In 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, spe
ak. 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 façade 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.