Ghostwalker (23 page)

It was the Lord Singer who broke the silence first. His challenge was low and cold. “By all means, slave, keep speaking.” His fist was closed tight around the amber gemstone, and Talthaliel could almost feel the hungry pressure of his fingers.

The diviner bowed, indicating that he had nothing to say.

“Well, if you’re finished,” said Greyt. He held the amber amulet up between them. “I suggest that if you want this gem to remain intact you still your impudent tongue and get out of my sight.” He turned away.

“I only give counsel based upon what I see,” Talthaliel reminded him. “You should listen. After all, you are the one, Lord Hero, who said I never err.”

The Lord Singer whirled, gem in hand, ready to curse the diviner for his impertinence, but Talthaliel was nowhere to be seen.

The Lord Singer sighed, loud and long, and shuffled to his throne. He slumped down, threw his cape wide, and rested his chin on his left hand. The Greyt family wolf sparkled on his hand in the afternoon sunlight from the high windows. Sitting there brooding, Greyt seemed to have aged years in just the past day.

A knock sounded at the door.

“Come,” Greyt called absently.

The door opened, and a woman’s face peered through. “Husband?” asked Lyetha in a tentative voice. “May I speak with you?”

Greyt did not look up, but he did wave slightly—it was an almost imperceptible movement. He was thinking, and she didn’t even distract him.

Lyetha, dressed in a shimmering red gown, swept in. Her dark, mourning colors were gone and her hair, which had been simply pulled back and seemed dull brown before, was a gleaming, golden cascade down her back. Even her words had lost the cold formality they once had. She approached the throne with a spring her step had not known for over a decade. The change that had come over her the last few days was startling—it was as though she had gone back in time fifteen years.

Greyt hardly noticed. “What is it?” he asked, disinterested.

The half-elf stopped at the foot of the dais and paused, looking up at him. She had weighed matters in her head and in her heart, and now she hesitated to do what she had intended.

“I… I wanted to tell you something,” she said.

“Yes?” He did not look at her.

Lyetha opened her mouth to speak, but closed it. Instead, she looked at Greyt’s averted face, seeing the lines of fear, discomfort, and hate there. His gaze was far away. For a time, she thought perhaps he had changed, but she saw once again the bitter, cynical, cruel, and very old creature he had become.

“What is it?” he repeated, still not meeting her eyes.

Lyetha shifted her gaze away. ” ‘Tis … ‘tis nothing,” she said.

Greyt did not argue. He merely shrugged and blinked once.

Picking up her skirts, Lyetha went away, slowly at first, but her steps picked up speed until she was running. She could not let Greyt see the tears leaking down her cheeks.

She need not have bothered, for the Lord Singer did not even look up.

Somewhere in the shadows, another pair of eyes watched.

“You could have saved him, Elf’s Daughter,” mused a spectral voice. The words were too quiet for Greyt to hear. “Just then, you could have saved him.”

The Lord Singer shivered once, but he did not wonder why.

Sighing, Talthaliel closed his invisible eyes.

“And so it begins.”

29 Tarsakh

“Still no sign of ‘em, sir,” Darthan reported. “Even the horse’s trail has disappeared, as though…”

He trailed off and bit his lip.

“As though what?” asked Meris, though he knew the answer.

“As-as though the f-forest swallowed it up!” the man stammered.

Meris swore despite himself. This damned “cursed forest” nonsense was giving him nothing but trouble. He resisted the urge to slap sense into the jittery Darthan.

“Keep pressing west,” Meris said. “Deeper into the Dark Woods.”

“D-Deeper?” Darthan swallowed.

“Forget this fanciful ‘Ghostly Lady,’” he ordered. “The woods are probably ‘haunted’ because Walker makes them that way. Well, tonight we’re going to undo his efforts.”

“If we ever find him,” a ranger said from the side. The comment was greeted with snickers and other less optimistic grumbles.

Meris was tempted to lash out at the speaker, but he had to agree.

He and his eight rangers had been searching the godsforsaken forest for most of the day, and it was near midnight. The stolen Quaervarr watchman’s uniforms they wore were not as comfortable as woodland garb. The cloudy afternoon had become a dark night, albeit one with a bright moon. Unfortunately, because the canopy was packed so densely, little light shone down, and they were forced to carry lanterns to illuminate their path.

