Ghostwalker (14 page)

“Now!” came Greyt’s shout.

Meris turned and entered the study, allowing the door to swing closed behind him.

Greyt was standing in front of the desk, awaiting him. Books on high shelves surrounded the Lord Singer, and he was holding one in his hand, idly scanning through the lines of text.

“Father,” greeted Meris as he walked up to the Lord Singer.

Greyt greeted the dusky-skinned youth with a vicious slap to the cheek. Meris reeled, stunned, and looked back up at his father in shock.

“You lazy, incompetent fool!” Greyt shouted. “Your lax patrolling of the Moonwood has jeopardized our plans!” He slapped the book against the wall, and the pages fluttered all around.

“Really, Father…” Meris started.

“And now, right when opportunity knocks, when Stonar—” The words dissolved into a snarl, and he glared at Meris. “How can you be such an idiot, to attack her in the very street? Have I not done enough for you? I’ve turned a blind eye to your indiscretions for years, even ignored the untimely deaths of your siblings. Of all my blood, you were the only one worthy of my legacy, and this is how you repay me? With betrayal?”

“Father!” Meris growled.

Greyt slapped him again. “How like an ignorant child you are! Incapable of controlling your own base desires. You sicken me.”

Meris stared at his father in shock, then anger, and assumed a sullen expression. Though he was outwardly chastened, his rage burned. Meris’s fingers itched to clasp his sword. He admired his father, true, but Greyt could not escape a measure of his contempt—probably as much contempt as Greyt felt for Meris in return.

Still, the wild scout stayed his hand, once again aware of that same nervous suspicion that had protected Greyt from his rage thus far. Meris never ignored this feeling, a sense that he was walking into a trap. There was something Greyt was hiding, some protection the Lord Singer kept hidden, and that dissuaded Meris from attacking him.

“Whatever I can do to make amends, Father,” Meris said. “Merely speak the word, and it shall be done.”

“Watch over the house of Bilgren tonight,” Greyt said. “I fear he will be next to suffer Walker’s ire. He is the last of the Raven Claw band, and that may be—”

“Except yourself,” clarified Meris. When Greyt frowned, Meris reiterated it. “The last except yourself.”

Greyt looked at him none-too-pleasantly. “Go to Bilgren and make him wary,” he said. “I doubt even the barbarian’s fanciful weapon—that gyrspike, or whatever it is—will be enough to save him. Protect him the night through, and prove yourself true.”

Meris accepted the rhyme with a grimace.

“And continue the search for Stonar’s supporters,” said Greyt. “The druids are our enemies as is, I fear, that fool captain. As for the owners of local businesses, I want them persuaded to see my side of things or taken care of, understand?”

Meris nodded and frowned.

“What is it?” Greyt demanded. He drew himself up taller. “You have something to say?”

Meris stared at him angrily for a moment then looked away.

“I will not fail, Father.” He turned on his heel and stalked out the doors of the study.

“See that you don’t,” Greyt growled.

The door slammed shut, and Greyt smiled authentically for the first time that day. It always pleased him when things turned out exactly as he wanted.

Business needed to be tended to, though. He allowed the elation of the last few moments to settle, then he set the glass on the sideboard and poured himself another. He slipped an amulet out of his tunic—a piece of amber in a rough ovoid shape—and rolled it between his fingers. The amulet was warm.

“You heard all that, I suppose?” he asked aloud.

“Of course, Lord Greyt,” a disembodied voice said immediately. A gaunt form clad in a gray robe shimmered into being, shedding invisibility the way one slips out of a blanket. “All three interviews.”

“And?” He did not look up but kept his eyes fixed on the amber gemstone.

“You acted more or less correctly,” the cloaked man said. His voice was calm and level. Though magical power seemed to surround him like a corona, Greyt was not disturbed. “The Beast must be wary of the Spirit of Vengeance.”

Greyt knew the cryptic names were references to Bilgren and Walker respectively. “And Arya?” Greyt asked.

“The Nightingale is suspicious,” the wizard said. “She searches for the killer of the couriers, and she suspects that the Spirit of Vengeance might be that killer. She also suspects, however, that you might be that killer.”

Greyt dismissed that with a snort. “But who is he?” asked the Lord Singer. “Don’t play the mysterious cloaked figure with me—take off that cowl and tell me who he is!”

