Ghostwalker (13 page)

Nor was he surprised that Unddreth had spoken so crassly. Unddreth had always been free with his tongue—it came from being raised a commoner. Greyt waved the captain away and sheathed his sword.

Blaming the Black Blood was a ruse—for all Greyt knew, the bastard werebadger and his kin were all prowling Malar’s infernal forests in the Abyss, or wherever Malar’s forests were. He cared little for theology.

After a moment, Greyt looked back and saw that Unddreth had not moved.

“You’re still here,” he said.

“I am.” Unddreth, not prone to fidgeting, gazed at him stonily.

“There is more?” Greyt asked.

“Speaker Stonar left the city in your hands,” Unddreth said. “Thus, when an event transpires that threatens the welfare of the city, it is your responsibility to deal with it, is it not?”

“And I have,” Greyt said, a hint of anger creeping into his voice. “I want you and your soldiers to find this attacker and kill him. Or her. Or it. Just do what you are paid to do.”

Dimwitted Unddreth. Greyt scowled. Are you as stupid as you look?

“We must inform Speaker Stonar of the event,” Unddreth said.

Not stupid then, Greyt decided. He should have foreseen the suggestion.

He didn’t miss a beat, though. “So send to the druids to communicate with their magic,” he said dismissively. “They may not be under our control, but they will aid us.”

“I already have,” Unddreth said. “Something blocks their magic, some barrier they cannot pierce.”

“Probably another of their foolish excuses—a damned equinox or something,” Greyt said quickly. It was plausible, after all. Quaervarr was a frontier town in every sense: unless matters were really out of hand, the people preferred to settle their own problems, without help from the High Lady or her armies of mages. The druids would expect no less from the Watch. “Or it’s a sacred time for their gods, or perhaps the guild of Silverymoon has better things to do than listen to our minor complaints—”

“So we must send a courier,” Unddreth said.

“I’m sure that’s not necessary,” Greyt said with a shrug as if he meant to forget the whole thing. “As you said, it is only one man. Some independent town we would be if we ran to Silverymoon with our troubles every time a lunatic crops up. How much trouble can one man be? Take a few of your best soldiers and scour the Moonwood for him.”

Unddreth hesitated, but finally nodded. “As you command, Lord Singer,” he said curtly. Turning on his heel, the genasi strode out of the ballroom.

Greyt watched his retreating form for a long moment, tracing with his eyes the image of the white stag emblazoned upon the huge shield Unddreth wore on his back.

“As I command,” he repeated to himself with a grin. He liked the sound of that.

Wrapped in steel, Arya was approaching the front doors of her uncle’s manor when they flew open and the hulking Unddreth stamped out. His face was even harder than usual. She dropped into a light bow.

“Well met, Captain Unddreth,” she said.

The genasi’s frown turned to a soft smile when he saw her, and Arya was acutely aware of her appearance. Her silver armor gleamed and her auburn hair burned in the soft light. Shining on her breast, the badge of the Knights in Silver—a clasp with the sigil of Silverymoon—secured a deep blue cloak around her shoulders. Arya knew Unddreth admired her simple elegance, and embarrassed warmth blossomed in her cheeks.

“Good morning to you, Lady Venkyr,” Unddreth said. He gestured to the sword belted at her hip. “Going about armed, are you?”

She smiled shakily. “One can never be too careful,” she said in reply.

“True.” He patted the warhammer at his own belt. “Very true.”

His face was still stony. Something about his voice, though, told Arya that he was thinking about the audience with Greyt he had just left. He perked up, though, when he caught her staring.

“Thank you for your assistance last night,” he said. “I hope it is clear that any momentary hesitation or doubts about your abilities—or loyalties—have been put to rest.”

“It is, Captain,” Arya said. “I serve the Silver Marches, so I serve Quaervarr as well.”

Unddreth bowed his head then plodded on his way.

Arya nodded, smiling as he went. She had read the characters of many people in her time with the Knights in Silver, and she knew that there went a just and noble soldier.

As Unddreth walked farther away, though, Arya looked back to Greyt’s doors and her smile vanished. She turned smartly on her heel and headed to the portal, where she rapped the gold wolf knocker. She pulled the cloak tighter around her armored body, trying vainly to warm the cold steel strapped around her limbs. Armor was impractical in this cold, but she wanted to be in full uniform when she confronted her uncle once more.