In the weak radiance of the lanternlight, every tree seemed to loom over them, stretching skeletal limbs to grasp at loose clothing and stragglers. The wood was black—in the case of the shadowtops, duskwood, and firs—or luminous white—in the case of some trees of a kind even Meris had not seen before. The men shied away from these mysterious white trees and Meris could not fault them. Low-growing helmthorn bushes sprouted everywhere, jabbing long spines into a ranger’s flesh at every turn, prompting more than a few curses. Deep in that black and ghostly forest, the irritating shrub took on an even more sharp and sinister appearance in the mist that covered the ground. The forest brooded silently but for the occasional bird cry from trees directly overhead, causing rangers to jump and draw steel or point arrows at nothing.

If there were ever a haunted forest, Meris imagined it would feel like this.

Keeping his weapons ready, he took lead in the group, searching in vain for signs of tracks or, failing that, signs that they were not turning in circles.

Even now, they crept through another stand of shadowtops and cut at some especially thick patches of helmthorn. Meris watched the work grimly. All the while, his mind wandered elsewhere.

He was thinking about the dark-clad Walker—the man he had confronted three times but never really fought. Meris did not understand why his father feared Walker so much—the dark man did not seem so powerful or commanding in person, just crafty and treacherous. He was a coward, Meris decided, so afraid of the world around him that he hid behind a high collar and an assumed name, a dark face he thought would protect him.

Meris smiled. He wanted to be the one to cut that face off.

Distracted as he was, Meris failed to notice anything unusual about his two newest recruits—a thin weasel of a man and a hulking brute almost as large as Bilgren. They slouched in their cloaks, searching the misty ground for tracks. In fact, if Meris had paid any attention, he would have recognized the voices that traded soft repartee in the background.

“Did I ever tell you how I once walked to Mirabar from Everlund?” the small one asked. “It took three tendays of constant travel: no sleep, no water—”

“Shut up, mutton head, or my fist’ll send you on another journey,” the big one replied.

“Will you be there to keep me company on this new journey?”

“Of course not!” came the growling reply.

“Well, thank Tym—I mean, Beshaba.” The short man sighed in relief. “I was worried I was cursed to spend eternity with the likes of you, Winebelly.”

“And I with you, Leadthief.”

Meris’s lieutenant pushed back through the brush. “Silence, you two,” Darthan snapped. “Haven’t you heard of the word ‘stealth?’”

“I’ve heard of it,” the man called Winebelly replied.

“Then try it,” Darthan growled. “And if it doesn’t work, I’ll be back, and it won’t be a warning next time.”

Winebelly glowered at Darthan’s back as he went. Leadthief, on the other hand, laughed aloud and called after the ranger. “If Wine ‘ere can sneak out of a maiden’s bedroom afore her pa wakes up and gets the axe, he calls that ‘stealth,’ ” the weasel man said.

“Leadthief, you ever heard of being knocked cold to the ground?”

“I’ve heard of it—”

Then a whisper cut them off. Forbidding light burst through the trees, dazzling the men. Blades fell from limp hands and the rangers threw themselves to the ground, shaking in terror. “What, by the Hells?” they asked.

Meris was the only one not bowing or cowering in terror. Meris stood tall and strong with his long sword and hand axe drawn. He spread his arms wide and bowed.

“Hail, Ghostly Lady.”

It was not until her eyes opened that Arya realized she had nodded into a warm, dreamless sleep. The sun had just set. Though she wore only a light undertunic and breeches, she was not cold. She sat up and looked around expecting to see Walker sitting some distance away in his usual cross-legged, meditative pose, but the clearing was empty save for a small cookfire over which two small animals roasted. Her auburn brows furrowed, but then she felt a soft hand brush her cheek. Strong arms wrapped around her.

A smile spread across her face. “How long have I slept?” she asked.

“Through the sunset,” came Walker’s reply. His voice was low and melodic, even as it was fragmented. She shifted in his arms, and he held her tighter.

“Have you been watching over me this whole time?”

“No,” said Walker. Startled at his answer, Arya turned her eyes to his partially hidden face. He had buttoned his collar halfway up but not donned his cloak again. He gestured toward the cookfire. “Hunting as well.”