“Who?” the man asked as he pulled back his cowl. Beneath, the pale skin of a moon elf sparkled in the candlelight, and emerald eyes glittered.

Greyt rounded on the wizard. “You know very well ‘who’ I mean!” he shouted. “Who is Walker?”

The wizard spread his slim hands. “You have made many enemies in your travels, my lord,” he said. “I know not who he is. Only that his vengeance is old.”

Greyt was about to shout again, but he bit his tongue. “Talthaliel,” he asked sweetly, running his finger along the amulet. “Why do I keep you around?”

“Because I am useful,” the wizard replied matter-of-factly.

“You are,” Greyt said. “And why are you useful?”

“I see many things,” Talthaliel said.

“And how do I have power over you?”

“You have that,” the diviner replied, nodding at the amber crystal on his necklace.

“Exactly,” Greyt said. He clenched his fist around the gemstone.

“You may stop,” Talthaliel said. “I shall do as you ask.”

“That’s better,” Greyt said. “Now tell me who Walker is.”

“I cannot,” replied the diviner. “Powerful magic shields him, magic I cannot pierce. Not his own magic, but that of a protector. I can feel the other shielding him—a powerful, ghostly presence, but certainly alive.”

“Then he is not a ghost,” Greyt said.

Talthaliel shook his head. “A mortal man with magic on his side.”

“You can tell me nothing else?” Greyt asked.

“Only that he can be killed, and the Wayfarer is eager to do so,” Talthaliel said.

“You are maintaining the communication barrier around Quaervarr?”

“As you command,” Talthaliel said, nodding. “Several attempts have been made to pierce my magic, but the druids do not approach my skill. Nor do they come to town often—there is little suspicion. None will hear of your activities to undermine the Lord Speaker.”

“Still,” Greyt said. “With some murderer killing people, questions will be asked. Someone could go to that trollop Clearwater and ask for a sending to Silverymoon or even Everlund—Unddreth already has, and I could only deflect him this once. If they realize that someone is keeping a barrier up, our plan would be ruined. You and I cannot battle the Argent Legions or a handful of the Spellguard from Silverymoon. The last thing we need right now, while Stonar is gone, is someone running for help.”

Talthaliel said nothing.

“And my son,” Greyt mused. “What of him? Will he fulfill the vision any time soon?”

“There is malice in his heart, but not in his mind… yet, at least,” replied the seer. Greyt’s expression became dubious. “My two-fold vision will hold true: Your son will come to kill you, and your son will not defeat me.”

Greyt smiled. He so enjoyed knowing the future before his opponents did.

28 Tarsakh

Spirits of the dead ebbed and flowed around him, whispering of hunts long past and unfulfilled dreams, but Walker, as always, hardly listened. He sat legs crossed, staring into the blurry, bleak world of the spirits, and thought.

Two of his foes lay dead and two were alive. Indeed, the spirits of Drex and Torlic hovered around him, silently awaiting the completion of some unfinished business.

Walker’s death had come at the ends of four weapons, and four hands had held those weapons.

At least, he thought so.

Dying had shattered his memories; he could remember hazy fragments about the murder and only flashes from before that. As far as Walker was concerned, his life began that night fifteen years ago. He fully remembered his attackers only when they spoke the words he could not forget, the words they had spoken that night long ago—

Instead of focusing fruitlessly on the past or on the future that inspired no interest, Walker thought about the present. Two men were dead and two were going to die. He knew Greyt was one of them, and he would soon know the other for certain. Drex had said Torlic’s name, but the half-elf had not pointed him toward a third. Walker had to know, and he simply could not remember.

As though drawn to Walker’s violent thoughts, Tarm appeared. His father had vanished before the fight with Torlic and had not reappeared since. Was he reproaching his son for his task of vengeance?

“I avenge us, father,” said Walker, though he knew the spirit would not reply. “Why does this displease you? Is this not the justice you worshiped? What regret do you wish to express?”

Tarm was silent, as always. Not once in fifteen years had he answered his son’s queries.

“Will you not speak to me?” Walker demanded. “Am I not your son?”

Silence.

A stray thought passed through his mind and became the focus of his attention. It was the face of a woman—the woman with auburn hair. Who was she? Why did she stick in his mind? What did she have to do with his task?