Claudir arrived in a moment to take her inside. The steward looked at her with the same uninterested, detached look he always had. He led her through Greyt’s spacious manor without paying attention to her. Once Claudir had ushered Arya into Greyt’s study, he sniffed, as though to assure her that Greyt would arrive shortly, and left without a word.

“Took you long enough,” came an angry, nigh-angelic voice, startling her.

In the center of the room, a beautiful woman in a dark gown was standing, facing away from her. When she turned and saw Arya, she started and assumed a confused expression.

“I… I’m sorry, I thought you were someone else,” the lady said. Golden curls fell around a beautiful, oval face. Her ears were slightly pointed. “I am tired.” She moved to leave.

“Lady Lyetha,” Arya said finally. She dropped into a bow. “I’m sorry; I did not recognize you for a moment. I am Arya Venkyr, stepdaughter of your Lord Husband’s sister.”

Lyetha paused, looking at Arya again with fresh eyes. Her orbs were sparkling sapphires, and something about their intensity made Arya’s breath catch. Her serenity brooked absolutely no display of emotion. This was a noblewoman if Arya had ever seen one, and the knight was a personal friend of Alustriel herself.

“No need for me to worry, then,” she said dismissively. Lyetha swept out of the room, leaving a confused Arya in her wake, and that was that. Lyetha was gone.

Arya would never speak with her again.

Time passed.

Eventually, the lady knight, bored, looked around for something to distract herself. While she waited, Arya scanned the titles of different tomes with disinterest. Lord Greyt kept epics, poems, treatises, and battle records. Arya recognized names, but that’s where the interest ended. Though she could read and write Chondathan, Iluskan, and even some Damaran, thanks to schooling at her father’s house, Arya had never fancied herself a scholar. Books were for sages, the nobility, and wizards, not knights. Still, there was nothing else to do in the small study, so she browsed the shelves and desk.

After some time, Arya noticed a small amulet on the desk. It was gold, in the shape of a five-pointed leaf cunningly cut and delicately formed. Tiny Elvish runes were etched on the back.

Arya wished she had paid more attention during Elvish lessons, but she could make it out. “It is easier to destroy than to create,” she read out loud. She pursed her lips in thought.

The door clicked and she looked up with a start, hoping it was Lyetha returned to collect the pendant so she could ask her about it, but her hopes were in vain. Instead, Greyt came in, dressed in soft leathers embroidered with gold thread that set off his similarly colored hair. Without thinking, Arya slipped the pendant into her pocket.

By his mussed mane and smoldering eyes, Arya could tell Greyt was not pleased. Whether this was because of her interruption or not, Arya did not know, but she found she did not truly care. Somehow, she felt less uneasy when he was less than comfortable. His arrogance and supercilious manners were gone.

“Ah, Niece,” Greyt greeted her. “To what do I owe this dubious honor?”

Arya winced. She retracted her earlier observation about his manners.

“Not the best of mornings, eh, Uncle?” asked Arya. At least he was overt. She preferred when people did not hide how they really felt. Arya, honest herself, valued honesty in others. It was part of why she found court life stifling.

A wry smile creased his face. “Mayhap,” he said. “I am quite busy this morn with affairs of state—er, Quaervarr, that is. I am in charge in Speaker Stonar’s absence.”

“Precisely the reason I desire an audience,” replied Arya. “I have come to tell you something, something you should know.”

“And that is?” asked Greyt without any real interest. He crossed to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of Cormyrean red. With a halfhearted lift of the bottle, he extended an offer to Arya, but she declined with a wave. He flopped into his chair.

Arya took a deep breath before she next spoke, for against her better judgment, she was about to reveal an important secret.

“Lady Alustriel is concerned about the disappearance of several of her couriers, who have set out for Quaervarr but never returned,” said Arya.

Greyt looked at her blankly. “And what does that have to do with either of us?”

“My mission to Quaervarr,” explained Arya, “is to investigate those disappearances.”

He did not seem surprised in the least, a fact that made her wince.

“The North is a dangerous place,” Greyt replied with a shrug. “The People of the Black Blood were a danger in the Moonwood, and who knows what might have replaced them in the last months? I can’t guarantee safety, and neither can you.”