The knight smiled and laughed. Heedless of how her garments clung to her slim frame, she sprang up and crossed to the cookfire. There roasted two wild rabbits. They were slightly blackened, but when she prodded one with her knife, rich juices flowed out and sizzled in the fire.

Arya realized she was famished. She removed the spit and carried it back to Walker, but the ghostwalker waved the meat away. Obliging him, she sat and bit into one of the rabbits. It was plain, not flavored, but it was the most succulent thing she had tasted in a long time, due in no small part to her growling stomach.

“I am not hungry,” said Walker when Arya pressed.

“But you need food, do you not?”

Walker did not reply, but held up the hand with the silver wolf ring.

Arya shook her head. “I might have guessed,” she said with a smile.

Neither rabbit was small, but she wolfed down both in short order. She was too hungry to stand on ceremony, but when she felt Walker’s eyes watching her, she became self-conscious. With an embarrassed laugh, she finished the second rabbit and wiped her fingers in the soft grass.

Walker said nothing and Arya felt profoundly comfortable in the silence. His sapphire eyes burned, but he did not match words to his gaze. Could not.

At least, though, they had made progress.

She scooted closer to him, leaned in, and rested her head on his shoulder. Walker sat frozen for a moment, seemingly unsure how to approach the situation.

Then he put his arms around her, and the knight melted.

“Walker, can I tell you something?”

To her astonishment, his answer was not “perhaps.” Instead, Walker said, “Yes.”

She leaned back into his chest and encircled his arms with her own. She gulped, steadying herself.

“You’ve never felt this way before,” she said. “I can see it in your eyes. You’ve never had someone to love.”

Walker looked at her in confusion, but Arya knew it was not because she was wrong—it was because he was unfamiliar with the term. She felt a twinge of sadness, but tilted her head back and to the side, so that she could kiss his cool lips. They needed no words.

The semi-transparent image of a beautiful elf lady stood before him, dressed in a long gray gown that trailed away to nothing. She seemed to melt out of the mists, and indeed he saw little of her features distinctly except for her burning red-gold eyes. The ghostly face raised its eyebrows, but Meris saw that any surprise was feigned.

Meris made no move to sheathe his weapons, even though he knew they would be useless against this spectral apparition.

You are not afraid, the feminine voice said in his mind. It was obvious that the other rangers heard it as well, for they cringed and gasped.

“No.”

Why? It seemed she was more amused than angered.

“How do you know me?” asked Meris.

That is not an answer, she replied.

“But it will suffice. Tell me how you know me, and I will tell you why I do not fear you.”

The Ghostly Lady smiled, and it was a beautiful if unnerving expression. She drew mistlike fingers along Meris’s cheek and he was surprised to feel a cold, physical touch. Stunning in the moonlight, her face had a smooth, hungry look to it that excited Meris’s body in ways he had not imagined—even in the arms of the barmaids and hunters’ daughters of his youth, even when he looked upon Arya’s lovely form.

Then she laughed. “I do not need to answer your question, Meris Wayfarer,” she said aloud, and he was surprised to hear her voice in his ears. “For the answer is written upon your heart: you do not fear me, because you fear nothing. You have overcome your last love and, with it, your last fear …” She fixed his eyes with her own. “Your father.”

In a flash of movement, Meris drove his long sword through the Ghostly Lady’s heart.

A long breath passed between them. Then she looked down at where the weapon protruded. No blood oozed from her breast. It had passed through her like so much mist. In contact with her ghostly body, the blade became chill as ice, but Meris held it even as the cold burned his hand.

“Impressive,” she said.

He held it as long as he could, gritting his teeth, but it was too much. With a gasp, Meris let go, and the sword stayed, borne aloft in her body. The elf smiled.

“You have great spirit, Meris Wayfarer.” She slid away, and his sword fell to the ground, chilled. She seemed unhurt. “I am Gylther’yel, and I need your aid.”

Meris’s eyes narrowed. “My aid?” he asked as he rubbed his hand.

She nodded.

He looked down at his long sword, white with cold. “My sword?”

“Let it lie,” replied Gylther’yel. “I will find you a greater, when you have accomplished your task for me.”