He turned to ask his father—in the hope that he might be able to decide for himself by hearing his own words—but Tarm vanished.

It could mean only one thing.

A sparrow that flickered in and out of the Ethereal world flapped down out of the sky. The blurry remnants of spirits flinched away, terrified. The tiny bird, as it landed on a fallen twig, did not seem to notice.

You did it again. It accused in its ghostly voice, which no mortal would have heard. Or, at least, no purely material listener.

Walker did not dispute the point. He had been waiting in the grove for Gylther’yel to return, and he had known what she would say.

Indeed, two nights past, he replied in the same ghostly tongue. The pale bird grew larger, its wings became arms, and its beaked face grew into smooth elf features. The dancer Torlic has joined the woodsman Drex in death. Lord Greyt knows they were not isolated attacks. He will quaver in terror.

He breathed out and allowed his body to return to the Material world. Vibrancy returned to his surroundings. The grass became green in place of dead gray, and the trees waved soft needles, not skeletal limbs. All around him, he saw soft life where before had lurked only death.

A dubious elf face awaited him. The ghost druid stood, a deep gray cloak wrapped around her bare golden flesh—Gylther’yel disdained excessive clothing when she ran or flew through the woods in wildshape. “Terror?” Gylther’yel said without mirth. “I hardly think two murders in the night will inspire terror.”

Walker shrugged, as if to demonstrate that it did not truly matter.

Gylther’yel’s face was impassive, but her eyes burned.

“You have not come here to upbraid me,” he said. “There is something else.”

A hint of a smile played on her golden face.

Walker narrowed his eyes. He knew enough to be wary when Gylther’yel was angered. “Where have you been these last days?” he asked carefully.

“Where you should have been,” the druid said. “Watching over my woods.”

Walker’s brows furrowed. He knew of her spies—almost every bird and forest animal within miles. They watched for her, and she did little. Unless…

“What does that mean?” he asked.

“I have decided my student needs a lesson in inspiring terror,” she said coldly. “Three miles east of here, hunters come for you.” She held up a ragged piece of leather that bore the Whistling Stag sigil of Quaervarr. “I will teach them the penalty for trespassing into my woods.”

“Who are they?” Walker asked, reaching for the cloth.

The sun elf shook her head. She dropped the torn bit to the ground. “I have spent the last fifteen years teaching you to avoid such irrelevant questions,” Gylther’yel said.

The sun elf grew and her face extended. She fell to all fours as her limbs shortened and she grew the sleek fur of a ghostly, golden fox. As her body shifted into that of the animal, Gylther’yel faded out of his physical sight and into the Ethereal.

The ghostly fox flashed him a fanged grin and bounded off into the trees, heading east. Walker turned to run after her, but then he remembered the discarded leather scrap.

Tentatively, for he knew the pain that this could bring, he stooped low and picked it up between gloved fingers. It was a ragged piece, torn from the hauberk of a suit of hunting leathers. Slowly, gently, Walker drew his black leather glove off, revealing a pale, long-fingered hand.

Hesitantly, he rested his fingers on the leather in his other hand and closed his eyes. Images flowed into him then, along with an emotional swell that blew the breath from his body. The psychic resonance of the piece carried whisperings of memories and visions, hopes and fears. He hated this power, which would manifest whenever his bare fingers touched something not his own, but it was necessary at times.

A round-faced woman, cheeks rosy from the morning chill … two little boys, playing at rangers and orcs with wooden swords…

Sweat dripped down Walker’s forehead and his body burned with phantom pain, but he gritted his teeth and held on. The resonance was not strong, but it could overwhelm him if he lost control.

A soldier, not heroic but strong of heart….

The visions faded as Walker dropped the leather to the ground.

He dived into shadows, racing his mistress. Leaping along in the Shadow Fringe, Walker ran faster than any mere mortal could. Ghosts flitted past his peripheral vision and reached out imploring arms to slow him, but Walker was firm in his cause. He gripped the hilt of his shatterspike and prayed he would not need it.

The distance was not great, covered in almost no time through the shadows, but it was only by luck that he found the hunters. Under a darkening sky, with clouds rolling across the sun, the shadows were dissipating, but he could make it. Walker leaped to a shadow near a giant of a man he had fought before. Then he dispelled his shadowalk and stepped out within a sword’s length of the captain.