“It’s not that simple,” Arya said.

“No?” Greyt asked as he sipped his wine.

“No,” asserted Arya. “All the messengers had two things in common—all were young women, and all were alone.”

There was a moment of silence in the study.

Then Greyt laughed, long and loud. When his mirth finally subsided, he managed to speak between deep chuckles.

“I’m sorry, Niece, but I can’t say I’m surprised,” he said. “I’ve said it before, and it holds true now. ‘The road for a man, home for a woman.’ I believe a bard from Westgate said that … Now, what was his name? Mayhap not.”

Shocked, Arya felt irritation rise in her throat and had to clench her fist to avoid striking him. Her reputation for stubbornness and temper was not undeserved. She had cast off her responsibilities in Everlund, despite her father’s wishes, because of just such a discussion. But losing her composure as a Knight in Silver simply would not do.

In the meantime, Greyt continued his mocking laughter. She could not help but feel it was partly at her expense. Soon enough, she could take it no longer. She wanted to say something to stop that laughter, and she spoke before her mind worked.

“Are the streets of Quaervarr even safe? Can you not protect your own people?”

“Niece, know that your safety is of top concern,” Greyt added, seemingly at ease. “The attack upon your person last night will be investigated. To tell you the truth, I wouldn’t put it past this—what did you say people called him? Walker?”

Arya suddenly felt cold. “The attack upon my person?” she said softly. “I never said I was attacked last night.”

Greyt’s eyebrow twitched but his smile was firm. “Unddreth must have reported it,” he said dismissively. “I say, a Knight in Silver attacked in my own streets—”

“I haven’t told anyone about last night,” said Arya. “And I never mentioned Walker.”

Greyt’s smile slipped. The two were silent for a moment, Greyt staring at her with something that was not quite confusion. Then he stood, walked up, and loomed over her. Her anger gone, Arya trembled for a different reason entirely. Through discipline, she held her body firm, but she could do nothing about the emotion written in her eyes: fear.

She looked at Greyt for a long moment, and she saw nothing but cold, calculating anger in his face.

Then he moved, and Arya almost drew her sword. As though he did not see, Greyt continued his step to the sideboard and poured himself more wine.

“Are you sure I can’t tempt you?” he asked, raising the glass. ” ‘Tis quite good.”

“No,” Arya said firmly.

“Pity.” Greyt smiled a half grin but his eyes were smoldering. Then he shrugged. “Well, suit yourself.” He went back to the chair and collapsed into the cushions. “I’m very tired, Niece, and feeling my age. You’ll excuse me if I don’t walk you out.”

It was not a question.

Arya nodded, turned on her heel, and left the room as quickly as walking allowed. She could feel Greyt’s eyes boring into her back the entire time.

As she left Greyt’s study, Arya was not surprised to see Greyt’s cruel-faced son leaning against the wall, bedecked in his white leather armor. She was not surprised that he had been listening.

Arya nodded to him, not about to say anything, but he held up a hand to stop her.

“You know him, this murderer,” Meris said. “This … Walker.”

“We have met,” replied Arya. “Briefly. He saved me from a masked attacker.”

“A great Knight in Silver needed saving?” asked Meris incredulously, snidely. “This attacker must have been quite skilled to defeat you.”

He sounded just a bit too proud, and Arya couldn’t resist the bait. “A coward,” she corrected him. “A knave who attacked from the shadows, like a filthy rat.”

The corner of Meris’s mouth twitched but the wild scout said nothing.

Arya felt that twitch stoke her anger, which had already been smoldering, into a hot blaze. She stepped toward Meris, hand on her sword hilt. ” ‘Twas fortunate Walker appeared in time,” she pressed. “He saved the coward from me.”

Meris eyes narrowed, and he stared at her coldly. “I doubt it,” he said, his tone betraying a seething outrage.

“Meris, come!” Greyt shouted from inside the study.

“Better not disobey,” Arya said to him, refusing to blink.

“I’m not the one who should be obeying, lass,” Meris almost spat.

Arya did not back down. “I do not fear you, cousin,” she said. Then, leaving him with the implicit challenge, she turned and walked away.

Meris allowed the tiniest of smiles to creep onto his face. “I doubt that also,” Arya heard him whisper. “I doubt that very much.”